June 8th, 12:08pm
She said goodbye and headed out the door on May the twelfth. It closed behind her. It hasn’t opened ever since then. The lights had turned off five times and back on another five. Two more times made a week of that door staying closed. By that time, Simon had already started talking to himself, pacing in his box. The poor mutant next door was screaming desperately to themselves at that point, begging for food. Well, at least they had water in their killing boxes. Sink, toilet, shower…everything necessary to pretend to be human except for a source of food…
”My name is Simon Dabrowski. I’m twenty six years old. I’m a freak of nature. I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel hunger. I don’t need to sleep. My name is Simon Dabrowski…”
Back and forth, the pale, deathly figure stalked, never getting tired. He kept reminding himself who he was, even as his neighbor headed down the path of shrieking madness. Silence came on the second week. On the sixteenth day, the lights did not come on in the morning. Out of his little window, Simon saw that the labs were dark and abandoned. Even the emergency lights were dark. They were abandoned, then. He’d been left alone. Too bad he was already dead, then…
On the twentieth day since the door closed, Simon laid down and didn’t get up. It was easier to just drift and not worry about anything. He was going mad, too. It started small with vivid imaginings. Eventually, it built up to talking to himself. He’d told himself story after story in the hopes that his imagination would feed his need for mental stimulation. Simon even got to the point that he stopped breathing, mouth moving silently as he stared vacantly. Three days later, even the soundless mouthing stopped. There was no sign of life in the mutant until the twenty fifth day when an explosion above him shook the foundations that made up his stone walled cell. Deep cracks in the ceiling became something new to look at and revitalized the prisoner.
Two days later, the door opened.
”Another dead one…Geezus…that makes five?”
Simon tried to correct them, jaw and lips working slowly as he came out of his stupor. He took his first breath in weeks.
A scream and a thrown flashlight bounced off of Simon’s chest as he slowly sat up. The two men wearing orange safety vests and hard hats started freaking out. Simon thought the histrionics were unnecessary, so he just sat and waited politely for the men to finish.
Well, they didn’t. They had themselves a freak out for a good half hour before Simon found himself in a straight jacket being escorted out of the basement facility. For the first time in two years, he was out of the sub, sub, subbasement of the special hell that idiots went to when they died. Well, maybe THAT was histrionic. But even out of the sub-subbasement, they were still in a holding cell-like facility. That was boring, but at least there were new things to ignore.
Simon hugged himself involuntarily and sat in the chair he was given. People flurried all around him making phone calls and talking to people about “Another mutant” and this and that and the other thing. So he was alive. Great…but he wasn’t alive. Had to have a pulse, be breathing, all that fun jazz to be alive, after all. Still, Simon was animate. He had a free will. That was surprising enough for a corpse, right? He didn’t move until the door to his new holding room…an interrogation cell by the look of it…opened letting in a grey clothed figure. Simon squinted a bit to make out who was approaching.
”Hiya. What’s your name?”
His South London accent rippled out with a hint of gravel from disuse, but the chipper tone juxtaposed the corpselike features.