Upheaving Crooked Orchards

Part Four

   Nurses ran frantic around a white room. Michael found himself lying on a new table, away from the wires and patches. They were shouting orders at each other. One came over, lifted Michael's head and wrapped the left side of it in bandages. He turned his head to see what they were wrapping and he saw blood staining a towel beneath him. He wondered why these nurses weren't the monotone ones he'd seen in the past, then judged by the wall color that he was in a different part of the ward. These nurses cared--to a low degree--about covering Michael's unknown wounds, but they didn't put in high effort. The bandage wasn't secure on his head, and he could feel a gauze pad shuffle around his left eye. They didn't seem too alarmed at the amount of burns and injuries he had on his body.

..

  "All of that, and that little shit still didn't make a response!" Kavell shouted at a nurse mopping blood from the test room floor, "We were so close to cracking him, I don't understand how he does it. This bastard's unbelievable..."

..

  Michael awoke back in his room--he remembered everything. His eye throbbed as he remembered the electricity that ran through his head. It caused blood to pour from his socket, dripping out of his eyelids. Some drained from his nose and ear, but he realized he could still smell and hear fine. He looked down at his gown and saw bloodstains from his nose--they were old and dry but when he put his hand up to his nose and rubbed his upper lip, he could feel cold fresh blood being wiped from his notril. He stood from his bed but retreated to the walls as he almost lost his balance. His whole body froze and tensed, his hands clenched and trembled. After a few moments, he regained feeling and was able to move. He left his room but was swarmed by the guards. 

  "This way, Myers." The shoved their batons into his back to keep him moving.

  They led him to the cafeteria where he picked up a tray. The cafeteria was almost as bleak as the rest of the ward, but did have a few big windows to look out from. His tray was filled with a stale biscuit, a cold hashbrown and congealed gravy. He held the tray but noticed his grip growing tighter as his hands began to lock up again. He felt a jab in his back from the guard and tried to move but his legs wouldn't let him do anything. The guard grabbed the patient's arm and pulled him from his spot.

The cafeteria was alive with quiet chatter from the other patients—it distracted them from the buzzing lights that were embedded in the ceiling. A man in a wheelchair was laughing with the person next to him until familiar shouts caused him to go quiet. The shouts were coming from the guards outside the cafeteria—they were badgering another poor patient. A bulky man in a black vest was dragging someone by the arm, shoving him into the cafeteria. He examined this patient—he was tall, underfed but still appeared strong, his hair was dark brown but messy and unkempt. Much like the others, this young man seemed devoid of life, all his energy was taken by the hospital staff. The man in the wheelchair recognized him as the patient he'd seen the night before--before he was taken away for testing. He watched as the patient dragged himself closer to the table everyone else was sitting at, he adjusted his glasses as he noticed dried blood drops on the chest area of the man's hospital gown. The smeared blood on the top of his upper lip exposed the fact that his nose had been bleeding.

"Move, Myers." The guard shoved a baton into the patient's back.

The man looked sad as he saw a lazy bandage wrapped around Myers' head, a gauze pad placed with poor attempt over his left eye. It wasn't unusual for patients to be injured on the ward, but judging by the black bruise around his temple, he assumed Myers had been punched. Myers seemed to show no fear to the guards but did as he was told. His knuckles were a ghost white from gripping his food tray with uncontrollable tension. As he made it to the table, he slammed his tray down, causing the food to mix with each other and startling the patients. He sat rigid, still gripping his tray, his mouth gaped open, allowing a low growl to escape from his throat. He reached his hand over his eye and ripped the bandage off, exposing a blood red eye with a blank iris and dead pupil. Blood drained from the socket and dripped down his cheek onto the biscuit on his tray, seeping into the dough and rendering it inedible. The bruise was placed near his left temple, yes, but it curved with the skull and to the edge of his eye—a test gone awry; an electric charge was place too close to the eye itself, causing shock waves to shoot through the eyelid and through his pupil, killing any connection to the brain it had. Myers had the same colored bruises on the back of his neck as well as in some areas on his arm. The man pieced together that they weren't punches—the whole ward knew what went on with most of the patients, unauthorized tests were ran to see if they could "fix" the sick.  He leaned over to see the hospital band attached to the stiff man's wrist.

  "Michael Myers." He said aloud.

  Michael looked up with his eye.

  "I'm Lenard." Each vowel was enunciated and he spoke with an almost forced voice.

  Lenard held out his hand for Michael to shake, but the latter didn't take it. He retracted it back to his body and curled his fists under his wrists and placed them on the arms of his wheelchair.

  "The doctors say I'm too nice." Lenard said while looking around the room, "I don't know what they mean by that, I was always taught to be nice by my momma." 

  Michael's body relaxed again but he didn't eat. He looked at the bloodied bandage, feeling enraged that Kavell was responsible for it. 

  "I see you have bruises." Lenard nodded, "I have bruises too--they touch my back and neck with their electric sticks to see if I'd scream. I do as I'm told and I scream," he stopped to look around again, "and then I ask them kindly to stop. But they don't." 

  The rest of the cafeteria didn't seem out of the ordinary--they were their same dread-filled empty patients trying to enjoy their meal. The sunlight from outside did its best to liven up the atmosphere.

  "Sir," Lenard looked at Michael, "sir you got blood on your face just there." 

  As the louder patient tried to wipe the blood from his face, Michael stood and left the cafeteria. He crept to a lounge area with some of the other patients. He stared out of one of the large windows and saw his gored eye, staring with curiosity at the black and orange bruise that stained the left side of his head.