Dexter's Island

Dexter's Island

The sweat trickled down his neck in beads, a surefire indicator
of his fear. He inhaled deeply, the dust and asbestos invading his
lungs as he waited, crouching in the shadows. Footsteps cascaded
through the near-empty building, growing louder by the moment and his
heart hammered violently against his ribs. They called out his name;
"Dexter! Dexter!"

"Dexter!" The doctor was standing above me, trying to shake me
awake. I was somewhat lethargic, as the effect of the drugs were taking
their precious time to wear off. I tried to pull myself upright, but I
was overwhelmed by a throbbing in my head, which sent a searing pain
coursing down my spine the moment I attempted to move. I whimpered
pathetically.
"Shh" the doctor pressed a refreshingly damp cloth to my forehead.
"You've been through a bit of a rough patch, I'm afraid." The cool
water drew the sweat and the heat from my head, and slithered down my
face with a familiar, yet not unpleasant feeling. "I can't make your
pains go away, however they will heal over time, you just need to rest
and let gravity pull the negative energy from your body." He left the
cloth draped over my head, and I listened to his footsteps carry him
out of the room. Then I lifted my arms and peeled the cloth off of my
face.

I could have fainted there and then. My head began to spin as I
noticed the cloth was dripping with diluted blood. MY blood. I slid one
hand under the pink cloth and ran my fingers over my head, navigating
their way towards the source of the blood-flow. The dull throbbing
persisted as I found no trace of cuts or scrapes on my brow. My fingers
wander carefully, tenderly onward, afraid of what they might find; A
deep gash? A bruised and swollen cut? A... bullet wound? I could have
cried when I felt the warm red substance on my sensitive fingertips. I
ran my fingers along the parameter of the the wound, to determine its
severity. It was no cut, nor gash, nor bullet wound. It was something
immensely worse. At first, I thought the skin from my head had been
ripped clean off, but after following the circumference of the wretched
wound I hesitantly laid a finger carefully in the centre of my head. No
flesh, the flesh was gone. No bone, either, my finger came down onto
soft, delicate grey matter. I threw the cloth to the floor and cried
out in utter anguish and helpless rage.

I pulled myself to my feet, breathing heavily, anxiety and fear
creeping through every fibre of my body. The bench that I had lain on
was streaked with blood smears, at the head of the bench, there was a
small pool that had overflown and was currently dripping to the floor.
Adjacent to the bench was a small, yet unscrupulously cluttered work
table, upon which various old and bloody tools lay. And my skull. And
another peculiar looking object; a clear skull-like dome piece with
intricate circuitry sunk into its immaculate mould. I cautiously
brought a hand to hover over, what I had assumed was, the cranial
device as I contemplated whether or not to pick up this foreign and
potentially dangerous object. I touch.

Footsteps... footsteps growing louder, growing ever louder and
clearer, he's coming back to do... things I possibly don't want to
imagine. I slide my hand off the dome, leaving a smear of blood, it
felt hard as bone, but I shudder to think what sort of experiments he
may have planned for me. My hand grips tidily around the handle of one
of the various sharp tools on the table. A vicious looking barbed disc,
which rotated on its centre. I took a few steps towards the door, the
footsteps still making their way confidently towards me. I was at the
door, and I crouched in waiting, watching for the moment the handle
begins to turn. I redoubled my grip on the disc and raised it above my
head. The handle turned, the door opened a crack, and his hand ceased
to exist in harmony with his arm.

