On Bader 5

I see the abuse of you my fair-haired boy.  Months on end. Your captors shoving tubes through your nostrils. Methodically, not medicinally. Right, left, right, left.  Driving them down your throat as you gag and vomit glassfuls of water which they force you to drink. Tubes pushed through your fragile gullet. Your aching stomach. Lodged in your small intestine then taped in a large cross to your freckled face.

You cry out to me. “Please, Mom, please make them stop! Mom!”

Your captor repeats, “It’s all in your head. You must eat with the rest of them. Three times a day, or else.  The tube, three times daily.” For months. Will this ever end.

I see your isolation my spotless child. You, thrashing, crashing. Solitary, in the rubber room for crying in the hallway at the threat of losing both your parents. “A breakdown.” Your captor, a.k.a doctor calls it in the meeting. “We just can’t have that. He needed to be shown. Again, his problem is all behavioral.”

Across a dusty desk, in a nameless chair a dirty sun filters through a grimy window on Bader 5. My soul heaves. From the ancient depth of my D.N.A., a volcano erupts. My heart explodes. A burst of blood, bone and flesh runs down my skull, the length of my body, pooling deep at my feet.

You are my child. I’ve failed to protect you from this horror.

Desperate to rescue you, my ear singularly tunes to a pulse echoing from your captors neck.  Keenly my vision focuses through his scholarly clutter to that one throbbing vessel.

I eye his carotid.

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