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A Time too Late to Heal by Alan Teauge Bittig Part 1 I saw the tears of the oppressed- and they have no comforter; power was on the side of their oppresors- and they have no comforter. Ecclesiastes 4:1 The world today is a nightmare. It is dark and it is lonely and it is cold. No brightly colored faces stray down the streets, no wild eyed children sing in the parks. Only dead, downcast people walking without purpose from appointed task to appointed task. There is no color left in this world, it has all fled to the next, and each soul lost in this reality tries hard to hasten death. What has humanity become, I have to wonder, why did we ever let it get this bad. I sit on the summit of the mountain, shivering amidst the remnants of unmelted snow. A cruel wind tears through my plastic windbreaker and stirs the ashes of my hometown. They are coming for me, I can see them now, navigating the switchbacks and shouting orders to each other. They climb slowly, throwing long shadows ahead of themselves towards the moon. Against their backs is the setting of the pink sun. The light is pale and inconsistent, the figures appear a solid, friendly black. My capture is inevitable, I can run no further, I can run no faster. I can only wait, and hope that they will show no mercy. Like any sane man in these hellish times I am not interested in pity from the soldiers. The pity they show is twice as harsh as death. I cannot watch them any longer. I have already confessed my sins to a rock and said all the things I always meant to say. I am ready for my death. It is moving quickly. But I can't watch it, I just can't. I pick up my book and begin to read, losing myself in the words. There is no way that I will finish it before they arrive; but that's okay. I've read it before. The light fades and the words begin to blur, my eyes strain on the yellowed pages and my pupils dilate to allow the maximum entrance of light. I read faster than I ever have before, trying to somehow forget the hell of this modern world. Each word, each letter, each glowing sentence allows for some momentary escape. Finally the last evidence of light fades from the sky, and I, with a smile, recite the last line from memory. "And so we beat on, boats against the current, born ceaslessly back into the past." I set my book down into the dust. It is time to look up and greet my captor. He waves the barrel of his gun in my face and spits into the dust. "Stand up," he says, and I, like any good citizen, refuse. His face contorts into a thousand beautiful facets of anger and hate. His eyes steam, his chest heaves. Now is the moment, I have not surrendered my dignity, he has no choice but to insert several onces of lead into my face. In the seconds that pass as I wait for the bullet a wonderful image begins to form in my mind. A bright, airy fantasy detailing my heavenly introduction to my wife and to my mother. They will hug me and hen about my heroics. I smile and stick my palms into the dirt. The fatal shot does not come. "In the name of the law of God will you stand up now," says the soldier. I spit on his boot and taunt him, trying to lure the blast. He looks at me, his eyes glittering with more hate and anger than I've ever seen condensed into one place. He kicks me. "Stand," he orders. "I honorably must decline that invitation," I answer. "A smart guy huh," says another voice. "Yes sir," says the ape in front of me. The second voice enters into my vision, he boasts the insignia of a colonel. He turns and shouts into the distance, "Williams, Gatz, grab this man." Two boys approach. They are dressed in green and trying very hard to look like seasoned military men. Their eyes, however, are flickering with a modest fear and their faces still carry the remains of pubescent acne. Reluctantly, they grab my arms, forcing me into a standing position. I, following the Ghandi model, offer only passive resistance. The colonel tugs at his sleek black mustache, then firmly plants his fist on my cheek. I unintentionally whimper. "Stephen Soloman," he says, "you are charged with crimes against the law of God." I look deep into his pale brown eyes and search for some remnant of his lost humanity, I can find nothing. "You are charged with following the outdated and paganistic practice of popery," he continues, "and with denying that our lord Jesus Christ is the rightful ruler of the world. Do you have anything you would like to say in response to these charges, levied against you by six witnesses." "I have my faith," I reply, "and do not deny Jesus or God." He smiles, thinking he has won, "however," I continue, "your sordid persecution and puritanical purges are a disgust to all true believers." The colonels eyes darken considerably. "In response to your charges I say only this, 'Luke 21:8" "I'm not familiar with that part of the doctrine," says the colonel. "I wouldn't expect you to be," I reply, "but it describes your leader well." He realizes almost at once that I am insulting him, and swings his fist at me. It hurts, but this time I control myself and do not whimper. With a slow, controlled voice, I recite, "En Nomine patrii et fili et spiriti sancti," and close my eyes. I wait for my death. Suddenly I feel it, a sudden jolt of ice and a shock, my breath quickens and then fades. I fall to the ground and, as my consciousness disolves I can feel the dust on my tongue and the dirty hands on my body. I'm coming to you Mary, I whisper, and then I embrace the blackness. * * * With a sudden shiver I awaken. My arms are shackled and my legs are chained. I am naked. I can feel ten thousand springs dig into my back and hear the faint, angelic hum of florescent lights. Why is this room so cold, I wonder, and then I open my eyes. After a moment of temporary blindness the room comes into focus. It is a sterile, white laboratory, lit with hundreds of glowing tubes and empty with the exception of my bed and a large, green cabinet. I scream. Panic washes over me, I can smell it oozing from my pours and coursing through my veins. My heart beats thumpa thumpa thump like some quick military march. My eyes are swollen and sore, my head keeps time with my chest in steady waves of throbbing pain. I am unable to help myself. I cry. How long I am alone only God knows, but eventually(after how long? It feels like days but how could it be that long, I have no sense of time in this glowing box) I am joined by a tall, plain looking nurse who gently sponges the saliva off my chin and wipes the salty trails of tears from my cheeks. "Where am I?" I ask her. She ignores my question and continues to clean me. "Why am I here?" I screech, unable to acept her silence. She says nothing. "Look," I shriek, "If your not going to talk to me, just get away from me." She acts as if she has heard nothing. Is she deaf, I wonder. But I'm sure she is not. Not in modern America. Not in the new, perfection oriented society that has been melded into existence over the last sixteen years. The door opens agian and another figure enters. A short, dark haired man of perhaps forty years. "Mrs. Athaliah," he says, "you may leave the room now." "Yes dr," she replies in a dead, inconsiquencial vioce. There is no life in this woman, I decide. The doctor watches Mrs. Athaliah exit, then shuts the door. He aproaches my bed. "Mr. Soloman," he says, "do you understand why you are here?" I shake my head. "Mr. Lazarus, may I call you Stephen," I nod, "Stephen, you are here due to your lack of faith in God who walks among us." "God doesn't walk among us," I say with contempt. "Your denial of basic truths only hurts yourself." "Is that so. Why am I here then." "You need to be re-educated." "You mean brainwashed?" "I mean enlightened." As he says these words, his