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"5150" One Who Flew Into The Cuckoos Nest Nightmare on County Farm Road April 6th 1998 Click-clack-clack sounded the door. A breeze moved through the blackness. Metal clinking against metal and muffled when slumped against leather. They are here. Them. I can hear them. I can hear their mumbles – like codes – instructions to contain the demented. I felt the leather cuffs surround my wrists, legs and stomach. Eyes shut tight – they don’t exist.
Click-clack-clack sounded the door again. Andria came back in and she looked upset. Then the most awful thing happened! Andria instructed staff to pull both of my arms down to my sides. “Pull tighter,” she said. I had no motion or movement of my extremities. I could only turn my head from side to side. Pain! My shoulders felt on fire as the restraints pulled tightly on my arms. My body was pinned to that bed like a rock. No movement. I begged them not to leave me this way but instead of listening to my pleas, Randall Mason MD ordered the syringe and after injecting it, they left the room…. My mind shattered, and I found myself years into the past, recalling and revisiting a healthier time, a time of victory. I stood in the restroom in front of a row of mirrors. I ran the comb through my hair and flicked up the front few strands for style. I peered back at my reflection and I squinted my right eye a bit and gave myself “the look.” I had done it. Moments ago I had arrived at Stox on a summer afternoon. I had driven my new Corvette, taking my friend to an upper class restaurant for a delightful excursion. Stox had valet parking that invited all who entered to expect a meal a notch up from the ordinary. My friend was in the middle of ordering escargot for an appetizer when I had excused myself to freshen up. Now I stood before the mirrors and I validated my reflection with “the look.” I grinned as I took inventory of my accomplishments spurred by childhood dreams. I was 26 years old and already a key supplier for Hughes Aircraft and similar companies. I was an employer, and an owner. I mean I owned things. Things I only dreamed about as a child. Fun toys, like an Eliminator pickle-fork speedboat that was twice as expensive as the Vette. It was great for hob-knobbing down the river cruzin’ for adventure. I had a home, a ranch, and other ongoing projects. One corporate V.P. publicized to his staff, "This guy's got it all together. He’s an attractive and available bachelor for some lucky gal." The pain sheered down my neck and through my shoulder. The restraints felt brutal. In a sobering glance, I peered around the room and saw white glossy walls and speckled stained linoleum. The drugs had no effect. Time moved by slowly. I usually craved isolation, but not like this. It was terrifying to be left alone in physical pain, as if I would be forgotten and never escape. I concentrated on not shaming myself by crying out for help. Cont......Order the Book "5150"
Copyright Year:
2007 |