Accused (Ganzfield) Read Online Free PDF Page A

scraped my mind raw. Liquid fire poured through me from the drug addicts in withdrawal. I felt every excruciating detail of their pain—ofeveryone’s pain. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t move. Needles of white energy stabbed through my eyelids—little splinters of light. When I closed my eyes, I still saw them.
    The guards shackled me to a bedframe. I curled my legs up to my chest, as though becoming smaller and denser would hold in all of the pain. Tears streamed down from the corners of my eyes and got lost in my hair. I tried to focus on the feel of the tears, and then tried to filter my thoughts through the minds of the overworked nurses on the ward. Two of them came in after I’d been there for half of eternity. I was horrified to discover it had only been three hours. They stripped me down and dressed me in a paper-thin hospital gown. I barely noticed.

    I didn’t sleep that night, or the next day, or the night afterward. As patients began to recover, they were moved from the ward. New patients with fresh, undiluted pain took their places. The ones on sedatives slept, leaving me with the constant input from the people who were in too much agony to sleep.
    I felt like someone had sucked my soul out with a straw. After a day that felt like a decade, faceless strangers placed me in a wheelchair. Handcuffs bound my wrists to the tubular metal arms of the chair. Twisting hallways and slow elevators seemed to churn in a nightmarescape around me before a sudden burst of bright sun made me squint. The most intense pain was far enough away that I could breathe again, but I was too drained to scream.
    Colonel Hunter stood, bull-like, at the edge of the cement surface of the loading dock. At his side, a guard pointed a hand-held video camera at me. Hunter evaluated my condition with a critical eye and I felt his thoughts scrape against my bruised consciousness. Too bad we apprehended her on a Saturday. I would’ve liked to start interrogations yesterday. But Sunday was his day of rest and Paul Hunter believed in God. Furthermore, Paul Hunter’s personal God agreed with Paul Hunter on just about everything—including the intrinsic worthlessness of those he didn’t classify as human.
    Like me.
    Hunter grabbed my chin, forcing my face up so he could see it. My hair swung back from my face, greasy and knotted with dried sweat and tears. I think it’s working. She’ll break soon. Maybe right away.
    “What did you do to those boys in New Jersey?” His fingers dug into my face, but that was nothing compared to the pain upstairs on the ward. “Talk. Now. Or I’ll send you back up to the locked ward for another day.”
    Where’s Trevor Laurence? I put the thought into his head, but my pain-rattled touch wasn’t as light as it usually was. He jerked back from me as though I’d given him an electric shock. My head drooped again and I closed my eyes in relief. Hunter didn’t have Trevor. His concern about a lawyer who was filing all sorts of motions on my behalf rippled through his thoughts—sounded like Coleman was finally on the case.
    Trevor was safe. I tried to form a little prayer of gratitude, but nothing more than “Thank You, God” came to me. I figured that was probably enough.
    When Hunter realized I wasn’t talking, he motioned to the guards and they rolled me back into screaming agony for another day. I couldn’t think; couldn’t breathe; couldn’t sleep; couldn’t move. Every muscle in my body contracted into a tight little ball once again.
    A nurse came and cleaned me up a bit. Her mind and hands were gentle and kind, and her physical contact lessened the surrounding pain. I’m worried about this girl. She held the straw from the water glass to my lips. She’s not getting better. She’s not getting any treatment. The chart lists her name as “Jane Doe” and it’s almost completely blank. And those scary government types are keeping her under special surveillance. Something’s very wrong