vioce trembling with a deep commitment to his erroneous beliefes. "What are you gonna do to me?" I ask, my hands shaking uncontrollably. "I really don't feel like explaining." He pulls a large syringe from his coat and pricks my arm. It hurts, but it is also warm. "So your just going to leave me hanging here," I ask nervously, "you gotta tell me what your gonna do to me. It'd be cruel not to." "Let's just say that children are easier to educate than adults." I'm sure that I heard him right but I have no idea what he means. It makes no sense. "What?" I ask. "What I said," he replies. "Your not making any sense though." "You'll find out soon enough." He leaves. Feeling the effects of the drugs he has injected into my arm, I drift away into a painful and restless sleep. * * * I have dreams, lovely dreams. Dreams of the times before. I return in my mind to a brief moment in my history, sitting on my father's shoulders at an airshow. I remember the awe I felt in seeing what was at the time the most powerful military in the world. I remember the taste of the dust in my mouth and the overwhelming odor of tar and gasoline. Somewhere in the backround a patriotic song was playing. Twenty years later the grounds of this airshow would become the site of the first slaughter. Streaking like the jets on that warm june day, blasting with the momentum of ten thousand lost oppertunities, my mind cascades forward into the future. I visit my wedding day, I pass through the birth of my only son, thier graves are a stone in my backyard. I come to the horrors, I see the first reports of the cult, which emerged like a hideous beast from the backwater swamps of South Caroliana. I track its rising popularity and witness it take over the south-east and the mid-west. I can recite the exact date things turned violent. I wake up, drenched in sweat, shivering in the cold. My mind cannot help cover the history of the carnage. I try to forget it but cannot. The images will not disappear. June 22, 1999, the day the world died. I can taste the terror that covered a paniced nation when eight pilots, all good, god fearing air force boys, crashed thier fighters into the stands at the Fairchild AFB Air Show. It was intentional; thier leader, who claimed to be the second coming, ordered them to. Things became bloody quickly. The cult aproached fever state in the south and in the middle west. Still, it could have ended peacefully. Then the cult, under thier Uniform Christian Party, took over both houses of congress. A constitutional amendment repealing all other amendments was passed, and a second establishing a the cult as America's state religion. The states who opposed the measure can be counted on a single hand, and I list them here as a tragic memorial. Alaska, California, Conneticut, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, New Mexico, New York, and Washington. God rest the sanity of thier citizens, long since killed or corrupted. What followed where many drastic measures. Still, it could have been okay. The eight western states who opposed the cult, fueled by thier fiercly independent citizens, formed a new nation. The two eastern states followed suit. The only problem was, well, that the cult had a massive following in the military, and soon the bases in these new nations turned against them. Seven years of fighting, two hundred and elven million official deaths and untold destruction followed. California fell, Mexico decended into anarchy, Canada joined the new Christian States of America, then Europe, East Aisa, the world. The impoverished citizens of third world nations, tired of waiting paciently for peace in the next life, converted by the millions. Only a brave few dared oppose it. They're fate was quick and painful. Isreal was reduced to a radio-active slag heap, god rest it's citizens. Italy was crushed by the French and Germans, the Vatican was burnt, torn apart stone by stone, then burnt again. Pockets of resistance were destroyed. Dissidents and non-adherents were punished without mercy. The cult conquered the world on the back of a hellish, conformist religion. My howntown, which filled five low valleys of Western Montana, became one of the last strongholds of sanity. Two weeks ago it was destroyed, I was the only survivor. Death has had a busy decade. I say a single, silent prayer for the persecuted, and then another for myself. Finally, I sleep. * * * "Wake up," shouts a voice. My eyes open slowly, cautious of the bright lights. "Today is the first day of your life for God," the voice continues. "What," I whisper hoarsely, suddenly becoming aware that I have not consumed any fluids for several days. "Today we start the procedure." The voice moves into my field of vision, it is the doctor. "First, please let me introduce myself, may I." "Why not." I'm far past point of caring. "I am Dr. Alexander Joram." "Uh-huh." "The next few days will be fairly painful for you." "Whatever." "Let's begin with several short injections." "Let's." "You should be incapacitated for about six hours." "Six, eh." My mind is dead. I wish my body was as well. I wanted to die as a martyr on the mountain, not as a test subject in a laboratory. But it doesn't matter. Not really. They want me to deny my faith, which is the one thing that I will not do. The injections are administered with six inch long needles. They hurt, but not as much as I feared they might. "What we are doing," says Dr. Joram, "is injecting new genetic information into your nervous system." "Why?" I say, my throat nearly sealed shut with mucus. "What for?" My hands are closed tightly and my fingernails are digging into my palms. The pain increases each consecutive second. I want to scream, but cannot allow my torturers that satisfaction. Dr. Joram ignores my question. He stands silently in a white, shadowless corner, stroking his brown mustache and gently tapping his foot. Occasionally he steps forward to monitor a large, glowing computer screen that hovers at the fringes of my peripheral vision. There is a grin on his face and a crease on his forehead. He is sweating. Suddenly, he walks towards me. "Stephen," he says, "the chemical injection is a fairly slow procedure." He taps the monitor. "Slow and boring." "So?" I'm startled by his sudden acknowledge of my presences. I've been ignored for such a long time that any word directed at me seems like a blessing. "I'm interested in you." "Huh?" "Why your here, what you did?" "Nothing violent." "Well of course not, you wouldn't be here if you were a threat. But we haven't seen a new pacient for almost a year." "Where would I be if I was a threat?" He waves off my question and continues, "we only service those few anti-establishmentarianists who pursue non violent protest. I'm intrigued by your type of course." He stares at me, his eyes suddenly seeming less machine and more human. "Do you actually think that we would let you live without paying homage to the Real God." "It would have been the polite thing to do," I say with heavy sarcasm, trying to show that I consider his attempts at conversation insulting. He waves me off again, his hand making a large, fruity loop. "You don't understand, non of you old-liners do." "Your right I don't understand," I say, "I don't understand why the hell you would sacrifice yourself, your personality, and your soul for some fake second coming." He is tired of talking to me, and walks back towards his corner. He takes several steps and then turns to me. There is the bright, fiery glow of a damned soul shining from his pupils. "You'll understand tomorrow morning." The lights flash and, at the same moment, a terrifying pain washes over my body. It seeps it way through my veins and coats every inch of my interior. I can no longer control myself. I must scream. Dr. Joram