The doctor cried out in agony and tumbled through the door.
Adrenaline and hate coursed through my body and I brought my foot down
on his face. He whimpered as I applied pressure on his head. He tried
to nurse his stump of an arm, but he knew there was no point, his hand
was still gripped tightly to the door handle behind him.
"Answers!" I yelled "Give me answers!"
"I am sorry," he struggled "but for me to provide you with answers, you
need to first ask me the questions." A pathetic grin crept across his
face.
"Don't give me this shit!" I spat "what have you done to my fucking
skull?!" I tried to take deep breaths, I tried to keep my composure,
but I was hovering dangerously close to boiling point, and in fact, I
had little control over my temper.
"Ah yes, that." He still put in the effort to maintain his authority
through intellectual advantage. "I performed that rather tricky piece
of procedure in order to fix the little pickle you've gotten yourself
into."
"What... what pickle? And what was so important that you needed to
remove my skull and leave me to figure it all out for myself?" A bitter
swelling was blossoming in my stomach. I eased my foot off the doctor,
and allowed him to get up.
"It wasn't smart, what you did. You almost got yourself killed, not to
mention the dozens upon dozens of people you actually succeeded in
killing." He dusted himself off with his remaining hand and gave a
narcissistic smirk.
"No, that was just a dream. I remember... things, in my head. I didn't
kill anyone." Self-doubt crept into my mind, I couldn't believe such a
morbid reality could exist within myself.
"You cut my fucking hand off, didn't you?!" He said, begrudgingly.
"You're a murderer. You've killed before, and it's only a matter of
time before you kill again. And I think it's safe for me to assume that
I'll be your next victim."
"Jesus fucking Christ! You cut off my fucking skull, give me one good
reason why I shouldn't do the same to you?!" I brandished my disc
threateningly, to which he laughed and pulled his surgical cap from his
head.
I paused and stared in astonishment, light bounced of the translucent
dome fixed to his head, and underneath the dome, his brain, visible as
clear as day and coursing with nervous energy.

"It's amplifying my brain waves, Dexter. It's improving my hand-eye
co-ordination, it's enhancing my senses, it's increasing my short and
long-term memory capacity, and you... you will be able to remember how
you got here." His chuckle sent a chill cascading down my spine.
"Yeah, thanks but no thanks." I spoke with utter disdain for the
doctor, and I did bring the disc down on his head, shattering the dome
and embedding the razor sharp barbs deep into his brain. His last words
burned deep in my mind, revolt spread through my body... I was going to
be sick. I rushed out through the door, stepping on the crystal shards
that littered the floor and flung the door open in the process (the
doctor's hand was sent soaring across the room) and I stumbled myself
along a narrow hallway with mirrored walls, before I was on all fours
retching and heaving my stomach contents onto the floor.

"You know, it's probably not a good thing leaving your brain exposed
like that. It could get infected." I wiped my lips of the putrid bile
and looked up into my reflection.
"I'd rather that be than to wear that infernal contraption" Great, now
I'm talking with the voices in my head. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Well, if you weren't a murderer before, you sure as hell are now. What have you got to lose?"
I held my hands against the wall, in an attempt to steady myself. My
head was spinning and I knew it wasn't going to get any better. I
heaved the rest of my stomach contents up before me and proceeded to
convulse and dry heave. My throat was burning and I could barely steady
myself. I stared again at my reflection, in defeat.

I began the slow crawl back down the hall to the confines of the
doctor's... laboratory? And to the table where the cap rested, waiting
for me... begging me to come and wear it. And I answered its calls with
a desperate salivating whimper, as I had been robbed of my energy, and
without it I would surely die, my brain screaming for protection and my
body yearning for death. I crawled back through the door, past the
crumpled body of the man I had murdered out of frustration and anger. I
smacked my lips at the sight of the dome, and basked in its glorious
presence when I touched its surface for a second time. I grasped the
dome like a greedy child grasps a lollipop and I stuffed it over my
brain with a sigh of relief. Slumped on the floor, stained with blood
and vomit, I drifted off into a restless slumber.

He heard them approaching, and he lowered himself further into
the shadows. He did not want to be seen, least of all by the men that
were calling for him. He held a gun in his hand, ready for the firing,
but with his eyes shut tight, he prayed that he didn't have to use it.
He willed with all his might that they stop looking for him and that he
can leave this God-forsaken place in one piece. He was alone for now,
save for the rodents and parasites nibbling on his torn and tattered
pants.

