Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

it has. The world is still white, but also hazy now. It moves too much, spinning and twisting, first left, then right. Back again. A high-pitched ringing assaults my ears. My whole body tingles.

The first coherent thought I manage is simply: Greg. I try to say the name, but nothing comes out, not even a moan.

I close my eyes and wait for the dizziness to pass. Gradually, new details and sensations begin to register. Pain across my thighs, ankles, biceps, wrists, chest, forehead. Each the same, a pressure, a… a…

I’m bound, I realize. Not like before, not the zip ties, but thick straps. Nylon or leather, something like that. And they hold me to a chair.

My chin is held firm by a tight bracket made of metal or some hard plastic. I don’t have enough control of my body yet to try to test the strength of any of this, so I catalog it, working toward a mental picture of the situation.

And the situation is not good. I’m bound tightly to a chair, barely able to move. My mouth doesn’t seem to want to work, even if I could open my jaw. It occurs to me my uniform is gone. They’ve removed it, along with my Kevlar vest, leaving me in an undershirt and underwear. No shoes or socks, either.

The bag is back over my head, too. The difference now is that there’s a brilliant white light shining on my face, bleeding through the fabric. I can feel the heat of it. Reminds me of a dentist’s lamp.

My heart is racing, pounding in my still-ringing ears. I put all the focus I can muster into breathing, aware of each heartbeat, willing the time between them to grow. Soon I achieve this, and the ringing in my ears fades, too.

There are voices nearby. Two men, I think, speaking in low, conspiratorial tones.

One has a very slight accent, so slight in fact I cannot immediately place it. Asian, perhaps? The other voice I know.

But it’s not Greg.

It’s Doc.

My head swims once again. Pain and confusion all mixed together. First Greg, now Doc. Who else is involved in this shit show, I wonder, as a fresh anger grows inside me. I channel that rage, use it to push all the questions from my head.

I strain my ears, picking out words.

“… use the liquid.”

“There’s no time,” Doc replies. “She’ll be here soon and—”

“It’s our last chance to verify the results. Do it. I have to coach the senator…” the possibly Asian man is saying. His words fade.

Doc replies in his mumbling way, too hard to make out. The tone is emphatic, though.

The other man’s response is clipped, harsh. Almost barked. I catch only this: “… need verification, so do it. Now.”

When Doc replies, there’s no fight in his voice, no argument. Just pure acceptance of an order.

I hear a door close. Footsteps coming toward me.

I close my eyes and will myself to be calm, to appear asleep.

The bag is pulled from my head. My eyes, though shut, are filled with a glow, as if I were on a beach and facing toward the sun. The heat is intense.

My urge to squint is reflexive, unavoidable, so I roll with it. Slowly try to turn my head, then make a small show of thrashing against my bindings.

“It’s no use,” Doc says. “Try to remain calm, Mary. It’s for the best.” He moves around me, checking the straps, and then his fingers are against the inside of my wrist, taking my pulse. This places him in front of me, obscuring the light.

I blink, try to look at him. Acting is not something I’ve ever really tried to do, but now seems like a good time to start. “Thought… you… were at conference…” I stammer.

He shrugs, as if we’re old friends having a polite conversation. “Well, you know, that wasn’t entirely a lie. It’s a small conference, and not in Portland but here at the senator’s mansion.”

“Who…” I start.

“All will be revealed,” he says, smiling a little. “We weren’t expecting you here.”

“Happy to disappoint you.”

Doc’s smile turns slightly sad.

The door opens again. Someone backs in, slightly hunched over. It’s Captain Tweaker. He’s carrying a metal tray with a syringe on it and a small, unmarked glass bottle. Tucked under his arm is an iPad, or something like it.

Doc turns and takes the tray from him, placing it on the table beside my chair. He pokes the needle into the bottle and draws a clear liquid into the chamber.

“Don’t worry,” he says soothingly. Then to Captain Tweaker, “Pulse a hundred ten, blood pressure a hundred forty over ninety.”

“Got it,” Tweaker says, tapping at the screen in his hands.

“You took her weight and height when she was out?”

“Yup.”

“With or without her clothes?”

“Without. I’m not an idiot.”

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

Tweaker dips his chin, cowed. “Yes, sir,” he replies, and it’s like I’m hearing a different person. The casual bad-boy tone is gone, replaced by an almost military deference.

Doc nods, satisfied. “Be ready with the timer. We’re doing the oral method, not injection.”

“I understand.”

“Where’s Ang?” Doc asks.

“With the senator. But he’ll be ready, he said to tell you if you asked.”

“Very good.”

Doc lifts the needle toward me and I don’t need to act now. I thrash against the straps. It’s totally useless, but I don’t care. I have to fight. I can’t let them do this.

Through clenched teeth I say, “You’ll go to jail for this, Doc. All of you. You’ll—”

“No, no,” he says, smiling again. “Not with both you and Greg here. Now relax, Mary. We’re almost done.”

With an almost tender gesture Doc reaches up with his free hand and grasps my chin around the edges of the bracket. Then he squeezes at the sides of my mouth, a surprisingly strong grip that, despite all my effort, forces my lips to part. Not much, but enough.

Doc presses down on the syringe’s plunger and a clear liquid fires into my mouth. The aim is perfect, between my teeth and straight