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The Study

The doctor said very little, but the study paid a lot.

By Katie McNeillPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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The Study
Photo by Kendal on Unsplash

“How many diseases is this supposed to cure?” Blake questioned, his pen hovering precariously over the dotted line of the consent form.

“As I explained before, this study is not to cure anything. It. Is. To. Prevent. We’re hoping this will prevent a multitude of problems.” The doctor replied, irritation lining his voice. When Blake responded by nodding slowly, his brows still knitted in thought, the doctor heaved a sigh before jabbing his pointer finger onto the corner of the form. He then began sliding the paper away from Blake, across the metal table. “You responded to our ad, but if you’re undecided, I’m sure I can find someone else who could use twenty grand.” He sneered cockily.

Blake brushed the paper back toward himself. “I was just asking some questions. That’s all. I’ve never done anything like this before. This science study stuff,” he admitted with an unsure smile.

When Dr. Marl responded by edging the corner further away, Blake clicked his tongue. “I could use twenty thousand dollars,” he mumbled. With a concise nod, he scribbled his name on the bottom of the form.

The moment Blake lifted his pen, Dr. Marl snagged the paper from under his hand. He slipped the sheet into the middle of a little black book, the top of the form peeking over the smooth pages. He opened the book to a blank page and when Blake offered the pen in his hand, he scoffed and pulled one from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Blake shrugged, rolling his eyes before slipping the pen into the pocket of his worn jeans.

The doctor positioned a small audio recorder on the table between them. “Let’s begin.” He jammed the record button then uncapped his pen. “For the record, please state your name in full.”

Blake cleared his throat. “Blake -- I mean Harold Blake Langon… Jr.” He swallowed, his father’s name foreign on his tongue. A bitter taste clung in the back of his throat at the sound. He was Blake. He was not Harold. He would never be like Harold. No one should.

The doctor scrawled his response in the book.

“Why are you writing and recording? Isn’t one e-e-enough?” Blake asked, his stutter rearing its ugly head. In an attempt to control the impediment, he inhaled deeply through his nose then slowly exhaled from pursed lips. Smell the flowers. Blow out the candles. He repeated the mantra his mother would whisper into his ear when he was younger, when he became so scared he was unable to breathe. She had an overwhelming calmness. Though his father eventually beat that out of her, Blake still clung to the memory.

Dr. Marl shooed his question and continued. “Age?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Offspring?”

“What?” Blake asked. “Like kids?”

The doctor grunted and nodded curtly. “Yes. Like kids,” he parroted.

Blake shook his head, to which the doctor pointed to the recorder. Blake apologized and leaned forward, his mouth an inch from the recorder. “No.” He straightened back against his chair.

“Highest level of education?”

“High school,” Blake stated. “Graduated,” he clarified, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the book the doctor held.

“Out of curiosity, why did you agree to this trial?” The doctor continued.

“Well,” Blake shrugged. “I wanna help people. My mama died of lung cancer and if I could somehow cur-- I mean prevent that, that’d be nice.” As he spoke, the smell of menthol cigarettes clouded his memory. An image of her shaking fingers, her nails chewed down to the nub, projected in his mind. She never stopped shaking after he finished with her, but she thought she did when she smoked. He cleared his throat. “Also, I just got laid off, so… Hard times.” He smiled humbly.

The doctor scratched his pen across the lined pages, indifferent to Blake’s responses.

“So, how does this work, exactly?” Blake quizzed.

“We administer an injection. Then, we go from there.” He finally tore his eyes away from his work, looking at Blake as he spoke.

“Go from there?” Blake shook his head. “What does that mean? How am I--”

“Do it,” Dr. Marl interrupted, his eyes shifting to something behind Blake.

Blake whipped around to see a woman in a white lab coat plunging a syringe into Blake’s neck. The shock and pain of the injection caused Blake to reel backwards, clutching where she had punctured his skin. He sputtered in anger as his vision blurred. Blake managed to take one step before his body betrayed him and he toppled over the folding chair, unconscious.

Blake’s hearing returned before his vision, but the sounds seemed warbled and distant as if he were underwater.

“He survived the procedure. What’s so special about him?” A woman’s voice floated over him.

“Absolutely nothing,” Dr. Marl answered. “I just perfected the process.” He laughed, breathless. “Guess we finally have to pay up.”

Blake winced, his face contorting in pain as a high-pitched metallic squeal pierced his ears. He whimpered in relief as the screech quickly subsided, though his vision still eluded him.

Dr. Marl and the mystery woman were caught in an argument, their voices frantic as Blake reached his arm up to coddle an oncoming migraine. However, his arm raised no more than a couple of inches, strapped to an uncomfortable bed. He soon realized all of his limbs were tethered.

Blake called out, but his sluggish voice was quickly drowned out by the overlapping argument.

“We may not have much time, Frederick! Who knows how long he can stay connected to her!” The woman declared wildly.

After a moment, Dr. Marl grunted. “Mr. Langon, tell me what you see.”

“I… I can’t s-s-see anyth-thing.”

“Nothing?” The woman clarified as Dr. Marl cursed.

“You have to see something!” Dr. Marl yelled. A crash sounded from a corner of the room.

“N-n-nothing. It’s just b-b-black.”

“Is it black or is it dark?” Marl questioned.

“What?!” Blake asked, angry and panicked.

“Black. Or. Dark.”

Blake squinted, though he wasn’t sure what that would help. However, as he narrowed his eyes, the inky black swallowing his vision swam into greys and browns. Slowly, decrepit vertical wood panels came into view, lit by thin cracks of light creeping between the boards.

As instructed, he described what he saw. “I don’t understand,” he added. “Why can’t I s-s-see you? You’re n-n-not here.”

“No. You’re not here.” He brushed off Blakke’s disgruntled response. “Do you hear anything?”

Blake strained his ears. “I hear ch-ch-churning. Like a washing m-m-machine.” He recalled the metallic screech. “Or… or maybe a t-t-train. I think I heard train b-b-brakes.” He groaned, uncertainty and fear clutching at him.

“A train?” The woman repeated. “She could be being held at a railway station. No one would be able to hear her scream. That makes sense. We’d have to narrow it down, though. I’ll let them know, but first, Dr. Marl, is there anyway to enhance the girl’s vision?”

Blake felt a presence hover over him. “Let’s try something. Tell me what you see.”

“I already told you--” Blake hissed and snapped his eyes shut as a bright lightly suddenly overwhelmed him.

“That seems to have worked,” the woman affirmed excitedly.

“Open your eyes, Mr. Langon. I’ve lowered the light,” Dr. Marl coaxed.

Blake opened his eyes, blinking in the newly lit wood walls. “It’s hazy like I’m l-l-looking through a curtain, but there’s s-something on the wall.”

“Dr. Allen tell them to be ready,” Dr. Marl directed. “What’s it say on the wall? What does it say?”

Blake focused his eyes, his eyes tearing up with the strain. “I… I think.”

“You can’t think. We get one chance. Do you think or do you know?”

“I know,” Blake confirmed. “C. 1. 3.”

“She’s in warehouse C-13, Detective,” Dr. Allen said.

A silence fell over the room. A ringing began in Blake’s ears as a hospital room blurred into view, a large light hanging over his head.

“They got her,” Dr. Allen said, a phone in her hand. There was a loud commotion from the phone, bullets and shouting vibrating through the air.

Dr. Marl removed the light and leaned into Blake’s line of sight. “Congratulations, Mr. Langon. You just saved someone’s life.”

Blake smiled, groggy and confused. “And I only got twenty thousand dollars?”

science fiction
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About the Creator

Katie McNeill

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