Specimen(21)

When I wake, I try to reconcile the images from my dreams with what I have been told—that I am a volunteer in this experiment. It doesn’t fit. Why would I have left my sister, and why did I have a farm if my family worked for Mills, the health and technical conglomerate?

The information doesn’t fit.

One thing I do know for sure—ever since I made a conscious decision not to speak of my dreams, I haven’t experienced any loss of time. I haven’t woken up feeling like I’ve missed days, and if my beard grows out, it is because I remember not bothering to shave the day before. Even as the drug treatments increase, I forget nothing.

Every ten days, the injections change. The intensity of my reactions to the drugs elevates each time. Riley keeps telling me it will get easier, but it doesn’t. Every time the formula changes, I react as I had before. There’s pain, tension, a nearly uncontrollable need for violence, and later, fatigue.

“You’re doing so well.” Riley’s praise washes over me, and I smile through the pain of the most recent set of injections.

The desire to please her is always a strong one, and I’m thrilled when my efforts are recognized. Because of that, I’ve endured countless changes to the injections Riley gives me. Captain Mills is also pleased, or so I hear, but her opinion matters little to me. Riley is happy when Mills is happy—that’s all I care about.

I feel the gentle stroke of her fingers on the inside of my left forearm. Deep under my skin, there’s a tingling sensation as she touches me—almost a vibration. I lean forward and place my forehead against her shoulder as another wave of nauseating pain hits me.

“Hang in there,” she whispers. “It will be over soon.”

It won’t. Even as I begin to regain some control, the aftereffects always continue for several hours. Sometimes Riley takes me immediately to the virtual training center where I’ll be subjected to the most violent scenarios. Often it’s nothing more than a room full of other soldiers, and my only direction is to kill them all with my bare hands. Other times, another prostitute will arrive, and I will take my aggression out on her. It’s never the same one twice, and I always feel empty and alone afterward. They rarely bring me any real relief.

I’m well aware of the connection between sex and violence that is being instilled in me. I crave them both in equal amounts. I’m often hard during the simulated battles, and sex with the prostitutes is always fast and rough.

And unsatisfying.

I want Riley, but she always denies me. Even when her scent changes, and I can sense desire in her, she makes me stop my advances. I see her reaction when the prostitutes leave, and I know she watches from the mirrored room. I know if affects her, and I wonder if she touches herself when she watches or if there are others in the room with her.

Strangely enough, I never masturbate. I’ve considered it, but only long enough to know I have no desire to take care of myself in such a way. It would leave me feeling lonelier than I think I could stand. I need a woman. I need Riley.

My body adjusts to the chemicals running through it enough for me to focus outside of myself again. Riley’s hand is still on my forearm, and my head still rests against her shoulder. Her scent fills my nostrils, and I run the tip of my nose up her neck, inhaling deeply.

I’m calmer—slightly—but I don’t move away from her. I’m hard, and even though I know she isn’t going to grace me with access to her pussy, I’d rather be close to Riley and thinking about her than have another hooker brought in for me to relieve my frustrations.

“Better now?” Her soft tone focuses me.

“Yes and no.” I’m reluctant to tell her I’m all right. I’m afraid she’ll make me let go of her.

“I know these have been intense,” she says. “You’ve almost hit the maximum dose, so this shouldn’t happen many more times.”

“Did I know it was going to hurt this much?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“When I volunteered for this,” I say, clarifying my thoughts, “did you tell me it would hurt?”

“I wasn’t there,” Riley says, “so I don’t know exactly what they told you.”

“I bet they didn’t tell me.” I shift my legs. They ache as though I’d just spent hours in the gym. “If I’d known, I don’t think I would have agreed.”

Riley doesn’t respond. Her fingers dance over the inside of my left arm, and I relax against her again. I think about what I’ve just said, wondering what possible reason I could have had for becoming a volunteer for this project without knowing exactly what was in store for me.