information, they wanted me broken . Broken so far that I would do whatever they wanted, forever. They wanted me pliant, weak, desperate, and willing to bind m yself to them, forever. Some damned Focus waited on the other end of this, a Focus with a tag with my name on it. I would be her slave forever and ever and ever.
I wanted to say I would rather be dead. My juice monkey wouldn’t let me even think such things. Even ending my own life was no longer in my hands. Such is the lot of the mature Arm.
I decided to try to convince them they had broken me . I acted, I faked hallucinations, I begged and pleaded , I spoke nonsense . In the end, I let my mind go, so far I swear other voices spoke through my mouth.
I needed juice. I had to get juice. I would do whatever they wanted for juice.
My best acting, with far too much real ity invested in the process, and still n o one came.
They didn’t want to break me, I realized. Dr. Jeffers’ so-called offer had lapsed when I trashed the place. No one ever would come . I was trapped here and helpless, and my only remaining option was death . The horrible claw of withdrawal reach ed into me , unstoppable, inexorable.
They left me here to die. Agonizing death, at their hands, was now their purpose.
Panic replaced my fear , the horrible dehumanizing panic that consumes reason. I screamed and begged. I offered everything I could think of. I told them how horrible my craving was and I pleaded with those cameras to have mercy on me. I would do anything, everything. Just get me juice. I must have juice.
N o one came.
No one came the next day, either . No one came as my need consumed me , as my need ate me and destroyed me. C onsumed , devoured and shattered . Carol Hancock, Keaton’s former student, Bobby’s master, owner of Chicago, slayer of Beasts, Mr. Beacon, Mr. McIngle, all gone .
I became endurance, and little else.
Hammered
(1965)
Lori vomited again, head still spinning. Flushed the toilet. Again. Only bile remained inside her , foul and laden with bad juice. If she could vomit out everything her unknown enemies had done to her, whoever they were, whatever they had done, she would end of all her problems.
She wouldn’t live that long.
She shivered, and couldn’t stop shivering. She shook, and couldn’t stop shaking. Call Flo and Tonya, she told her people as they watched her, terrified, from the doorway of the bathroom . They might be able to save some of you. Then she fled, leaving her household behind , before she lost her mind and accidentally destroyed them all . In her current state, the destr uction called to her, the un-Focus-like urge to maim and kill, to punish the world for what the world had done to her. She understood her urges were wrong, now – but in a day, or two days? At least with her household out of range, when she died, she wouldn’t take them with her.
She huddled, knees to her chest, in some ditch in a park. Cool fall air wafted around her, carrying with it the odors of distant wood-fires, blue-cloud belching automobiles, and plants dead from the last frost. Lori didn’t even know which park she had fled to, save that she was far enough from home to be out of range of her repeaters. She wasn’t a real Focus witch; she hadn’t mastered the juice patterns as the other witches had, and her repeaters only went hundreds of yards, not miles.
Still, s he had run a long way, mind half gone.
“Focus. What happened to you?”
The whisper again. A rough, aged voice, not a native English speaker. She didn’t place the accent, but the voice reminded her of her Aunt Marcine, who had immigrated from Yugoslavia between the wa rs. Only this voice was male.
A hallucination. Her mind was falling apart. Her worst fear. She would rather die than lose her mind. Life wasn’t worth living with an addled mind.
She balled her fists, bit her tongue, and push ed again. She had
I wanted to say I would rather be dead. My juice monkey wouldn’t let me even think such things. Even ending my own life was no longer in my hands. Such is the lot of the mature Arm.
I decided to try to convince them they had broken me . I acted, I faked hallucinations, I begged and pleaded , I spoke nonsense . In the end, I let my mind go, so far I swear other voices spoke through my mouth.
I needed juice. I had to get juice. I would do whatever they wanted for juice.
My best acting, with far too much real ity invested in the process, and still n o one came.
They didn’t want to break me, I realized. Dr. Jeffers’ so-called offer had lapsed when I trashed the place. No one ever would come . I was trapped here and helpless, and my only remaining option was death . The horrible claw of withdrawal reach ed into me , unstoppable, inexorable.
They left me here to die. Agonizing death, at their hands, was now their purpose.
Panic replaced my fear , the horrible dehumanizing panic that consumes reason. I screamed and begged. I offered everything I could think of. I told them how horrible my craving was and I pleaded with those cameras to have mercy on me. I would do anything, everything. Just get me juice. I must have juice.
N o one came.
No one came the next day, either . No one came as my need consumed me , as my need ate me and destroyed me. C onsumed , devoured and shattered . Carol Hancock, Keaton’s former student, Bobby’s master, owner of Chicago, slayer of Beasts, Mr. Beacon, Mr. McIngle, all gone .
I became endurance, and little else.
Hammered
(1965)
Lori vomited again, head still spinning. Flushed the toilet. Again. Only bile remained inside her , foul and laden with bad juice. If she could vomit out everything her unknown enemies had done to her, whoever they were, whatever they had done, she would end of all her problems.
She wouldn’t live that long.
She shivered, and couldn’t stop shivering. She shook, and couldn’t stop shaking. Call Flo and Tonya, she told her people as they watched her, terrified, from the doorway of the bathroom . They might be able to save some of you. Then she fled, leaving her household behind , before she lost her mind and accidentally destroyed them all . In her current state, the destr uction called to her, the un-Focus-like urge to maim and kill, to punish the world for what the world had done to her. She understood her urges were wrong, now – but in a day, or two days? At least with her household out of range, when she died, she wouldn’t take them with her.
She huddled, knees to her chest, in some ditch in a park. Cool fall air wafted around her, carrying with it the odors of distant wood-fires, blue-cloud belching automobiles, and plants dead from the last frost. Lori didn’t even know which park she had fled to, save that she was far enough from home to be out of range of her repeaters. She wasn’t a real Focus witch; she hadn’t mastered the juice patterns as the other witches had, and her repeaters only went hundreds of yards, not miles.
Still, s he had run a long way, mind half gone.
“Focus. What happened to you?”
The whisper again. A rough, aged voice, not a native English speaker. She didn’t place the accent, but the voice reminded her of her Aunt Marcine, who had immigrated from Yugoslavia between the wa rs. Only this voice was male.
A hallucination. Her mind was falling apart. Her worst fear. She would rather die than lose her mind. Life wasn’t worth living with an addled mind.
She balled her fists, bit her tongue, and push ed again. She had
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