smiles at me. "Perhaps you'll understand sooner," he laughs, "things move quickly once you hit this point." His smiling face is the last thing I see before losing consciousness. * * * When I was ten I broke my arm. I was in the hospital for several nights, hooked to a device that slowly dripped a clear, heavenly ambrosia into my arm. It never killed the pain completely, but it allowed me to drift off into short, fitful naps. The dreams are what I remember, terrible and splendid at the same time. Illuminated with ten thousand different shades of a million different colors. I saw strange things, became them and then transcend them. For the longest time I have believed that this was the ultimate in mind enhancing sleep. I have always been wrong. The entire experience,(though maybe it was the same and age has just mellowed the recollection) was nothing compared to the mystic visions I embrace while shot full of Dr. Joram's strange concoction. Under a mist of bizarre clouds I descend as if a bird to the fields I played in as a child. The sky swirls with clouds and visits all four seasons while at the same time remaining only the golden tail of summer. I walk through my home and open each door. Behind one is my seventh birthday party, another hides my fifth Christmas. Beneath the trap door in the kitchen I am searching for Easter eggs and twirling with the lazy Susan is my first visit to a fair. I am happy. I am warm. I wake up. I know immediately that things have been permanently changed. Nothing will be the same. It is only a feeling, based on no logical observation, no educated fact, but I know it is true. Whatever this deathly numbness I feel hides is my future. I have become something else. What? I'm not sure yet, and I don't want to know. I can only lay on this larger, softer bed in this darker, warmer room and say goodbye to whatever I was before. How sad really, I decide, to lose myself before I even had the chance to find myself, but whatever, life continues until the end, and at least my mind remains intact for the moment. part 2 "And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive." Ecclesiastes 4:2 How long do I lay in this bed? How long do I hold my breath, wide awake in the darkness, and contemplate my position in the universe? I'm not sure, a while I suppose. The numbness fades slowly, and with it comes new emotions and new sensations. My feet, so far beneath my head, so distant from the center of my nervous system, are the first to send back signals. They are warm and covered, and the shackles no longer dig into my ankles. They feel fine, undamaged, and there is no soreness in them, despite the fact that they were tightly sealed inside iron bands of hate. As feeling begins to return to my figure I am aware of many changes. The most obvious is that I am covered with some form of blanketing, and beneath that a robe. My head still aches and my body screams with ten thousand different forms of pain, but it is not as profound or as unbearably hideous. I am no longer cold, and my throat and mouth are no longer dry. Suddenly, I realize that I am hungry. I sit up. The blanket falls away from my body. I am no longer chained. I hop off the bed. "Whaaaaa? Ouch," I scream as I lose my balance and fall hard into the plush carpeting of the floor. They must have changed my rooms, I figure, and this bed must be at least five feet off the ground. It is still to dark to see. Standing up, I to discover why my body feels so odd. The constant pain is subsiding and the numbness has all but disappeared. I know that I have been altered in some way, and though I am terrified of how I cannot kill the curiosity. My hand shakes as I inch forward, bending down to touch my toes. I am afraid that there may not be ten, and though it feels like there are, I do not trust my senses. Amputees often describe feeling sensation in 'ghost limbs.' If I am no longer complete, I reason, the terror might be too great of an impact on my mind and cause me to feel as if I am all here. Before my motion is complete the door to the room opens, casting a sudden and blinding glow of pure white energy across my eyes. Momentarily blinded, I sit down. "Good," says a woman's voice, "your up." I force my eye-lids to open, allowing the light to wash around me. After a few seconds, my vision returns. "You probably feel a little strange right now, huh," says the voice, which belongs to the nurse who administered my first shots. She is massive, towering over me. My field of vision, seated, barely passes above her knees, and I must strain my neck to look into her monstrous eyes. I nod in response to her question. "And you don't know why, do you?" she continues. I shake my head. "Would you like to see what we've done to you?" Her vioce is condescending and candy sweet, the vioce an adult uses to adress a small child. Nodding, I once again stand. She lowers her hand and I, acting on pure instinct, place mine inside of hers. Competitively, mine is tiny, and when she closes her fist I can see nothing past my wrist. Why is she so huge? I wonder, or why am I so small? She leads me out of the dark room into a brightly lit hallway. My barefeet make tiny, padded noises as I struggle to keep up with her giant strides. We pass other rooms, all painted the same, blistering white that coats the hallway from floor to ceiling. Light falls from long, shining tubes of whiteness and reflects off of every surface. It is bright, sterile and unnatural. An inhumane, cruel corridor, but it is so very human in its essence that I hardly notice the hellish evil that radiates from every facet. The hallway seems to wind into infinity, stretching in a limitless, unblemished line, without breaks for windows or side passageways. How far the pair of us travel, I don't know. But eventually we turn into one of the countless doors that grace each side at regular, mathematical intervals. The nurse flips on a light and leads me into the room. It is much like the original room I was placed in, however, it has a small mirror. "Would you like to take a look at yourself?" asks the nurse. I nod my head but do not move, I am to frightened to do so. I need to see what they have done to me, why I am so small, but at the same time I am afraid of what will stare back at me from behind the silver surface. The nurses face darkens, and she growls at "do it now." I cannot help but obey. I move cautiously towards the mirror, closing my eyes. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, I open them. My screams fill the building and shake the gates of heaven and hell. Then I cry. Looking back at me is a small, pre-pubescent girl of perhaps nine years. Her hair is deep brown, almost black, and her eyes are wide and blue. There are freckles on her nose. A single, salty tear runs down her ruddy face, gripping a fly away strand of hair tightly. I am confused. She cannot be me. I cannot be her. It is beyond my comprehension. My mind breaks down and I pass out. Everything is black. * * * My dreams are similar to the night before, swirling with places and people that I have not thought of for years. In them I am an outsider. I walk, gently, between my mother and my father. Neither of them look at me. I sit next to my wife, she ignores my presence. I am alone, changed, somehow removed from everything that has ever been important to me. I am destroyed. * * * I'm torn from my slumber by the shrieking of a large, black loudspeaker. I sit up, momentarily forgetting what has happened, then I recall it all. All around me young girls who look much like my reflection are pulling themselves out of greenish grey bunks. I must be in a dorm of some kind, I decide. The girls form a single file line and stand silently in front of the barred door. None move, none speak. They are