English Lit. Coursework

     Shaking violently, she stood there. Unable to move – partly because of the rope that was tying her to the pole, and partly due the unimaginable pain she was undergoing – she screamed until her voice broke with the pain. Still, the silent, expressionless man continued.
     The stout pole she was bound to had electrical wires coming out from the top. Or perhaps they were going into it, she wasn’t sure. The wires came from a thick Perspex box – sound proofed so the poor soul inside would be spared the hardship of hearing the screams and begs for mercy from his victim. All he had to do was push buttons; pull levers; do anything he could to get information. There was a sound feed from the box into the torture room to enable the inquisitor to communicate with whoever was on the outside. In this case, it wasn’t needed. He never spoke a word. The ‘he’ in question was a sombre looking blonde man; tall and smart; elegance personified. She couldn’t help thinking that all this finery and extravagance was needless in this lonely hole; no one important ever came – lest they be offended by its ugly purpose – and he obviously didn’t care what she thought of him.
      The girl, Callie, was, in contrast, a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was covered in congealed blood, from her cuts, and sweat. Her hair, which might once have been bright, or clean, was a dirty, greasy brown; bedraggled and tangled, unwashed for weeks – maybe months.
     The unnamed man allowed a faint smile to play across his thin lips, unheeded by Callie, before he pulled the lever for the thousandth time.
     It hurt, as always. And she screamed, as always. But she didn’t cry.
     She never cried.

    Callie awoke with a start, the clinical white sheets under her soaked in sweat. Her vibrant red hair tumbled softly about her fair skin as she looked around the room, absent-mindedly rubbing her wrists where the scars from over two years ago were constant reminders to her of the ordeal.
     There was a long mirror along one wall – a stark deviation from the plain, institutional white that covered the walls and floor – but Callie wasn’t stupid. The mirror wasn’t there for her vanity; on the other side would be a myriad of doctors and psychologists watching her every move, analysing, taking notes, assessing. She realised with a sickening jolt that there would have been a frenzy of scribbling and typing when she had been dreaming a few moments ago. She didn’t have the faintest idea of what she did when she had the Nightmare, but she’d bet it was good. If that was the sort of thing you were into. Which, she had to admit, most weren’t.
     As she sat up in her bed the door clicked open. In an instant her heart stopped. She could barely breathe and she could feel every single pulse point in her body, throbbing overtime. All noise was blocked out by the sound of her blood rushing in her head, and her thought, one single thought: They’ve come back for me…I’m going to die…oh God I’m going to die… over and over again. And what was worse was the fact that no matter how much she sped it up or slowed it down, it said the same thing. And she knew it was true.
     She watched, paralysed with terror, as the man’s lips moved, telling her something, something she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – hear. He turned to leave as Callie came back to her senses. She realised that she was over-reacting, and was behaving more like the lunatics who were here for a reason. Like the people she wanted to show those stuck up psychologists she didn’t belong with.
     “Wait. I’m sorry,” she called to the doctor’s retreating back. For a second there…she was sure it had been him…the same blonde hair, the same fair features, that same elegance…but no, now she could examine him properly she could see that it definitely wasn’t him. She was just twitchy, like she usually was after her Nightmares. So why was she still shaking?
     He stepped back into the room, smiling gently. Callie regarded him without expression – a technique she had found essential in the past – and he did the same. Right, she thought, not a trace of her thoughts apparent on her face, they’ve finally twigged that I’m not one of them. I’m making progress. I wonder when he will break the silence. One…two…three...fo-
     “Don’t be alarmed, Callie,” her expression stayed void of emotion as he made the fatal mistake of breaking the silence too soon, “but psychoanalysts have been watching you for the past twelve hours. We have made some interesting notes.”
     “I know.” Callie’s voice matched her expression – hollow and inexpressive – but she raised her mental eyebrows when his eyes betrayed him and told Callie just how surprised at her skills of observation he was. Not quite as professional as he would like to think then, she thought smugly.
     “Um. Yes. Well, your behaviour when in the REM state displayed signs of severe agitation.” Another blank look. Not of incomprehension. Just blank. “Callie, it is important that anything you remember of what you were dreaming you tell us.” He was pleading now. But, as always, she just looked on, saying nothing, giving nothing away.  “Is it to do with what happened two years ago?” Now he was desperate. Callie nodded – not trusting herself to speak. She had stopped shaking physically now, but her somewhat nervous disposition would still be detectable in her voice, she knew. Best to keep her eyes hard and impenetrable – let her head do the talking. “It is vitally important that you tell us whatever you can remember! We are trying to help you Callie - your dreams may well hold the key to letting your memories go – you could forget about your ordeal completely if you just tell us…” his voice faded away as Callie lost all sense of discipline, and rage took over her face.
     “You think I can just forget?” she demanded, “You think I can ‘let go’ of what happened to me? What you psychologists get wrong every time – every single time - is that you aren’t dealing with an imaginary situation here – this is real. And all you lot can do is drone on and on about using techniques you learned from a textbook.” The doctor mistook Callie’s pause for breath as an invitation to speak.
     “I-”
     “Tell me, sir,” she continued sarcastically, making sure every word drilled itself into his clueless, stuck-up head, “for your ‘training’, did you ever have to go through all of the situations potential patients might have been put through? Were you ever tortured? Were you ever put in the position where you had to choose between a lifetime of pain or breaking your promise – a promise that you made in the eyes of the law, a promise upon which the safety of your country, your friends, your family, everyone you love, hangs. Did you ever have to choose between something like that? No. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. It would be unethical. But how on earth do you expect to understand what I’m going through if you haven’t?” Callie cursed herself for loosing control and forgetting her training, but the expression on the doctor’s face in front of her was worth it. “If you think, for one minute, that I can forgive my torturer for what he did to me, you are sorely mistaken. And if you think I can forgive myself for what I did, then get out of here and bring me someone who understands. Stop wasting your time by sending me people who think they can help!”
     She didn’t see his expression after that. She’d turned away so that he wouldn’t see her biting back the tears that were welling up in those hypnotic, bright green eyes. It was important that she didn’t cry.
     She never cried.