He was cornered in this empty industrial fortress. He was hidden
well, but if they found him, he'd have to fight his way out. They were
chasing him because he was a criminal, a murderer, and they needed to
protect the public from him. He had been on the run for months. He
liked the look in his victims' eyes when they died. He liked staring
into their fearful eyes when they embraced their fate, their last
moment, as he pulled the trigger. His last victim... it all went wrong.
She displayed not the fear that he was yearning. He hesitated, he
fumbled, he made vital errors in his routines. Sure, she died, but he
shot her out of panic, and the sirens wailed as the police drove right
up to the deserted alley where he was fulfilling his dirty deeds. He
shot, he ran... they followed.

Pace for pace, the police kept up with him. Pace for agonising
pace, he tried to flee to no avail. His hands were stained with his
victim's blood, his eyes were wide with fear for the first time in his
life. He was not the predator in this game of cat and mouse, this time
he was the prey. The fear he evoked in his victims was mirrored within
himself. He ran down the alley way, bullets whizzed past him, a sure
fire indicator that the police weren't merely playing games. He came
through the other side of the alley out onto the road. Straight across
without hesitation. He was close, oh so close to finding himself
splattered across the pavement, so he was lucky in a way. Had he been
hit instead of clearing the traffic, he would have been more or less
indifferent about it all. He had his time to make his mark, he
experienced his thrills and his game was up. Across the road and down
the path towards the old docks that had been shut down many a year ago.

Now he was cornered, the police calling for him, but he remained
silent, he held the gun in his quivering hand. Whatever the outcome,
the results were not going to be pleasant, although that didn't make
the decision any easier.

I came about once again, and I pulled myself up onto the bench. I
looked across at the table of tools and pieces, the hacksaws and drills
and knives, and I knew what I had to do. The dome rested uncomfortably
on my head in such a way that blood had begun to seep underneath it and
down my face. I held the dome in place with one hand and used my other
hand to feel around the edge of the dome. A glance at the dead doctor
at the entrance of the room had confirmed my suspicions. My dome had
numerous little holes periodically bored through its surface. If the
dome were to stay in place, and thus continue to keep me stable and
conscious, I would have to drill it to my skull. With a shaking hand, I
fitted a screw into the first hole. At this moment I left all doubt and
reason behind and picked up the drill.

I held the drill to my head, willing myself to keep clam and steady.
My finger rested idly upon the trigger as I searched delicately for the
tip of the screw. I bit down on my lip and applied pressure on the
screw. My finger clenched the drill and my skin tore open as the drill
rotated and the screw bore itself into me. I clenched my lip tighter as
the screw chipped against bone. I barely suppressed a scream of agony,
but my lip had begun to bleed, the hole in my head was causing endless
amounts of pain, and the blood coursed through my forehead, heating up
and increasing my anxiety to no end.

The first one was in, the pain was immense, but I knew it would do
no good to stop now; I had to continue. I fitted another screw, and
again bit hard upon the flesh of my lip. The salty warmth of my own
blood filling my mouth helped me to retain focus, and the bitter dull
thumping of blood through my head ensured that I wanted nothing more
than to complete this task post haste. Three, four, the blood blossomed
from their holes and painted my face red. Slowly slowly, I bit deeper
and deeper into my lip, tasting the flesh, setting my nerves afire with
the constant grinding contact of my teeth. Another screw, lifting the
drill to my head, pulling down on the trigger, sending a spiralling
sensation of head-splitting pain deep to my core, making my eyes well
up with tears and stream down my face, watering down the blood.

With the last screw, I granted myself a stress relieving sigh. I
unclenched my jaw, mere moments before my lip was bitten clean through.
My face was red, both from the blood leaking from the drill wounds and
from the build up of blood pressure. I let the drill slip from my
aching hands and crash to the floor, and I just sat on the bench,
waiting for the blood in my head to redistribute itself throughout my
body. The pain gradually ebbed away and I was able to calm myself down
enough to pull myself to my feet. My head was now only spinning
slightly, and I managed to walk across the room without losing my
footing. I walked through the doorway, out into the hall of mirrors and
I couldn't help but glance at my ghastly reflection. I searched for...
well I don't know what, an exit? A door of some sort? I walked past the
puddle of vomit I had left on the floor earlier, I tried to remember if
I had been conscious when I came in, when they brought me in. Who is
"they"? Where am I? How long have I been here?

