H1054
by E. G. Bartholomew © 2009
H1054 sat in his cell, eyes fixed on the cracks and stains of the concrete walls, his mind blank. He has no one to talk to, no food to eat, no liquid to drink. Bliss.
Soon, G47 and G78 will come for him. The steel plated doors will slide open and the two . . . things (he could not call them men) will walk through, dragging shackles behind them. ETV.
When H1054 first arrived at Blackwell Research Facility, he was told ETV stood for Entertainment Television. They said it was a simple psychological experiment on the cognitive and neurological effects of high exposure to stimulating visual images. Nothing big. No sweat. The experiment would last a short while, he’d be compensated for his time and return to his life.
H1054 remembers little beyond this. His very name had faded from memory, but the lie that stole his life still vibrantly echoed in his mind. No, he’d never forget the day he learned ETV did not mean Entertainment Television, but rather Experimental Television.
An alarm rang and the steel bolt disengaged. Two guards walked in and bound H1054 by the wrists and ankles. He didn’t bother struggling—years of experience taught him it would be no use.
The guards took H1054 to the treatment room of the west wing. As per routine, they strapped him to the steel throne. They taped his eyelids open using duck tape. Once they had use carpenter nails driven posterior to the supraorbital foramen, but today he was submissive. They hooked the wires, plugs, and electrodes to the apparatus on his head. H1054 felt a sharp pain as they jammed the final piece—a syringe—an inch into his skull
Before H1054 was a large screen that spanned the length and width of the entire wall.. The projection screen.
The two guards went inside the control room, preparing the treatment. A kaleidoscope of light beamed around of the room. Bombastic wails erupted from the machinery behind him as the equipment warmed up.
G47’s voice boomed across the loudspeaker. “Treatment begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .”
H1054 had experienced the treatment perhaps thousands of times, yet each successive time it still somehow seemed worse than the last. His body writhed against the bonds as electricity scourged through his body, his head filling with horrific images. Dead bodies. Burning homes. A prison!
He remembered now! He knew where his mother was! He just needed to push through this pain. He’d find her again. Not just her but Billy and Rachel and Jess and Tommy and Rick. Just don’t forget where they are. Just hold on . . .
As the aura of light dancing before him slowly faded, consciousness slipped away. The LSD and sodium amytal the guards had injected into him was losing effect. H1054 tried desperately to cling to his newfound hope, but it was no use; he was falling down, down, down. In seconds, his body shutdown and he collapsed against the chair. The guards unhooked the apparatus and returned his unconscious body to his cell.
Two thousand miles away, Debra O’Connor surveyed her bedroom, modestly satisfied with the results. With the help of her ex husband and the bulky movers she’d managed to clear out all of the furniture in only three days. The movers had already hauled out the computer, TV, refrigerator, and laundry machines. Mostly all that was left now were a few boxes of miscellaneous items.
Debra kneeled next to a box labeled “photo albums” and sorted through its contents. Most albums were dusty and had worn binders. She picked one up and flipped through it, smiling at the pictures of Christmas 1997 at her ex husband’s labor union, where their daughter sat on Santa’s lap not knowing it was her father; the pictures of her now-deceased mother at the family reunion in ’93, the time when she tackled Debra’s 17 year old nephew during the family’s traditional football game; the picture of her and her brother Tom, that time they decided to skip school unbeknownst to their mom and take the 8:45 train to New York. She paused at one of the pictures.
She laid a finger on it. It was of her son, Jacob, in his football gear before his first high school varsity game. He looked so grown up in his gear, so manly. The contours of his linebacker frame were outlined by bulging muscle. In the picture, Jacob was running back to the sidelines after a major tackle he’d made on 3rd and 1. Excited teammates greeted him with high fives and cheers.
It couldn’t have taken place long before he went missing.
It was 17 years later, and Debra still remembered everything. When her son first began attending Columbia College in New York he’d call home everyday, asking how the family was and telling stories about college life, never asking for money. This went on for a few months. Then he abruptly stopped. He wouldn’t answer calls either. Debra figured he was simply busy; something harmless. Another month went by, that was when Debra realized something was wrong.
The police search lasted three months. They interviewed friends and family—no leads. They worked their way through professors, dorm mates, acquaintances, anyone and everyone who’d talked to or even seen Jacob around the time he was presumed to have gone missing. No leads, no tips. It was as though Jacob’s very existence and the memory of it had disappeared. No one seemed to know what happened to Jacob O’Connor.
You know how the police in New York are. Their arms are full. Murders and rapes taking place daily. They gave up the search, sending Debra a letter of their regrets and condolences.
She cried that night, harder than last night and all the other nights put together. And when she attended the funeral, or when people merely mentioned his name, or when she saw photos of him, she felt the tears stinging again.
That was more than a decade ago. She hadn’t forgotten her loving son and never will, but as she shut the photo album and set it back inside the box, she remarked that for the first time--the very first--she no longer those tears stinging.