I had only known it as a fairy tale, a spook story if you will. Criticize the government and they’ll get you. Sure, it happened in countries infested by radical Islam and… China, I guess. But, I never really imagined it would happen to me in USA. Even if I posted anonymously about the CIA killing JFK or Seth Rich being murdered to cover up the Democratic party’s Russia-gate hoax, I didn’t truly believe it would happen to me. Because if I did believe that, why would I make such stupid posts in the first place?
Anyway, they got me innocently enough- there was no loud raid at home or work. They simply waited until I was out for an evening stroll and walked me into a limo before I knew what I was doing. Crazy, I know- it’s absolutely insane how a couple of well-trained agents can coax you into doing what they want in seconds. I passed out in the back seat, presumably from a quick injection to my arm- I don’t really remember that.
I woke up seated at a table with a tall barrier to either side of me; my wrists were tightly cuffed to the table surface. My neck was constrained in a tight brace- I couldn’t really turn my head to look anywhere but straight ahead. In hindsight, I guess I should have sensed this was an unusual set up, but I was too consumed by fear to really think. Anyway, the two agents were in the small room with me- the tall, muscular man stood directly in front of me while the shorter, thinner woman stood behind me, her hand on my right shoulder. There was a slight tingling sensation on my upper arm, as if I had just been stung by a bee.
The man spoke. “Travis, you have been posting serious accusations concerning the federal government. We don’t approve of this behavior.”
I stammered a denial which he dismissed with a quick wave of his hand.
“Quiet.”
I closed my mouth and he continued calmly.
“This type of behavior doesn’t do anyone any good. We all need to do our part in ensuring there is ongoing peace in this nation. A major part of maintaining law and order is ensuring misinformation, even outright lies, are culled.”
Fearing for my life, I blurted out desperately. “I won’t do it again- I swear!”
He smiled. “We know you won’t- we will make sure of it.”
The grip on my shoulder tightened and I felt a needle pinch my skin. I tried to turn my head, but the constraints prevented me from doing so.
“Agent Martins is injecting you with a localized numbing drug. In a few minutes, you won’t feel your arm at all.”
I felt a gag being stuffed into my mouth. My muffled protests stopped after a few seconds- it was clearly pointless.
“The gag is to stop your screams. Relax, Travis- if we really wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t have drugged you first.”
The man stepped to the side, out of my view and the female agent began running her fingertip over my thumb and fingers. She spoke quietly, almost whispering into my ear. If not for my pants-wetting fear, I would have found her quite sexy.
“Feel the sensation of my touch on your hand, Travis. The feeling in your hand is slowly going to disappear. It won’t hurt- it will just fade painlessly.”
She continued the exercise, tracing her finger over my hand, even tapping on my digits a few times. As promised, her touch grew softer until I couldn’t feel anything at all, nor move.
“OK, he’s ready.” She called out to the other agent who returned with a hammer.
He wasted no time smashing the hammer on my right hand. I gagged-screamed in horror as the hammer smashed my right hand repeatedly, turning it into a bloody pulp. After a minute, the other agent injected me again and I passed out.
I don’t know how long I was in this cycle with them- it could have been weeks, even months. They smashed both of my hands repeatedly while convincing me it was all my own doing. The first few times, I only knew that cursed white table- I passed out and woke up there. That was where they beat me, berated me, and fed me cold, stale porridge.
Eventually, I started getting used to the drugs they injected into me- or maybe they reduced the dosage, I had no way of knowing. In any case, I was semi-conscious as they dragged me back and forth between that horrible room with the now-dented table and a miserable cell. Even with reduced stupor, I couldn’t feel the repeated hammering on my hands- they were already pulp. It seemed as if this exercise was a mental lesson for me more than anything. In my cell, I initially sat mourning my smashed hands, but eventually started covering them using my pillowcase.
Patiently, I trained myself to use my teeth and feet to get tasks done- pulling up my blanket on the bed, sliding my pants on and off to use the toilet, even mixing soap and water in a bucket so I could bathe.
Then, one day, they walked me into a garage, seated me in a limo, drove me back to my condo. There were one final set of instructions- I was to wear black gloves to hide my crippled hands. That was no problem- I hated seeing my hands. However, there was something else. If my hands were to magically heal, they would kill me. I thought nothing of it- my hands were done and there was no point in crying over spilt milk. I guess they didn’t want me getting robotic implants. No matter, I couldn’t afford anything like that anyway.
Years passed as well as they possibly could have. I had adjusted to living without hands and I was able to focus on becoming a great work-from-home programmer. With more money, I was able to get special amenities installed to make life better. I thought back often to their final warning to me- I now had the money to explore possibilities… but did I want to risk it?
Finally, I decided to see a specialist. The agents had warned about my hands healing- robotic arms did not constitute “healing”. In any case, they could have killed me before if they wanted. I hadn’t spoken ill of their precious government since then.
I lied to the doctor- I said that my hands had been crushed by a truck after a thief had pushed me back onto the street. She removed my gloves and looked at them in shock. “Your hands are perfectly normal- there is nothing wrong with them!”
I couldn’t believe my ears- the doctor must have been blind. My hands were clearly a limp, broken mess. Just to be sure, she ordered x-rays (they came back normal). Despite this, I still couldn’t move anything so I saw a psychiatrist. Slowly, he convinced me nothing had ever happened to my hands and I painfully rehabbed my way back to full function.
I now realize what they had done- they had programmed my brain to accept fake hands over and over and then smashed them repeatedly. With their convincing, I had only seen my hands as crippled, useless hunks of mass. I had been silenced effectively and essentially by my own will.
So here I am, typing with my hands for the first time in years- it’s painful, but I really want everyone out there to know what can happen. I’m horrified that I am so weak-minded. Come to think of it, sharing my story will probably be enough for them to kill me as they promised to- my hands have healed.