I remember waking up... the doctor talking to me... that was not so
long ago... it feels like hours, days have passed. And before then?
Blank. I kept walking, I could see the end of the hallway not too far
off. There was another hallway crossing at the perpendicular, and I
could see myself walking towards it in the reflective surface of the
wall. Closer and closer, I drew closer to my reflection, and I thought
I could see sunlight casting itself down through the left corridor and
inviting me to join it outside. I rounded the corner with much
eagerness, but alas! The light was just shining through the glass door
of what appeared to be a very cluttered office. Without hesitation, I
stepped right up to the door and tugged on the handle. There wasn't
much room to move and the desk was cluttered with papers and files. A
small plaque sat on the edge of the desk and read "Dr. Irving Gradie".
I squeezed myself through to his side of the desk and flicked through
some of the papers. Charts, statistics, diagrams and photographs. He
had done his research on these domes. And then I saw the file, peeking
out from beneath more clutter. It was labelled "Dexter Howard Pryce",
and within it was a very thorough analysis of my life, and my... very
brutal crimes. I read through some of the pages, scanning for vital
details. Murder murder murder blah blah blah... Fled the scene of the
crime, resisted arrest... shot two police officers before he could be
restrained. Fabricated evidence... memory implants, sent to exile...
What is this? What has been going on? I closed the file and gripped it
tightly under my arm, and gathered several papers on the dome along
with it. These men have torn apart my reality, all I knew now is that
they are going to pay for their crimes.

I gave the room another quick scan, and found a hat to cover the
abominable lab project that was embedded onto my brain, then I rushed
out of the room towards the green "exit" sign at the end of this
corridor. If I could just get out of this bastardisation of a
laboratory and into the real world, I could prove my innocence and
cleanse myself of this nightmare. I began at a humble jog, but it
didn't take too long for my jog to quicken to a run. Desire took hold,
and I could taste, I could smell the freedoms that lay on the other
side of the door. I hated this entrapment, this fortification of the
mind, body and soul. I sprinted full slog towards that little green
sign at the end of the hallway. Fifty meters, forty meters, thirty
meters, twenty meters, ten meters BAM! I crashed straight into the door
and pushed my fist squarely upon the emergency exit trigger. I think I
may have broken some fingers then, but I just kept on running. Light
burned into my eyes as the door flung open and I felt soft grainy sand
beneath my feet.

A beach... I was on a beach. I could barely see, barely make out the
white hot sand and the aquamarine blue of the ocean or the pale cyan of
the mid-afternoon sky. What lay behind me was the menacing grey mouth
to a fortress that quickly vanished beneath the wild tangled mess of
vines and foliage that formed into a jungle. I scanned the horizon for
any sort of landmark to figure out where I was. Nothing but ocean. I
walked along the coast, searching for a path in the jungle, or a road,
or something... Nothing, just more beach, more ocean, more jungle. No
islands, no boats, no life forms whatsoever. And then I heard them
calling for me in angered protest.

I began to run, I knew it was all I could do. I glanced behind me to
see how many men were following me, three or four it would seem. I ran
along the beach, not expecting the scenery to change soon, yet I
clutched on to the hope that I could outrun them. They were fast, but I
was desperate. I couldn't go back and let them further crush my life.
They yelled for me to stop, they yelled themselves hoarse, all the
while knowing it was no use. I ran, as it was all I had left, and I
ran, and I ran. They were not the police, they were my predators, they
were the huntsmen. They had weapons, deadly weapons that looked simply
unbearable should they actually use their weapons against me.