all dressed in similar white gowns, exactly like the one on me. Their hair is cut to the same length, an inch below their neck, and they all stand in the same erect, military position. It is odd, dark, dangerous. Are these girls like me, I wonder, or are they something different. I realize that this is not the question I need answered. What I must know is if I am like these girls, or am I different? Will I be another brainwashed zombie child or will I remain the free, faithful servant I have always been? Sudden salvation, from the middle of the line one of the girls looks at me. The motion is quick and her head moves less than an inch, but in the split second it takes for eyes blink and her mouth to cracks slightly open she proves her humanity. I don't know how, the movement is minimal and her expression barely changes, but somehow, in some mental way, she has told me that she is different from the rest. Who is she? The door opens and the line begins to filter through the exit. It is incredibly odd to watch a line of young girls march in perfect time. It seems so unnatural, so completly inhuman, and it frightens me. The girl in the middle looks at me again, twitching her shoulder and winking. Is she trying to tell me something? Of course. I rise from my bed and join the line of mechanical children. I am too frightened and too overcome with anxiety at what might come next to worry about my present physical condition. That is how I view my new form, not as a permanent house for my soul, but rather a temporary ailment. I am sure that there is a cure somewhere. I follow the line as it snakes its way down the long hellish corridor. Its speed remains constant and it seems to know exactly where it is going. None of the girls in front of me bump into each other or lose their footing. It is as if they are controlled by some higher power. The entire thing is increadibly terrifying. Eventually the line merges with another line of older girls. The lines meet and meld together almost perfectly, no one changes their pace and no one ends up out of place. A gap simply forms between each of the larger girls and my group blends in. This line joins another, and another, and another, until it is a continuous stream of women, ages two through twenty walking silently down an eternal hallway. I have never seen so many women in my life, and the older ones are very beautiful. I smile to be in such an envious position, then I remember that I am one of these 'lovely girls.' That wakes me up quickly. I almost begin crying again. All at once, with out any warning, infinity ends. The hallway dead-ends at a large set of steel double doors. A buzzer rings and I, following those in front of me, leading those behind me, walk through. Behind my pain and terror I can't help feeling a little better. I'm outside. * * * The sun is dazzling, a brilliant, natural white that wraps the clear blue sky in an aura of health and good feelings. There is a quick breeze blowing and it ripples through massive stands of blue-green pines, carrying a pleasant odor to our congregation. We are standing in a large, well trimmed grass lawn surrounded on three sides by an ominous cement building. Towers and barbed wire block us in on the fourth side. But I can still see outside this little piece of hell. I can see the distant, snow capped mountains of late spring and hear a rushing creek. I am close to freedom. We stand, without order, in a large, silent group. A mass of terrible, mechanical bodies whom are incapable of enjoying the beauty that nature has bestowed upon this day. My fear is beginning to die down and I am becoming curious as to what this place is. I close my eyes and try to think. "Hello," whispers a voice. I turn. It is the girl who beaconed me to join the line. She is staring straight forward, not acknowledging my presence physically. "Don't look at me," she whispers again. I turn my head away. "What is this place?" I ask. "Shhhh! Not so loud." "Sorry." "It's okay, but if they notice we're talking, it could be very bad." "Ohhh." "I don't know what this place is, I've only been here a few days." "Did they...did they change...you too?" "Yeah." "So why aren't you like the other ones. All dead and stuff?" "Because they haven't had a chance to 'enlighten' me yet." "Why not?" "They don't try to brainwash you if you agree to do what they tell you. After role call and morning exercises one of them will probably pull you away and explain everything." I suddenly have hope. I can avoid being destroyed mentally, but at what cost? I have many question to ask this girl, but I can't, because without warning the group starts moving. We form into long lines ten deep, and stand at attention. "Just do what everyone else does," says the girl, "and you'll be okay." "Right." Exorcises are long and exhausting. The constant motion reminds me of the fact that I have not eaten in days and resurrects a good deal of the pain that had departed from my body. Still, I'm able to keep up, barely. Role goes quicker. "Number one," reads the man in front, and one of the girls will reply, "here." My new friend is named 412. The call ends with "number 435," but no one answers. The savior of my sanity nudges me, and I answer, "here." Everything is momentarily fine. The girls reform the single file line. Just as 412 predicted, I am removed from the line before re-entering the building. Smiling down on me is the witch nurse from last night. Her eyes are sparkle in a demonic manner. There is no doubt that she has the upper hand. "So Stephen," she says, "I'm glad to see your adapting well." "What the hell have you done to me," I shriek. "We've given you a second lease at life." "Why? How? Why?" "We did it because your soul was bound for hell, and it is our mission to save as many as we can." "But I was already saved." "A minor issue that has to do with your upbringing. That's why we changed you. Most people learn their religion in their childhood. You learned your idiotic faith before the age of five, so we simply regressed you into childhood. This way we're able to reteach the important things. "But maybe I'd rather die than lose my faith." "We know, but the thing is, well, martyrs are bad publicity. The Romans taught us that." "But why a girl, why a little girl." "Several reasons, all very good. For one thing girls are cleaner, smell better, and eat less. Most importantly, of course, is the fact that as they develop they're usually weaker and easier to manage physically." "But why does that matter if your just gonna brain wash me?" "We're not going to just 'brain wash' you, we're going to enlighten you. Heavy mind alteration techniques are not used unless you refuse to willingly submit to God." "Oh." "Now come on, it's time for breakfast." All I can do is follow her. At the present moment I have no choice. I need to talk to 412 again, find out the details of what's happening, and I need to discover a way out of here. It occurs to me that the best way to escape with my sanity is to play their game. Rebels seldom come out on top. * * * Breakfast is in a large, gaily painted cafeteria. The instant that I enter I notice something strange, something vaguely unsettling. I can't figure out what it is at first, but then it hits me. They're speaking, speaking to one another. All the zombie girls are engaged in conversation, and while it's nowhere near the noise level of a usual room with children of this age it is completely unlike what I have come to expect. Their faces are still bland and their voices carry little emotion, but somehow the pure act of socializing makes them seem more human. I'm served a typical cafeteria style breakfast and given a small carton of milk. It's all placed on a deep green tray. It looks about as appetizing as a month old sun baked roadkill