Chapter 5

Time splits into fragments in this place. White coats, needles, concrete, darkness. I measure days by meals pushed through a slot in the door, though sometimes they skip these to see how hunger affects my "omega stress markers." I measure weeks by the growth of my hair, now long enough to fall in my eyes. I measure months by the fading of bruises - blue to green to yellow to gone, only to be replaced by fresh ones. I measure my existence by what they take from me, piece by piece.

They put me in the box on day seven. Or maybe it's day ten. The numbers blur.

"Sensory deprivation assessment for Omega Subject 12," a voice announces as they seal me inside. The space is barely larger than my body, padded walls pressing against my shoulders, knees drawn to my chest. Then they close the outer door, and true darkness falls.

No sound penetrates. No light. No scent except my own fear. I scream until my throat burns, but it's like screaming into cotton – the sound dead, swallowed by the padding. Hours pass. Maybe days. My mind begins to invent stimuli – phantom touches on my skin, whispers that aren't there, flashes of light that can't exist.

When they finally open the box, I'm curled into a ball, humming the same three notes over and over, fingernails having carved crescents of blood into my palms. They make notes on clipboards as I blink against light that feels like knives in my retinas.

"Exceptional resilience," someone says. "Most subjects become completely nonverbal by hour fifteen."

Cold comes next. They strip me naked, hose me down with ice water, then lock me in a refrigerated chamber. My teeth chatter so violently I worry they'll crack. My skin turns blue-white, fingers and toes going numb, then burning, then numb again. Through a window, they watch, taking notes as I huddle in the corner, trying to preserve body heat.

"Temperature approaching hypothermic threshold," a voice says through speakers.

Hours later – or minutes, time has no meaning here – they switch to heat. My cell becomes an oven, the air so thick with humidity I can barely draw breath. Sweat pours from my body until there's nothing left to give, my tongue swelling in my mouth, vision swimming with dehydration.

"Water deprivation tolerance exceptional for an omega," someone notes when they finally allow me a single cup of water, watching me gulp it down like I'm studying a dying fish flopping on shore.

"Ingest the compound," the woman in white says, holding out a small pill.

I've learned that refusal only leads to forced compliance – fingers prying my jaw open, tube down my throat. I take the pill, swallow it dry.

Within minutes, my stomach cramps violently. I vomit until there's nothing left but bile, then dry heave on the floor while they observe through the window.

"Rejection of Compound 37-B. Note the rapid onset of gastric distress."

Next week, it's a different pill. This one makes my skin feel like it's crawling with insects, invisible creatures burrowing under my flesh. I scratch until I bleed, unable to stop despite the pain.

"Interesting neurological response. Increase dose by 15% for next trial."

The third makes me hallucinate – Cassandra standing in the corner, laughing. My father reaching for me, then dissolving into smoke. Kelly screaming my name from somewhere I can't reach.

My body betrays me one increment at a time. The once-snug blue sweater now hangs from my frame like a shroud. I can count my ribs through my skin. My periods stop – a small mercy in this place where privacy doesn't exist. Muscles atrophy from confinement, legs trembling when I stand. My neck and spine bear a constellation of injection sites, some scarring into keloid ridges that mark me as surely as a brand.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the polished steel of an examination table – hollow-eyed stranger, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, hair a matted tangle falling past my shoulders. Three months? Four? I can't be sure.

"Maintenance procedure for Omega Subject 12."

Two betas in scrubs lead me to a tiled room. No privacy, no dignity – they hose me down with cold water, industrial soap burning in the cuts on my skin. I stand naked, shivering, as they check me for "self-harm markers" – a clinical term for the damage I sometimes inflict when the walls press too close and reality becomes unbearable.

Food comes through a slot in the door – nutrient-dense paste that tastes like nothing. Sometimes pills hidden inside, new compounds to make me vomit or seize or forget my name for hours. I eat it anyway because hunger is its own form of torture.

Back in my cell, I pace the perimeter – seven steps by eight steps. I recite my name, my age, my father's name, desperate to hold onto something of myself as days blur into weeks into months.

At first, I fought. Screamed their faces, scratched, bit, kicked. Demanded my rights, threatened lawsuits, promised retribution.

"Call my school! People will look for me! You can't just make people disappear!"

But they can. They did. And each day that passes proves Cassandra right – no one is coming to save me.

Now, I've learned to go limp when they take me for tests. To swallow the pills without question. To extend my arm for injections. Fighting only makes it worse, resistance only brings punishment – no food, no light, no blanket on the concrete floor when the temperature drops at night.

"Behavioral conditioning progressing as expected," says a white coat as I quietly comply with yet another painful procedure. "Subject shows appropriate response modification."

I've become what they want – a cooperative test subject. I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate them.

"Subject 12 continues to display unusual pheromone signatures despite suppression protocol," says the woman with steel-gray hair, now familiar after countless examinations. "Readings indicate potential for exceptional fertility once heat cycle begins."

"The market value would be considerable," replies her colleague, a beta male who always smells faintly of cigarettes. "Especially with these compatibility markers."

"We need to extend the testing regimen. The director wants comprehensive data on omega stress response patterns before proceeding to Phase Two."

They speak as if I'm not present, strapped to the examination table while they draw vials of blood, scrape cells from inside my cheek, attach electrodes to track my body's responses to alpha pheromone samples.

"Increase suppression dosage by twenty percent," says Cigarette Man. "We need to determine the threshold before systemic failure."

The increased dosage feels like acid in my veins. I convulse on the cell floor, muscles spasming beyond my control. Vomit rises in my throat, choking me until I manage to turn my head, expelling thin bile onto concrete.

Through the observation window, they watch. Take notes. Adjust dials on monitoring equipment.

"Subject displaying expected adverse reaction to increased dosage," says a clinical voice. "Maintain current level to assess adaptation potential."

My body burns from the inside out. Vision blurs, focusing then unfocusing like a camera that can't find its subject. Hours pass in a haze of pain and fever.

When consciousness returns fully, something has changed. The edges of my vision seem softer, colors less distinct. I blink repeatedly, trying to clear the haze, but it remains – a subtle degradation I know instinctively isn't temporary.

"Visual acuity test for Subject 12," says a white coat at my next examination, holding up cards with smaller and smaller letters.

I squint, struggling to make out the bottom rows.

"Note the decline in visual performance," she says to her colleague. "Consistent with previous subjects on Protocol 43-B. Continue monitoring for further degradation."

They're destroying my sight. The realization hits me with numbing clarity. And they're doing it deliberately, watching it happen with clinical interest, measuring my decline with charts and graphs as if it's a fascinating scientific process rather than the systematic destruction of a human being.

That night, curled on my thin blanket in the corner of my cell, I allow myself one moment of genuine despair. One moment to remember the girl I was just months ago – sixteen, with friends and school and a future. One moment to mourn what I've already lost and what I will continue to lose in this place.

Then I tuck that girl away, somewhere deep and protected. She can't survive here. I need to become someone – something – else. Someone who can endure this hell one day, one test, one needle at a time.

Because despite everything they've taken, I'm still here. And as long as I'm breathing, some stubborn part of me refuses to let them win completely.