My feet had gone numb in surrender after trying (and failing) to overcome the fatigue of standing for hours. It wasn’t the sore limbs that I strained to bear, but that I was the most bored I’d ever been in my entire life. I no longer cared what horrors were awaiting behind the beige-curtained stations they set up around the space; I’d take it head-on to stop waiting. The anticipation had long died, and whatever anxious energy the group carried was buried with it. The entertainment of watching my peer’s nerves manifest in their individual ways wasn’t perpetually interesting, especially now that most of the habits had quieted for the less engaging empty stares and yawns. I about struck up a conversation with 81, until he shut me down with a head shake so alert to my purpose that he got it out before a word escaped. After he made some signals with his hands I couldn’t decipher, I waved him off and gave up. He shrugged and went back to an eerie stillness. 

         96, on the other hand, stood with his arms tight across his chest and his foot tapping a rhythm. What started as coy became daring as he illuded the wardens. When they turned toward the source of the subtle beat, preying on whoever had made it, he’d stop. After all, it could have been the overhead lights, the footsteps behind one of the many curtains, or another guard. 96 smirked at their backs in triumph. I rolled my eyes at the modest move of defiance. He endowed me with a discreet middle finger behind his back. 

         Being the brightest room I’d ventured into, and possibly in the establishment as a whole, I was able to clearly observe the concaves of 96’s face. While partially due to his slim stature, the deep-set nature of the cavities that were his cheeks was more eye-catching than the malnourishment I’d seen bits of in every prisoner. On him, it seemed… deep-rooted, in addition to the bumps and the red scarring. All damage that, for the rest of us, was ideally received prior to incarceration.

On my other side, Jay was struggling not to brace his weight against the wall. His stance would waver, he’d come close, but catch himself at the nick of time. Thanks to another inmate endeavoring in the luxury first, and being subsequently forced down into a more tiresome groveling position, he knew better than to give in to the temptation. As long as he kept a close eye on those doing the same to him, he could easily manage several seconds of lounging. While that wasn’t worth the risk, he decided to take his disobedience in the smaller dose of scratching his nails against the cement instead. He snatched his hand back like I’d tattle on him when I was found for observing.

         After an eternity, and my cellmates first, I was approached. Like all the lucky ones before, the warden pulled me away from the far wall, shackled me with cuffs, and walked me over to one of the five square setups. I checked to spot if anyone looked upon my departure with even a minute concern for their encroaching time. The resounding response of listless impatience was nothing if not reassuring. 

         On the far side of the room, the dirtied curtain was pulled back enough to allow me to pass in. Enclosed inside was a foldable, blue patient chair and a plethora of equipment stacked on a plastic rolling shelf. Looming to the right, was an older man seated on a stool with a laptop and a stiff expression. The mobile medical equipment exclaimed “doctor”, but the person before was bereft of scrubs. As though to make up for it, he bore an official-looking name tag. It didn’t have the Inertia label on it. He wasn’t employed under the prison directly.

         The guard came in after to push me onto the chair and unlock one of my handcuffs long enough to latch it back onto the seat. I gave it a confirmation jiggle and simpered up at him in approval when it didn’t give. He seemed less pleased than I did. 

         “Ready.” The guard announced to the more-or-less doctor. He retreated out of the way but kept on standby at the entrance. It would only take about two steps for him to reach me should he need to.

The older man gave his greying brown head a scratch, finally addressing my entrance by rolling up on his chair alongside me. He placed his laptop down where he’d been seated when he rose. I watched him intently as he rummaged through the bags and boxes on the shelf. While this had all the makings of a doctor’s appointment, my health wasn’t any of the facility's concerns. I’d seen enough to know that unless I was immobile, any illness would be dismissed at best. The practitioner’s normal attire was a notice to me to be vigilant. I only assumed he had training, after all, equipment didn’t ascertain credentials. It didn’t mean for a second my well-being was his objective. He looked at me with the same scornful superiority as any other did when he took my arm, yanked up my sleeve, and tied a band tight around it.

He touched my quickly prominent veins with his chilled fingertips and muttered, “Good. You must be new.” It took all my willpower not to pull away as he ran a wet wipe across my arm. I had to stare into the watchful eyes of my would-be restrainer when he came at me with a needle, a trick to remind myself that a harder way was still an option if I saw fit to fight back. Only after I felt the sharp infiltration of my skin did I search for the reason for it. A tube ran from my arm into a cloth bag on the shelf. I couldn’t see what they were collecting my blood in, nor how much space I was expected to fill with it. 

“Have you had any history of substance abuse?” The older man asked once back with the laptop balanced on his legs. I didn’t realize he was talking to me, so I waited for someone else to answer. He cleared his throat until I spoke in my trained hush.

“No.”

“Have you been on any medications?”

“No.”

“Do you have any chronic illnesses?” 

“No.” 

“Do you have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Have you used any tobacco products?”

“No.”

