Page 23 of Brainwashed
I chew for a long time, just savoring the flavors, barely even able to distinguish them. It’s just incredible.I don’t even notice until my third bite that I’m humming while chewing and my fingers are wiggling. I think my toes are, too.
They give me some fries, all the while taking notes, watching me closely while I eat with fucking electrodes on my head. I have no idea what they’re seeing, but I couldn’t give the tiniest fuck. It feels like I’ve died and gone to heaven.
“You guys wouldn’t happen to have a can of Dr. Pepper lying around, would you?” I ask gleefully when Figueroa pulls the burger away to wipe my mouth with a napkin.
Johansson says nothing. He simply nods at Templeton, who scurries out of the room, returning two minutes later with a red can.
“Oh my fuckingGod, this is perfect,” I practically squeal. “Hey. Fry me, Figs.”
Figueroa gives me an unenthused look, but does as I ask, picking up a few fries and feeding them to me slowly while Templeton cracks open the Dr. Pepper. I’m already feeling so full, which is crazy. Usually, I can put away cheeseburgers like no one’s business.Obviously, it’s because I haven’t eaten in days.
“Are you replete?” Johansson asks while they give me a drink from my soda can. The bubbles fizz in my mouth and down my throat, a welcome burn that sets off serotonin in my brain like it’s no one’s business.
“Replete?” I huff. It’s a strange word, but then everything about these guys seems pretty odd, so I nod. “Yea. Definitely. I mean, fornow.” The thought that I could have to go more days without food again, after the bliss I just experienced, makes me sad inside.
“Very good, Felix,” Johansson says, as if I did something much more exciting than just mowing down a cheeseburger.
“Thanks?” I mumble, but they’re not listening. They’re too busy rushing around the room, cleaning up the food, pressing buttons on the machines.
Figueroa gives me some more soda, then gives me an entire bottle of water to drink, dumping it slowly down my throat. It’d be a lot easier if I could do it myself, but obviously convenience isn’t the name of their game.
“Six full hours for digestion,” Johansson mutters to one of them. “Call it seven.”
“Yes, sir,” the others both say.
And then they go to the door. And they freaking leave.
I sigh out of frustration.I guess I’ll just stay strapped to this thing, then…
It’s back to silence in the room, but no longer accompanied by the sounds of my stomach gurgling. Now it’s just my occasional burps from the Doctor Peps.
“I’ll say a prayer for yeh…” A vaguely familiar voice with an Irish accent comes through the wall on my left. “That was the easy part.”
My fist clenches. I wish I could get the fuck up, move closer to the wall. I’ve beendyingto speak to him, and I don’t want to do it while strapped to this stupid chair.
“You think a prayer will stop them?” I scoff.
“It won’tstopthem, no,” he replies. “It might kill yeh quicker, though.”
I melt into the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. This is the conversation I’ve been wanting to have for months. Since the day he looked into my eyes and told me he wasnothing like me.
Yet he’s here, too. Right on the other side of the wall, experiencing the same things that I am. Whether he believes he’slike meor not is irrelevant.
We’re the same.
“I’m Felix,” my voice quavers a bit and I mentally scold myself for being so uncool. “What’s your name?”
“I know who yeh are,” he rumbles. “The name’s Kieran O’Malley.”
Kieran O’Malley, my mind sighs.
I look forward to getting to know you.
One of my favorite songs plays at high volume over the speakers of my BMW while I cruise the highway, heading out of the city toward Marietta.
Thesuburbs. Where my parents live; the house I grew up in.
I was actually born in Chicago, but we moved when I was too young to remember it. Georgia has been my home forever, minus the four years I spent in Baltimore for med school. I wasn’t alone, though. My uncle Harold lives there with his wife and kids.
