Justin had what he wanted. Natascha was a one-year-old, female, Russian Blue cat, in near-perfect health. He had bought a pet hospital months before to avoid answering the questions of an adoption agency or county shelter.
Creating multiple inconveniences was one of many strategies for interfering with James Michaelson’s inconvenient, daily activities. He was opening a can of tomatoes, and my prompt instructed me to speak into the microphone.
I’d had an “inappropriate outburst.” I’d been restrained, and then the device was used on me. It was designed to shut down the errant part of my brain by using a magnetic pulse. I was uncertain of whether the memory was real, or if it could have been a nightmare.
A holographic video urges me inside, saying, “This procedure will relieve you of unnecessary suffering due to your mind.” As I walk inside, a man runs out with his head opened up, screaming at the top of his lungs. Robots catch up with the man and inject him in the shoulder.
“This is supposed to be a hospital, not Gitmo,” said the nurse. “You’re using extreme methods, and it’s clear you’re trying to destroy him. You’re a thug. Let him go home or I’ll report you.” The psychiatrist said, “I’ll let what’s left of him go home. And, by the way, you’re fired.”