As his questions droned, I began to anticipate answering. My voice became brazen as my comfort in the situation grew from this minor revolt. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten about the plasma being pumped from my arm or that I was still secured to the chair, but that I answered every question the same, even if in dishonesty. The older man began to catch on when his face blanked and his typing speed reduced. He couldn’t challenge my integrity either, so he was caught in a stalemate with me by suspicion. I needled him by hurrying my responses and crossing my legs in an impish posture. 

He eyed me over his laptop screen. “Have you answered honestly?”

“Of course.” I grinned at him, not just on account of my trifling his exam, but because I’d gotten my nerve back. I felt the most myself I had in days. My skin fit snug around me again by getting under his. “It’s rude to be the only one asking questions, Mister…” I leaned in closer to catch the name on his badge. There wasn’t one. “Are you really a doctor?”

He defaulted to silence and stripped the needle from my arm. Dizziness hit me in world-turning waves. It boosted my confidence to be unable to discern the oppressive surroundings in complete clarity, but that could be the lightheadedness talking.

The man kept moving by pouring a blue liquid into a small plastic up and holding it out toward me. “Drink this.”

I turned my nose up at it. “Is it as gross as everything else around here?”

Too far —two steps were accomplished faster than a thought. Quick hands commanded my head and chin, jolted my neck back hard into the headrest, and pried my jaw open. The older man held my free arm down before dumping the liquid into my mouth. My body twitched, forcing the grip on my jawbone to tighten enough to cause cracks as the guard popped it shut.

“Swallow.” I did as was demanded and the task force was dismantled. 

I coughed myself hoarse on the liquid. It didn’t have a taste, just a shooting burn that traveled down my throat and flared still in my stomach. The heat could very well have been sustained further in fusion with my hot temper. I counteracted it with an icy composure as if to imply that my mistreatment was nothing but an inconvenience. Not that either man appeared to see or care.

With a new syringe, the doctor approached my second arm; the one pinned to the chair’s armrest. He rested the needle between his pinkie and ring finger while holding my wrist still. I noticed it wasn’t attached to a tube this time as he moved my sleeve accordingly. He didn’t disinfect the area either, sticking it in as soon as the skin was available. The thin metal glinted in a wink of forewarning, then burrowed itself into my arm. The injection was less inoffensive, both because he was depositing something into my veins and that I hadn’t the slightest idea of what it was. The barrel was emptied.

“What was that?!” A spike of energy equally angry as anxious projected through me. No one would quell it. The only thing that did was the hammering in my head just behind the eyes. My heartbeat became as aggressive as it strained to keep up with the force making it labor at max. I compressed myself against the seat for support through the throbbing as the cuffs jingled under my recoil. A sweat broke out across my body, causing my fingers to slip against the cushion of the armrest.

“Are you experiencing any side effects?” I didn’t see him return to his seat through the murky haze of beige and black, only heard his voice there now. He could move anywhere and I wouldn’t see it. He could have put poison in me and I wouldn’t know it.

I bit my teeth together with all the pressure I could muster. “No.” 

“Are you certain?”

I didn’t have to see myself to know that my muscles were rigid to cope. Even if I couldn’t hear the way I gulped oxygen with desperation, I felt the effort I had to apply to receive it. The drug’s influence showed on me like a radiant billboard sign. 

Still, I uttered, “Yes.”

“We’re done then.” He decided with a wave of his blurry hand. 

         There was a click of an undid lock and then the snap of it shutting again a beat later. The guard’s features were melting when he pulled me to my feet by the chain of the cuffs. Stationary, I swayed recklessly on my legs. In motion, I careened right and left just to stay straight. The mild action made my already encumbered heart fit to rupture. Breathing became as ambitious as it would be while drowning. 

         I realized how irrelevant everything around you became when you were putting your utmost into not keeling over. Wherever I was being steered next wasn’t of much consequence when I felt that any moment now my veins would burst open, unknowing if I’d even arrive in one piece. I placed a hand to my chest when warmth began to raise up and into my throat, choking me.

         A heavy door shut at my back, then things became somehow less intelligible. Nothing but brushstrokes of colors.

         “56?” 81’s voice called as a guide through the blur. 

         “I told you, that’s not my name-” I struggled, then dispelled an alien blue puddle onto the floor of our cell. It was the only thing in my stomach. My knees buckled and I tumbled defenselessly forward. I couldn’t even put my hands out to catch my fall, no muscle of mine would move. Something obstructed my one-way ticket into the throw-up-varnished floor. Arms hanging, I was secured against cloth warm from body temperature. My eyelids heavy as bricks. 

         A pounding came from somewhere other than my insides. A single knock multiplied to two, then three. The sound teamed up with the rhythm of the ache in me. I wish it’d stop; if there was anything left for me to vomit, I was sure it would come out if the sound kept up.

         Strings of insults from a source somewhere close was the only tell that I was still holding up, if only barely. There was no difference between my eyes being closed or open after everything had gone black. I could only think, “Is it time to sleep?” like an animal with a blanket tossed over its enclosure.

         The last thing I heard was a caustic, “Dumbass.”