Further and further I ran, and further and further they chased, for
what felt like hours, across the beach, alongside the ocean and the
jungle, with the never-ceasing monotony. And then... off in the
distance, on the horizon ahead of me, more of them, waiting outside the
same grey fortress which had consumed my life. They saw me, and began
to run towards me. No going forward, no going back, I plunged myself
into the foamy waves that lapped at the edge of the island. I paddled
my arms and kicked my legs as hard as I could, but then the salt water
worked its way underneath the dome and into my wounds. The pain was
searing through my head, rubbing deep through my brain the water burned
deeply throughout my body and I gasped for breath. My body ceased up,
my mind numbed, and I just floated on the waves, my face submerged. I
gasped, but I only swallowed hot mouthfuls of salt water that caused me
to gag and choke and burn up my stomach.

The men chasing me caught me with relative ease. I tried to move,
tried to twitch a finger, all to no avail. One of the men approached me
and fitted a claw-like attachment around the back of my head. Sure, I
was paralysed and my flesh felt like it was burning throughout, but I
could still feel the cold probing metal slide onto my head, and the
round plate that pushed mercilessly against the back of my neck. I
heard the fierce whine of a drill and felt its large blunt tip ripping
into the centre of my head. With a jerking motion, the man pulled me
out of the water by the piece of metal embedded into my head. I was
defeated.

They started back to their laboratory with me, I was hung like a
pathetic rag doll from the massive screw and carried by the meaty fist
of a giant. With each quaking step the screw rattled and wedged itself
further in my head. With each quaking step I drew closer to death.
Burning, throbbing bleeding, damn near losing consciousness for what I
desperately hoped was the last time. Not before the screw felt its way
through my head and protruded through my eye socket. At last, the pain
coursing through my body had ceased, those bastards had gotten the
better of me, but at least now the torture was up.

They stood around in near blackness, the only light an ominous
green glow from the pool in the centre of the room. One of the men had
his eyes trained on several computer monitors that displayed various
sources of information. One of the others was rapidly flicking through
folders, briefly scouring the information held within. The last of the
men held a notepad and pen at the ready. He gazed into the pool,
studying the specimen within. It was a naked human being (to him; homo
sapien) wired to dozens upon dozens of tubes, keeping him alive,
monitoring his vital signs, amongst various other things. The man
scratched his chin, before scribbling down something on his notepad.

The door burst open and the police commissioner walked through the doorway.
"How is the unmentionable doing this evening?" He asked, with a tone of suggestiveness.
"We've just finished the last simulation and we're still gathering
results, nothing conclusive yet, I'm afraid." The notepad man said.
"Well don't keep up. Once you're done there, run him through another
one." The commissioner left the room with haste, as he clearly lacked
the time to stop and look into the situation clearly.
The second man lifted a file out of the pile in his arms and placed
everything down on a desk. "Here we go, gentlemen, this one sounds
perfect."
"Well?" Inquired the man watching the monitors "What does this one entail?"
"He's just had a nasty car accident and he wakes up in the home of a
hermit that's claimed him as a slave." The second man says, hinting
towards the sinister trauma involved.

He handed the file over to the man watching the monitors, who
procured a CD from within and inserted it into the computer system they
had set up. Dexter floated within the pool as the scientists booted up
a new nightmare, another barbaric torture-dream to keep him trapped
within his mind. According to Dexter, he did not deserve this prison,
he was a victim, but that was also part of his punishment. He was a
cold-blooded killer, and now that they had him, they were going to
squeeze him for every drop of suffering they could muster, and that
included the despair of living in a treacherous nightmare in the belief
that he had done nothing to deserve it. The whole world had thought
that there couldn't possibly be a punishment as harsh and relentless
enough for the demon-man Dexter Howard Pryce, but after several years
behind bars, the police commissioner himself dragged Dexter into the
torture chamber and dumped him into the green pool where he had been
enduring nightmare after agonising nightmare as punishment for his
crimes.

At last the people whom had complained that the jail cell was
too good for Dexter, that the death penalty was too good for Dexter, at
last they were content. He wouldn't be hurting anyone else any more.