Straitjacket

[2] Sage

Dedicated to the above user because they literally stayed up until some time around 11:00 at night to 4:30 in the morning, reading this book. That's dedication-worthy (and a sign that you might need psychological help)!

Eventually, the doctor managed to force a modified respirator over my nose. Syringes and the medicine they contain don't work on me - haven't since the Voice moved in - or it would have taken merely a prick on my bicep for the sleeping poison to enter my system. As it is, I have to have a respirator constantly pumping the sleeping gas into my nostrils or mouth if I am to be knocked unconscious.

I finally passed out in this way and while I was down, he replaced my teeth. Again.

Now I am back in my cell. All of the surfaces are made out of a squishy foam material, and I am curled into them, relishing the throbs of pain from my gums. It gives me something primal and concrete to focus on instead of the incredible, dark complexity that resides within me.

Mom always called me philosophical. What would she call me now?

Something along the lines of "bitch," I would imagine.

The same woman who was caring for me enters. Why is she back? She seems to be very interested in me. I don't like it.

"Hello, Sage," she greets me carefully. I do not respond. Why would I? Casual greetings - "hellos" are from another world, no, another universe. I am in this universe. We do not say "hello" here.

"You're going to go on a trip," she blurts out after a moment of silence. She's one of those people who can't stand the quiet. I despise those people, although I am one myself.

The Voice senses an opportunity in her words and latches onto it. "Ooh, where are we going? The electric chair? The firing squad?" I giggle and grin lazily at my own macabre jokes.

The woman smiles softly. "This is a mental hospital. We don't euthanize our patients. Besides, you know that we have done away with those methods. They haven't been used in a century."

"Oh, yes, that's right. You just inject the poison and down we go!" The Voice leaves, her work well done. I frown at the draining feeling, quieting. "Where am I really going?"

The woman sighs - in relief, I would presume, at my sensical question. "You and a group of other...troubled...teens are being sent to Mars."

"Why?"

"You will be allowed more freedom without there being concern for surrounding civilians. There are also new rehabilitation programs being held on Mars, and you are one of the chosen test subjects." The woman beckons through the door and in comes the familiar metal cart. The Voice is just as confused as I am, so we are silent together. What does she mean, more freedom? And "new rehabilitation programs?" Are the methods so unethical that they can't be held on this planet for fear of legal repercussions? I can't imagine they're truly better.

I strain against the straightjacket as the two accompanying men lift me up and strap me onto the cart. For some reason, my thoughts drift back to my old outfits, before I was dressed in this same straightjacket for three years straight. They were very comfortable, I remember wistfully. My closet consisted of black or ripped skinny jeans and T-shirts with different logos splayed across the front. I believe I began murdering people in ripped black skinny jeans and a dark sugar skull-themed T-shirt, I think. I'm not sure. That was back when I was still fighting my insane roommate, so I didn't pay attention to a lot of stuff outside of The Voice.

We roll into the same facility I was in yesterday to have my teeth replaced. "Why are we here?" I ask nervously. The Voice stands at the ready.

"You're going to be rendered unconscious for a cleaning process," the woman responds. The Voice perks up and I know it is going to fight the drug used to knock me out with all its might. Usually, when I am cleaned, I am chained down and halfheartedly washed, often through my straightjacket to kill two birds with one stone. I've grown accustomed to feeling dirty. But now - a drug? This sounds like it will be a more in-depth process.