but I'm so ravenously hungry that I plan to eat it anyway. I walk through the rows of long tables, trying to find the one person who spoke to me. At the same time I am beginning to contemplate my femininity for the first time. Up to this point I have been so frightened and disoriented that I have been unable to think about what has been done to me. Now my mind is less chaotic. I can feel my small bones and the rustle of the robe, which, I must admit, is actually a dress, and I can fell my longer hair whip around my body. It is both terrifying and unique. A chance at a different perspective. I dread my first bathroom break. After I have canvessed half of the large room a girl stands up and waves me to her table. It is the one I have been looking for. I sit down in an open seat directly across from her. "Hello," I say. "Hi," she replies. We eat in silence. I have never tasted food so good, nor have I ever filled so deep a hunger. I doubt that the contents of my tray would have tasted so perfect if I was not so hungry, but things being like they are, I must take what I can get. Finally, one of us speaks. "Did you find out what you needed to know," asks the girl. Number 412. "Yeah." "What's your name and who are you." "I'm Stephen Solomon, ex-news high school English teacher." "So you were a boy too?" "Yeah." "This is like the worst thing that they could do to us." "Uh-huh, who were you." "I was John Hezekiah, just an old fashioned truck driver." "What's this place really like, all I've seen so far is the marching and stuff. It doesn't quite jive with this." "I know, meals are weird. In the few days that I've been here I've tried to figure out why they're like this. It's the only place your allowed individual thought." "What else happens in a day." "There's the hour prayer session, and the rest of the day except meals is spent in class with Mrs. Athalia." "I think I recognize that name." "You should, she's the nurse who probably gave you your first injection and who showed you your new self for the first time." It figured. Judging from my short experiences with her the woman seemed like a real nasty person. I can see her instructing these 'children' on all sorts of insane things that are religiously approved. And what can I do to avoid it, I'm so small and weak. I'm going to have to just ride along and hope that they don't change my mind too much. John looks at me, shakes his head, and tells me to stand. I do, as does the rest of the room. It's frightening. All at once a total silence descends, and only the faint tapping of bare feet against the yellow tiles can be heard. "That's it for free thought until three," whispers John, "just do what they tell you and act like your part of the crowd. "But how can I fit in with a group of young girls," I ask him. "Just remember that your one too." An answer that both startles and terrifies me. I've been thinking of this condition as temporary. John's words and tone of voice portray it as much more permanent. I whimper it fright and disgust, then I walk to class. Hey, what else can I do? part 3 But better than both is he who has not yet been, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun. Ecclesiastes 4:3 Finding my way around the compound is simple. I merely follow the deadened lines of slave girls. We wind through the hallway, finding ourselves in a large, white auditorium. A frosted skylight filters pure beams of natural light and forms them into something human. In the silence I can hear the air conditioners whine. We stand, there are no seats, and sing several hymns, all old and time worn, the songs that have been recited by the faithful for centuries. I know them all. Then Dr. Joram ascends the stage in a flurry of quick, musical, bursts. He throws his arms wide and looks to the sky-light. A picture of the fake second coming falls behind him and a roar runs through the crowd. "Praise," he screams. "Praise," responds the congregation, with so much power and energy that it is hard not to be swept away by their emotion. "God is with us," screams the doctor. "He lives again," shouts the crowd, their mouths working in perfect time, the sound rising from one voice. They are not individuals, I decide. They are cancerous cells inside a body that has ignored its health too long. They are, in a matter of speaking, one giant individual. "It is time to initiate the new," shrieks the doctor, and the crowd replies, "show them to us." "Will girls number 211, 344, 412, and 435 join me on the balcony?" asks the doctor. "We will show them the way," answers the crowd. Then comes the most frightening part of all. As if they have rehearsed this moment ten thousand times, of are controlled by some higher power, four isles form. Each wide enough to walk through but too narrow to turn aside, each leading strait and true towards the stairs. One of these cracks in the unit ends at my feet. I am terrified. The crowd urges me forward, their gazes so violent and their eyes so hideously contorted with disgust that I cannot help but move. Trembling, I walk down isle. I feel like some small bride, sold out by her parents, sold into slavery. Oh my god, I've just mentally identified myself as female. That can't be good. But I have no time to stop and think about it. As I walk forward the path closes behind me. From the loudspeaker comes the tune of Amazing Grace. It has been many years since I was a child, and I've forgotten how hard it is to climb stairs built for adults. Still, I manage. Once on the stage I am joined by the other three girls, and a new song begins to play. A song that strikes fear into my heart and dredges up dark memories of hellish events. It is the anthem of the new religion, it is the battle cry of new America. I have heard it sung by greasy, lost men as they ransacked towns and killed individuals. I have heard it wallow on the lips of politicians and lawyers. On those occasions it was terrifying. Here, sung in the voice of five hundred young girls, it is only sad. A tear runs down my cheek and caresses my chin. My hope for humanity dies. The song lasts for maybe five minutes, and yet it feels like an eternity. A dark, depressing piece of the inferno. When they have finnaly finished I am emotionally drained. Nothing I've ever seen has been this tragically dark. Nothing grates on the ear and tugs at the heart more than the sweet, pre-pubesent voices of five hundred lost souls. More tears fall. An eerie silence descends across the room, and the nervous heaves of my small body carry into all corners of the chamber. All eyes fall on me and my three companions. I'm exposed, naked, near death. I want it to be over. I want to be warm. "Now," says Dr. Joram, breaking the silence, "we will begin the baptismal." He turns around and pulls open a deep red satin curtain. Behind it is a clear glass tank, filled with water. There is a stairway leading up to it and down from it. It is oddly mathematical, there are no ornate designs, no flowers or paintings around it. There is no evidence of God in this baptismal, just as is this room holds no evidence of peace. It clashes, it makes no sense. I try not to think about it and go through the motions. Standing knee deep in the clear, purified water I can almost see the filth and oils of my heinous act leach out, turning the liquid a pale, dirty grey. Dr. Joram towers over me, clothed from head to toe in a long, flowing black robe. His voice, echoing from deep inside his chest, booms out his words with a deep, supernatural quality. I do not doubt his evil. "Do you, Stephen Solomon, deny your false gods and idol, do you give your soul to the one true leader?" Now is my chance to be a martyr, do I dare to eat the peach? No, it is not to be. From my lips tremble the words "I do!" Silence. Then the doctor continues, "As