Patient 54

A man rushed furiously down a bright lit hallway lined with doors. His name was Jon, and he was desperately attempting to escape someone, or something chasing him. He whipped through the first open door he had found and scurried underneath a bed within the room. He panted so hard attempting to catch his breath. Beads of sweat hurdled over his veins that pulsed to an agitated rhythm. Someone was after him. He hid and gasped quietly for air. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide forever.

Jon found the cool tile soothing on his skin as he laid belly down sprawled out naked in the embrace of shadow under the bed. In his hands he held tightly a rolled-up piece of paper and a partially broken pencil. He unrolled the blank parchment and began scribbling the following.

Help me. They're after me. They want my blood, my organs. They want to harvest me. I can't do this anymore, the repeated night visits. The medicines they force me to take. They make me feel wrong. I'm not myself. I can hear them coming now. The food they feed m-

Jon's scribbling paused as he heard the running patter of footsteps accompanied with the jangle of keys growing louder. Louder they clapped as they rushed by the cracked door until they faded back down the hall into silence. A line of light on john's face illuminated and exasperated the ocean blue color in his eye as he hunkered down peering out of the cracked door into the hallway. He continued to write fervently.

The food they feed me is tainted. It has micro-organisms in it that treat my blood and make it pure for them to harvest. I need to let everyone know. I need to let the world know what they do here. They take. They cut and they take. The blood draws. Taking my essence for their commercial use. The adrenochrome. The secret is in the blood. It's in the blood!

Jon took the broken end of the pencil and jammed it into his open palm. Blood began to trickle around the splinter of wood buried in his hand. He smeared the blood on the bottom of the paper and curled it back into a perfect roll. He shimmied out from under the bed and made his way out into the open. His heart raced as his eyes shifted scanning the environment.

His feet slapped tile as he ran down the hall towards a barred window. The scent of disinfectant stung his nostrils.

Just as he drew close to the window he froze. A man turned the corner pushing a bucket on wheels with a mop. A custodian, but Jon knew better. He knew that even the custodians played a part in what was going on here in this government medical facility.

They both froze and shared a beat of eye contact. Droplets of blood fell from Jons hand that was clinched into a fist. He still held the pencil.

The custodian turned to run but before he could Jon was on him. Jon gripped the custodian's neck in the crook of his arm and repeatedly flailed with the stubby piece of wood. Blood spilled as the pencil shanked in and out of the custodian's flesh. The man crumpled to the floor released from Jon's grip. He pulled himself across the reflective white tile, trailing blood behind him like a doomed slug. His yells for help crackled and gurgled.

Jon ran to the window. Even though it had bars, it still could open slightly. Just as he attempted to open it, two security guards came running down the hall behind him dressed in all white. Their jackets that came up the neck slightly, donned shining clean name placards. On those placards were the names Dale and Phil.

Dale and Phil rushed. They each gripped a shoulder and brought Jon down. His face bounced off the ground with a crack. Jon scrambled trying to pull himself up the wall. He had to get his message out. Throw it out the window so that someone on the outside might find it. It was the only hope he had of reaching the outside world. As he reached up high towards the cracked window that was so close he could feel the air tickle his bare skin, his hopes were smashed back into the disinfected cold tile. He slipped on his own sweat and blood as he scuffled with the guards.

Dale and Phil systematically pinned Jon down, first one arm, then the other and then came a knee to the back which expelled any remaining breath that Jon had. As Jon was pinned like a note to a board, he heard a squeaking noise. Another two guards ripped around the corner pushing a gurney that had leather straps dangling like the tentacles of some ocean monster.

Jon screamed and shouted. Still gripping his note to the outside world; his call for help. He bucked and kicked as the guards lifted him onto the hard plastic prison on wheels and began to strap him in. Each guard held down a limb and cinched tight the leather straps that bit down into his skin with a cephalopod's strength. He squirmed and writhed. The guards didn't even break a sweat. Jon knew they had taken too much from him for him to still have the strength to fight. He knew that with him being strapped down, they would take more.

Jon regulated his breathing while counting the light fixtures that whisked over head as they wheeled him down the hall. Two of the guards pushing him had his blood drying in patches on their stark white uniform which gave him a slight tingle of satisfaction. "You can't take it, you monsters," Jon muttered. No one acknowledged. "How many pieces can you take of me before I am gone?" he continued. "Before I am gone," he repeated. "Before I am gone...let me be gone."

A man with slicked back hair and round spectacles leaned over into Jon's vision. With Jon's head strapped down, he could only see what was above.

"Hello Jon, I am Dr. Farrin. Do you know why you are here?" he spoke in a soft gentle tone. Jon knew though, he knew it was all for show.

"Go to hell," Jon shouted.

The doctor nodded to the guards who then pulled out a syringe.

"No!" Jon yelled. He squirmed away but it was no use as they stuck it into his bare thigh. He felt the cold liquid wash away into his blood stream. And he immediately sunk, what felt like ten feet, into the gurney.

"Jon, you had an episode," the doctors voice echoed, it sounded like it was from a room away now. Jon knew this medication would sedate him. He knew that it would allow them to take more. "Jon, do you know where you are?"

"Im-" Jon stuttered. Just getting his voice out felt difficult, like chewing molasses as his body became warmer. "Im in-" he adjusted his jaw and his eyes grew to heavy to keep open. "Im in hell."

"Jon you are in the Western Penitentiary for the Criminally Ill," the Doctor said. "We are treating you for your delusions and paranoia." Dr. Farrin paused a moment. "What's in his hand?" he murmured to the guards.

Jon felt the paper release from his grip. He knew he was too weak to hold on. He fell deeper down into his own body. Jon didn't know anymore.

The doctor unfurled the paper. Inside it read,

help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help help