Death By a Thousand Needles

I’ve never been afraid of needles, but I still can’t stop the shiver that goes down my spine when the first needle pierces my skin. I’m almost grateful for the blindfold as I feel the needle slide deep into my right arm, a few inches below my elbow. Another swiftly follows, this time just above my knee. Then, another in the back of my hand.

They come, one right after another. I try to squirm away, but my restraints hold me tight. If they had stopped at one, or even five, it would have been bearable, hardly worse than a bad trip to the doctor’s office. But they didn’t stop. They don’t stop. My shoulder, my foot, my neck, over and over again, the needles prick me, diving into oceans of skin and muscle.

Is this what torture feels like? I always imagined the worst part of torture was the pain, but I was wrong; it’s the relentlessness, the utter inescapability.

I wish I knew what I did to deserve this, what I could do to make them stop. But there’s nothing they want from me, not really. I’m nothing more than an oddity to them, a specimen to dissect.

I’m forced to lie on my stomach, and more needles prick the backs of my legs and my upper back. I’m feeling woozy and nauseous, and I’m not sure if it’s from the constant pain or if the needles are injecting me with something.

Finally, I feel the biggest needle so far enter the very middle of my back. I gag as I feel it go in, every muscle in my body tensing up. I gasp a few times, feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I can’t pull in enough air. My lungs freeze up, refusing to inflate. As my eyelids grow heavy and close, a voice beside me says, “Interesting, this one lasted longer than the others.”