Free Dead and Beloved by Jamie McHenry Page A

turn off, leaving me in darkness and worry.
     
    ~ O ~
     
    The next time I wake, I'm lying on a bed in a small sterile room. I'm no longer bound. I lean forward to stand, but my legs collapse as soon as I put weight on them. I face plant onto the tile floor. I push myself up and try again, but it's no use; my legs aren't working. Bleeding from my nose, I crawl back onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling. What's happened to me?
    As if having heard my struggle, Dr. Snow opens the door at the far end of the room and strolls gauntly inside. “Hello, Mr. Moon,” he says, closing it behind him. “How are you feeling?”
    “What have you done to my legs?” I lean forward which makes Dr. Snow grip the door handle behind him.
    “The legs feed the animal,” he answers. “Without them, you're not a danger to my staff.” With a wry smile, he steps toward me. “Or would you rather the bindings?”
    I think about the past few days and rub my wrists. The straps have left them bruised and sore. I shake my head.
    “Good.” Dr. Snow slides a silver metal chair from the corner and sits in front of me. He's older than he appeared on television. He is wrinkled around the eyes and he's balding, though it's apparent he's trying to hide it by shaving his head.
    I ambush him with the foremost question on my mind. “Why am I here?”
    “I think we can help each other, Mr. Moon,” he answers. “You get to stay out of prison and I—”
    “Keep me away from your daughter.” I interrupt him mid-sentence.
    Dr. Snow's eyes widen. “You are smart.” He wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and smiles, as if something is giving him satisfaction. “I think we'll get along fine.”
    I shake my head and turn to the wall. “I don't think so.”
    The man chuckles and then returns his chair to the corner by sliding it across the tile, filling the room with a high pitched screech that makes my spine twitch. “We both have something the other needs,” he says to me. He pries the door open. “Only you don't realize it yet.”
    The door slams shut behind him, cutting the shrill and replacing it with a hollow silence. I glare at the door. I hate this man more than I did the moment I saw him on the news.
    I try to lift my legs and the hate grows. Who does something like that; take the strength out of someone's legs to keep them captive? The legs feed the animal. I growl as I hear his voice in my head. The animal's legs never killed the prey, I think. It's their bite.
     
    ~ O ~
     
    Later that day, a woman dressed like a nurse brings me a tray of meat. She stands calmly and waits while I eat, never turning away . When I finish, she leaves as silently, leaving me to wonder again what they've done to my legs. There are no marks, so I haven't had surgery. I bend my knees and wiggle my toes to prove I'm intact. I'm not paralyzed. But my legs won't let me stand. I slam the bedpost, rocking the bed into the wall.
    A man brings a wheelchair into my room and parks at the side of my bed. He doesn't say anything, but the quick release needles of Daphenine attached to his belt announce clearly to me that he won't have to. I know better than to disobey whatever order he plans to give. The man motions to the wheelchair, then he helps me into the seat and wheels me out the door, allowing me my first view of the clinic. Bright lights replace the too often broken ones I'm used to at the hospital, and every door has a keypad entry and a camera. The man's security card is checked before we're allowed to pass through.
    I'm taken to a room filled with stainless steel cupboards, bright lights, and another camera. The man locks the wheels of my wheelchair and leaves me alone. I try moving, but my transport won't budge, so instead I stare at the camera and wonder who is watching. After a few minutes, a woman covered in an orange plastic suit enters. She glances at me as if I was a permanent object in the room and strolls over to a counter where she