the head of the church in this pagan region of the world it is my job, no, my duty to see that each of our Lord's lost children are found. In his name and the sacred name of his mother, Nora Babylawn, I pronounce you a willing subject." He turns his weight to the crowd, asking, "does any here deny this lamb?" None speak. "Then," he says, "it is my job to name you, and the name I choose is Naomi." It's over, and I climb out. I sleepwalk through the rest of the ceremony, the fear of being brainwashed forcing me to do something I have never before considered, to deny my God and embrace a new one. It is only words, not an active, mental acceptance, but they are such painful, hateful words. I am overcome with guilt, and I realize, my name should be Judas, not Stephen. I am unworthy of holding the title of the first martyr. I'm now among the millions of betrayers. * * * The rest of the day passes in a haze, a blury, incoherent smog of 're-education' broken only twice for meals. At lunch I aviod John, who has been renamed Sara. I am unable to look him in the eyes after my hideous betrayel. She does not seek me out, and I have a feeling that it's because she feels the same way. Instead I sit in an inconspicuose corner. Thinking, pushing my food around with my fork, and trying to ignore the growing pressure in my bladder. Feminine urination is not something I'm ready to deal with. If I'm lucky maybe my bladder will explode and kill me. Is that suicide? If it is it seems like an odd method. Still, why risk it, killing yourself is a deadly sin, and, after what I did this morning, I don't want to put my soul into a tighter position. I stand up and ask directions to the bathroom. I was four years old when I first coherently realized that there were major differences between boys and girls. I realize that most children learn this lesson at a much younger age, but my family was always the mysterious, highly private and withdrawn type. I don't think I ever saw my mother's legs above her heels. Anyway, with this first realization came a slue of blunt and repetitive questions. Over and over again I would ask mother if it felt like something was missing, if maybe girls were born with pee-pee's but then lost them. I was confused. But anyway, this story does have a point. One day I followed my mother to the bathroom, trying to figure out how she managed to pee without a 'wing dilly.' Looking through the key hole(so what, we lived in an old, Victorian style home) I witnessed for the first time, seated urination. It shocked me, to an extent, and bothered me a great deal. How inconvenient, I thought, how odd. Now, nearly three decades later, I have come full circle. Once again I am a child, and once again I'm unsure of how women proceed with the callings of nature. Sure, I know the basics, but the rest is an eerie and unsettling mystery. Oh well though, how hard can it be, girls have been pissing for centuries. I'll figure something out. It just makes me a little nervous, that's all. The door to the nearest bathroom is marked with the simple, white figure inside a blue circle that is universal. For a moment I stand restlessly outside the entryway, then, with a deep breath, I throw myself inside. Huh, it seems almost exactly like any men's room in any building built in the post world war II era. Except, of course, for the conspicuous lack of urinals. Taking another deep breath I enter the nearest stall and complete my business. Peeing is a fairly instinctive urge, so the actual act proceeds without a hitch. The mental toll, unfortunatly, is considerably greater. I feel, in many ways, like I have abandoned the last connections to masculinity that survived the transformation. For the hundredth time in the last six hours I feel my eyes tearing up. For the thousandth time in the last six days I hear myself cry. For the millionth time in the last six years I feel a piece of myself die. * * * As I leave exit my spiritual tomb I am almost crushed by the giant, deadly form of Mrs. Athalia, my teacher. She looks at me, her eyes a swirling mass of dark, hideous desires. Her lips gently bob with her breaths, releasing a rank, diseased odor. "How pleasant to run into you Naomi," she says, her voice syrupy and insincere. "I always like to check on how well my girls are adjusting." Alarms buzz in my head, I must answer her correctly or I my personality may not survive. "It's good to see you too, Mrs. Athalia," I reply. I hope that my response is convincing, and I throw in a smile as extra leverage. "Are you enjoying my classes," she asks. "Yes ma'am." "And are you feeling guilty for fighting against enlightenment for so long?" "Oh absolutely." The words are hard, but my instinct for survival forces them out. As her face bobs above me I feel a profound hate tearing my abdomen and building in my stomach. I try to ignore it. "I don't know how I lived so long without embracing the true faith," I add. Her face changes remarkably, and I realize that my final comment went to far. "You're lying," she says, "I can tell, but don't worry, you'll join us eventually. Everyone does. We've never had an unsuccessful student. We've never had a failure." I pray to the real God that I can manage to become their first. * * * Sleep! That sweet gentle saver of serentity. Sleep! Bedtime, escape, lights out. Never have I felt so ready to slip beneath the sheets and momentarily lose sight of the pain which exists around me. Sleep! I try to block out images from the day that has concluded and embrace my true emotions. I say my prayers for a second time that evening, and as the words soar through my mind and move my soundless lips, I think back to the first occasion. It was fifteen minutes ago, and to the wrong God. Today alone, I realize, I have publicly denied my faith in Jesus three times. I know that this number is significant, but I am to overcome with fatigue to try to remember why. I lay between my sheets for a long time. I can hear the gentle breathing of the other girls locked in this hell and I can feel the soft breeze rustle from the heating vents. I curl up on my side, pulling my soft, feminine legs against my flat, girlish chest. I cry again, but quietly, as not to attract attention to myself. Finally I manage to fall asleep, and am once again overcome by the beautiful, lucid dreams that have haunted my sleep for the last couple of nights. This time I am in my female form, but the sprays of color and the glowing lights remains unchanged. I soar on a natural high, run through fields and valleys, listen to the rivers and cry with the ocean. In a swirl of sight and texture I climb through my old mind and bring fire to the darkest crevasses. I am free. I smile. part 4 "Men cry out under a load of oppression; they plead for relief from the arm of the powerful. But no one says, 'Where is God my Maker, who gives songs in the night, who teaches more to us than to the beasts of the earth and makes us wiser than the birds of the air?' He does not answer when men cry out because of the arrogance of the wicked." Job 36:9-36:12 Days pass slowly, the season ripens, matures, then rots. Life for me is a constant dragging lull of anguish and hidden faith. How long can I continue this way? Autumn kills the grass and strips the trees, cruel winds birth on the mountains and whistle through the pine filled valleys. October brings the first, scattered wisps of snow, then November adds to the piles, it accumulates slowly, never more than an inch in a week. Down in the valleys there are still patches of brown where the natural white tarp has been cleared away. At the higher altitudes the drifts deepen, and the sky becomes a bitter, icy blue. The painful white dust kills more than the fields, however, and just as the snow lies heavy against the walls