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Rated: 18+ · Draft · Dark · #1694317
A work in progress. About a man that was wounded during the civil war and sent off.

Listen, that war has no moral basis. That whole war means nothing, it's just an effort to get willing volunteers. Oh yes, the comfort of medical experts  in a war where surgeries are performed without pain relief.  Who wouldn't seek such comfort in a place where medical supplies, food, water, happiness are in supply.

My father who was a man of medical science, spent most of his life behind the front line of battle. When he drank, he would tell of the terrible sights he had witnessed. The battered and beaten men who came into the medical camps . Most receiving wounds that they would not survive and the horror of hearing gun shots in the tent's of the injured.

You see, everything but guns and bullets were in short supply. Precious medical supplies could not be wasted on people who were incurable. If the deathly injured men were to cowardice to kill themselves- the soldiers were sent to their tents. Sneaking into the tents and shooting the injured. The soldiers only leaving behind the used weapon next to the corpse. But these are only stories and my fathers state of mind when telling these tales were not a reliable one.

But as I lay in my tent shortly after receiving a gaping wound  to stomach and being carried off from the battle, a man in black approached me. With the deep voice of a southern gentlemen, he began to speak"There is nothing here for you. Let us take you to our place; we have no shortages of supplies there. But first I need you to sign this." The saying “a desperate man will believe in anything” is more than true. As I gleefully signed the papers, not bothering to read them. “Thank you sir. A wagon will be waiting for you in the morning.” he concluded.

The night was terribly unbearable, with no medication and no bandages, my wound was left to fester. The cries of the other men is something that would haunt me for years. If I were to live that long.

The wagon ride supplied no relief for my pain. Every bump was a nightmare not even the damned should experience. Moaning or any type of audio able noise that could be linked to me, would be met with swift punishment (often with the applying of salt on the open wound). We would make stops; but only at night. Men would come out of their lovely and gigantic houses to do inspections on our wounds.

The third day, with no food, water, bandages or medicine, I was prepared to die. This unfortunately, would not come true. It was night time and we had almost arrived at our destination. As we approached, armed men hid behind solid fortifications of stone. Our destination had been met. 2 large wooden doors leading into the ground; camouflaged by  nature.

They had brought me to the room. A dirty bed and a bucket. The bed provided little comfort.  Hours past and they eventually brought me a piece of bread and a dish of water. The rest is completely out of mind; I woke up later to find men dressed in white making an incision on my stomach. The wound, wagon ride and lack of nutrition had caused a numbing in my senses. I held my composure together for as long as possible; in an attempt to gather information. Someone noticed my consciousness, as a syringe was plunged into the side of my head. The next hours are out of my memory.

Waking up, I was greeted to the darkness that resides in these under ground dwellings. Starring into the direction that I thought the doorway was, I must have waited hours. Finally the gleaming light of a lamp shown. I meant to get a closer look at whomever was entering but in the base of my eye lay something that just stuck out. At the time I did not know what it was. I just knew it was attached to my body.

I began to scream, "You disgusting bastards!". I must have worn out quite quickly-for I woke up again, hours later. The room was lit by a lantern that hung on a rusted hook.

Looking downward in the direction of my battle wound, my stomach was open. My organs guarded by metal bars. I began to sob and moan. A man walked into the room. "Ahhh, sir. Do not panic. We can fix you, but our care doe not come free. You must do something for us." The man spoke.

Weeks passed, I was forced medicine every day. They had finally given me the freedom to share a bed next to another patient. Rather hysterical and mad with anger, he would often try to kill me. He would succeed too if he was not held back from the wires attached to him. "You will die for them? Do not! Do not give them what they are looking for, take your hand and squeeze your heart. These wires restrain me for causing harm to myself. But I'm afraid they have what they need from me" He would often make attempts to convince me to commit suicide. The promise of a cure was to tempting to kill myself.

I woke up days later to find my roommate missing.  Days pasted; but then it happened. The carelessness of a man carrying a large wooden, stumbled and caused the box to fall; exposing the contents. My roommate, throat slit, chest flaps open, organs removed. I pretended not to see any of this.

The following days I built up enough will power to try and escape. Witnessing a doctor holding some type of organ and casually walking down the hall undid what hope I had in their promise.

My first move was making an attempt to stand upright, without bending my stomach. As I finally gained my footing, I began to move along the wall. Peeking out the doorway, I saw a room adjacent to mine. The men in white were applying pressure to a mans chest and pinning his hands.  The man made meager attempts at fighting them off, a syringe that was plunged into his arm ended his opposition.

A man in white held a lantern over the man. Another with a scalpel read. Bringing the scalpel across the poor mans neck, causing blood to flow onto the bed and down his body. The men in white waited a few minutes before making an incision in the mans stomach. One of the men then took his hand and slipped it inside of the body. Pulling organs until reaching the liver. Which was terribly oversized and blackened. “Should we record this?” a man asked. “You moron, you do not record this. Only the positive aspects of the drug” a much older man replied.

Sneaking around, I found, what I believe to be the supply closet. Containing the normal surgical tools, but one thing peeked my interest. Small jars with labels. Containing an odd collection of organs. Also, large green creates, imprinted on them "Property of U.S. Army."

They are looking for me now. I see no hope; some men have rifles and pistols. My secrecy is only temporary. I will take my blessed roommates advice and squeeze. As a man with no hope; no future, I can only hope some sensible person can find these notes and stop this madness.


Signed- Lost.

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