“Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men”
- T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men,” 1925
I was dying. Or at least I really hoped I was.
During the operations, I often screamed for my own death, begging them to just hurry up and kill me. They didn’t, though. They planned on keeping me alive for as long as they could, dissecting me over and over again.
I wasn’t even sure what they were looking for, and honestly, I didn’t think they knew either. From what Dr. Daniels told me, the doctors and scientists at the quarantine were no closer to finding a cure for the lyssavirus, despite all the examinations and tests and vivisection they’d performed on me.
Daniels was the doctor I dealt with the most. He did the day-to-day things – drew blood, occasionally gave me shots – but nothing too terrible. All the truly gruesome experiments and surgeries were left to a nameless, faceless mob of butchers.
Even though Daniels repeatedly assured me that they were surgeons, some of the finest that had ever practiced medicine, I wasn’t convinced. Any doctor who had taken the Hippocratic Oath wouldn’t act like they did.