of the compound my sorrows push against my skull. I must escape before it collapses, before the wheezing, painful attacks of nervous shivers expose my inner soul. My body grows, ages, but my mind stagnates. I am like a tall, leafy tree emerging from a swamp. I seem to be strong, content, beautiful, but my interior is rancid. Intellectual imprisonment does not fuel mental growth. I am not the only one who feels this way. During meals, when I am allowed free speech, I discuss my entrapment with Sara and with three other girls whom are akin to us. We are all playing the game, and we are all dying inside, slowly. * * * "Naomi," says Sara to me one morning, "by my figuring it's Christmas." "Oh," I reply, my face slightly downcast, "I wonder if we're gonna do anything in here?" "I doubt it, these people celebrate the birth of their leader on the last day of October." "Yeah, I know, but I can always hope." I flash her a brief and carefully hidden smile. "Just like I don't give up hope that I'll make it out of here alive." "I made you a card," she does not realize how childlike she has become. I gasp with a sudden realization. I act just like her. Until this moment I have not realized how juvenile my actions and desires have become. It's the effect of living in a childish society for so long, I suppose. There are more devious and underhand ways to brainwash a person than simple surgery. I close my eyes, and Sara continue, "I'll sneak it to you after lights out." "Okay." "Did you make me anything?" "Yes," I lie, and desperately try to figure out how to steal a piece of paper and a pencil. "Goody, I can't wait." "My God," I whisper to her, "I can't believe it, it's the season of light and hope, and we're stuck in some dungeon without any chance at either one." I bat my eyelashes and touch her hand. "You don't know how often I feel like I can't hide it anymore, how often I break down on the verge of tears and whimper into my pillow." "I know," she says with sympathy, "it's the same way for me." "But your so much stronger than I am." "No, but even before all of this crap started happening I wasn't very emotional, they couldn't change me that much." "I guess not." "It's easier for you." "Whaddya mean." "You can let it out. I feel allot like you do, but I can't even cry in private. Ha, I'm still afraid of people thinking I'm a little girl. Aint that ironic." She laughs, but her tone is deathly serious. "Yeah, I guess it is kinda silly." We smile, and on that pleasant note stand up. It is time for class. Subconsciously we lock our hands together, and, like sisters, we do not separate from the safety of a kindred soul until we are forced to by the flowing rivers of watered down souls. * * * In the months that I have resided in these halls I have changed in many ways. Minor ways, none important, but the changes deserve some minor mention at least. For one thing, my mannerisms have changed, I hate to admit this to myself, but I must. I'm polite, quieter, more withdrawn. Also, the healthy distrust in authority I have always had is less obvious. When I was a child for the first time, I would sometimes argue unpopular points for the sake of being considered an original thinker. Now I'm just trying to fit in, a follower lost in an ocean of conformists. It is, in a very profound way, sickening. I also find myself calmer, less likely to respond to force with like force. The healthy, violent tendencies I had when I was originally this age are non-existent. I hate to admit it, but I act almost exactly like a normal, unextrodinary nine year old girl. I don't even think of myself as a man anymore, in my thoughts, my dreams, my expressions and my mannerisms, I am a girl. I respond to Naomi, and call myself such. They have, in many small ways, succeeded. However, the my whole is much greater than the sum of my well ordered, girlish parts. They can change my mind and body, they cannot touch my soul. * * * Some days are harder than others, I must admit that. On some days the place really gets to me, and on other days I find myself almost at peace. Sometimes I miss my masculinity, the power and self-assuredness. On other days I appreciate my new form. I'm shattered. Quite a bit of my temporary feeling has to do with the current days teacher. Listening to Mrs. Athalia on odd days stirs the hate and steels my dominance over my feelings. But when Alex, our name for Dr. Joram, teaches, I can feel his faith. It is almost as powerful as mine, and if I close my eyes I can see his words flutter from his lips and dance through the air. He speaks sometimes with sweet melodic notes and other times in a deep, frightening monotone. He is captivating. I am never in danger of losing my faith, of course, but listening to him lecture touches me and creates many questions. He is my greatest threat. Today class is lead by Mrs. Athalia, and as always it begins with the 'Prefatory Prayer'. I say it, knowing that the words are a meaningless conglomeration of idiocy and hatred. Then we spend an hour and a half practicing our patience. These are the oddest lessons, and thankfully they are only administered once a week. Basically, they're public beatings, nothing else. The class is required to sit incredibly still, maintain a pleasant look and remain silent. As we try our best to obey these simple rules, several of the compound guards beat us in a myriad of ways. "It's so," explains Mrs. Athalia, "your ready to submit to your husband as dictated by God." They don't hit to hard though, after all, we may be full grown men but we're also little girls. Class grinds on slowly, each minute seeming to encompass an eternity. However, I endure. What else can I do. Every few minutes I scratch my cheek, then feel the pocket in my dress. Hidden inside is the miniscule stub of an ancient pencil and a scrap of paper. Not much of a gift but given the circumstances it is the best I can do. I'll write on it during lunch. My first clue that something has gone desperately wrong comes just before lunch. Mrs. Athalia marches me in front of the class and, with a quick twist, turns me towards the faces of my fellow inmates. "Today," she says, "we will be learning about those nasty, inhuman holidays the pagans practiced before the enlightenment." She is smiling, after all, deforming young minds is her life's work, and she is good at it. She looks at me, "Naomi, do you know what nasty icky holiday the pagans celebrated on this day." Her voice is condescending and insulting. She is treating me as if I was a two year old. "Christmas?" I ask. "Yes," she says, her eyes darkening, "and do you know how they celebrated Christmas?" I try to think, but for some bizarre reason I cannot recall. "How?" I ask. Why have I forgotten, why? Are they controlling my mind after all. I scan my memory for all the things that I should know, all the things associated with my religion. The rosary, what the hell is the rosary. I can't remember any of the saints, crap, I can't even remember the lords prayer. This is frightening. I think hard, my eyes blinking quickly and my forehead creasing with concentration. Then, all at once, I have beaten them. I remember it all. Smiling, I look at Mrs. Athalia and say, "Christmas is the day on which the 'pagans' celebrated the birth of their savior. They exchanged gifts and had parties and stuff. Her eyes grow black, the look of success and happiness disappears from her eyes. "Wrong," she mutters, "you're wrong. They celebrated by taking a virgin between the age of ten and twenty-five, engaging in a group rape, and then burning her alive." "Oh," I reply, "I don't know where the other stuff came from." I try to sound like I am confused, try to hide the fact that I know she is lying. I must play their game. I think my act has worked. "Good," she replies, as if to validate my belief, "now please sit down." 'The best laid plans o' mice and men gang aft agley,' said Bobby Burns. I've always considered these words the philosophy of a defeatist loser, but now I realize their significance. It is entirely possible that I have just exposed myself, and if that is so, well, things look bad. As we are filing out of the classroom Dr. Joram walks in, and I can feel his eyes on my back. He whispers something to the teacher, all I can catch is my name and the word 'audio.' I dismiss it, it can't be important. * * * "It's a good thing you reminded me what Christmas was really like," says Sara to me, "I'd almost forgotten." "Yeah, me too." We are huddled in the dark on my bed. It is an hour after dark and all around us the less fortunate, less free students slumber. In the blackness we exchange gifts. "It's not much, but what else could I get," says Sara as she hands me a piece of chocolate wrapped in a small piece of scrap news print. "It's better than what I got you," I say, and give her the pitiful excuse for a card I've made. Then I break the morsel in half, giving her part. We eat, then, with a flurry of whispered thank you's we embrace. "You may be the best friend I've ever had," I say. "A friend you suffer with is the only friend who can ever understand you," she replies, and then we hug again. * * * While we are still looked in an embrace, still happily basking in friendship, it happens, the moment I have feared for months. My exposure. The overhead flourecent lights blink on with the intensity of an atomic explosion, showering the room with harsh, sterile light. All the girls in all the beds sit up and look at us, huddled together. The door to the room flies open with a loud crack, and three compound gaurds, fully clothed in riot gear, rush forward and pull us apart. I scream, Sara shrieks, around us the other children break into tears. I hug Sara tightly, hiding my eyes in her shoulder. I can feel her soft hair brush against my cheek and feel the panicked heaves of her chest. Her hands dig into my back. "Separate," screams the voice of Mrs. Athalia, but we ignore her. We are already in as much trouble as we can get into, there is no reason to pretend any longer. "Guards," says the evil teacher, "separate them." I feel the strong hands clutch my arms, and though I fight the division my arms have little muscle and my hands have little grip. We are pulled apart and held up in shame before our peers. "Celebrating a pagan holiday," says Mrs. Athalia. "It's our holiday," says Sara, trying to hide her fear. The woman turns to the room, addressing the crowd that crushes in on us, "they have denied the true God," she says, her voice quivering with disgust, "and reverted to their old evil ways." The people accost us, and cast dirty looks in our direction. In the back one girl sympathetically bats her eyelashes and nods her head. No one sees but me. I do not acknowledge it, there is no reason to get her in trouble. "How...did...well, howdya know?" I ask her, "we were carful to keep it a secret." "We know everything, we watch you everyday." "But how?" She leans close to my ear, and answers, "there is a reason that meals are uncontrolled. It's a good way to find out how people really feel." So that's it, all the things I've said, all the complaints and admittances of 'heretical thoughts', all of it, they've heard it all. I look at Sara and she looks at me. There is a single, lonely tear dripping from her emerald eyes. I shake my head and close my eyes. Resistance, after all, will accomplish nothing. Passivity has always been a personality trait of mine to some extent, and now it is the only thing I have to fall back on. A lot of help it is. * * * The guards carry us, we cannot move, we are too shocked, to afraid. The saftey of our barrack disapears behind us, beoming first a distant dot, then a non-existant point on a pair of parrellel lines. They drag us far into the shining whitness that is the long infinity hallway, past many hundreds of doors. We are carried past hordes of unamused spectators who flood from thier rooms. We are shown off to them like the torn and bloodied victims of an automobile accident. The hall ends, eventually, at a large oak door. The men open it, exposing a deep, black room. We are thrown inside, and left alone. "I'm sorry Naomi," whimpers Sara. "It's not your fault, you heard what Mrs. Athalia said, they've known the whole time." I pause to wipe a tear from my cheek. "They we're just waiting for us to do something to give ourselves away." "I know, but still, it was my idea, I can't believe I got you involved in this." "Don't worry about it. I wouldn't want it any other way it you know it." "Yeah, but..." she breaks down, releasing a medley of deep and emotional sobs. She cries forever, or at least it seems that long. I do the only thing that I can, I hold her, patting her on the back and trying to comfort her. Trying to help her pull through like she's done for me so many times. I owe it to her, she is my only friend. Eventually she finishes, and with one simple sniff of her nose and a muffled whimper she has ends her first true expresion of emotion. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice lighter and her tone not quite so dead. "S'okay," I reply, "not a problem at all." "I'm glad it's so dark in here." "Why?" "I wouldn't want anyone to see me cry and think that maybe I was a sissy boy. Course, no one would ever think that anyway. Maybe I'm a sissy girll." We both laugh, and around us the darkness seems to pull back. Wrapped in each others arms we fall asleep. With a friend, I feel, I might be able to survive this stuff. part 5 "May God bless and keep you holy may your wishes all come true may you always do for others and let others do for you may you build a ladder to the stars and climb on every rung may you stay forever young." Bob Dylan 'Forever Young' Bang! A sudden sparkle of light and a loud crash shock me into awareness. Frightened, I stand up, pulling the groggy and less coherent form of Sara with me. The door slides open, creating a dazzling field of yellow on the black floor. A single, long black shadow fills the space, draining the color. It's feet are attached to another black figure, this one standing erect in the doorway. It inches forward, arms fumbling against the unseen walls. Is it friend or fiend? I wonder. Wham. It finds what it is looking for and the room bursts into a seedy, eye shattering light. I close my eyes to block the pain. "Look at me" commands a familiar voice. I cannot place it, my mind is swimming with ten thousand different forms of distortion. There seems to be some inner power requiring me to follow the command of the voice. I fight it. My eyes clamp tighter. "Open your eyes now," says the voice, its words digging into my skull. Somehow I am sure that my sucess in fighting this over powering urge to obey will be the defining point of my spiritual survival. I hold them shut. We clash, crudely and clumsily, our wills dancing a tango on the now shining floor of this room. He is screaming for me to do as he commands, and the waves latching against my nuerol receptors beg me to listen. However, there is some deeper power that seems to glow inside my chest, helping me fight the voice, helping me withstand its hellish orders. Panting, I stand. Finnally, he gives up, and I feel my head clear. Mentaly drained, I fall to the floor. I feel Sara collapse on top of me. "So much will inside the two of you," says the voice again, this time I recognize it as Dr. Joram. I allow vision to return to my life. Then I stand, my legs shaking and my torso vibrating with dry heaves. "We have...our...faith," I say between wheezes. Sara joins me in opposition of the doctor. "Our minds...