Gray Matter

“Subject 1-23-6-21-12. Have you felt unusual?.”
The subject, Abel Carson, is unknowingly carrying Variant Creutzfeldt- Jakob Disease. It has been 4 months since initial infection, and symptoms have begun to progress. 
“Ah… I suppose?” He responds, lost in thought.
Stage 1- the subject should begin to experience insomnia, confusion, and personality changes. For practical purposes, Abel is referred to as Subject. 
Subject was infected through means of blood transfusion. Unethical? Sure. But sacrifices must be made for the progression of our research. Prior to his containment here, we had given him the blood- disguised as an ordinary procedure.. After a 6 month period, it was confirmed by MRI scanning that Subject is carrying the disease.
The blood was sourced from our mortuary, from a victim of VCJD. The mentioned blood came from someone who died of something else, but what does that matter? The intent is to inflict Subject with the illness. If he contracts something else, it is simply another opportunity to discover something new.
“Describe,” I command, my voice static through the speaker in the chamber. While I have already observed his symptoms- tremors, forgetfulness, and insomnia- there may be symptoms that aren’t outwardly visible. 
Subject hesitates. 
“I have been… sad. Tired.” 
Subject seems dull. Melancholy. He would be far more upset if he knew what was really happening to him. I must be kind, then. To save him from the dread.
Whether the depression Subject is in is due to his confinement, or the progression of the illness is left to be debated. 
The timeline thus far for this project is clear-cut and right on schedule. Infected blood was given to Subject 6 months ago. After he developed the very first symptoms–3 months ago– he was brought to his current cell, disguised as a hospital room- under the guise of a procedural quarantine. Subject has not been given any indication as to what’s happening.  He currently believes that his family is sick, and he is being kept here for his own safety. How long this lie will hold up, I don’t know. But the rapidly progressing dementia should prevent any insurrection. 
I look down at my desk, shuffling the papers cluttered on its smooth, white surface. Subject’s file flutters to the ground, nearly lost in the clinical chaos.
I pick it up, the paper cool to the touch and roughly textured. Typed on the page is his file. I haven’t read it in detail much. I don’t want to get too attached, after all. I am somewhat curious, though. A quick overview couldn’t hurt?
“Abel Carson. Subject 1-23-6-21-12. 21 years of age, college student. Majored in Business prior to containment. Short build, thin, with short brown hair. Described by peers to be amicable, if a bit loud. Infected with VCJD, and a possible unknown other pathogen.”
Reading it, I realize the shift in behavior that he’s exhibited. He went from excitable and friendly, to quiet and easily upset. He used to have a life, but now, his brain is being devoured alive. His nerves are being shifted and damaged.
I won’t think about it.
I press the button to transmit my voice over the microphone into his room, speaking softer.
“Do you know your name?”
He pauses, staring at the source of my voice. He shifts slightly, looking directly into the camera that was placed in the chamber. It feels as if he’s staring into my soul when he responds.
“I… am Abel Carson. You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”
I jolt. A cold sweat runs down my neck, my body buzzing and alert. My throat is dry when I try to respond. Though he can’t see or hear me, he knows how I’m reacting. His face is intent, still looking at me– or the camera, really. I am a deer in headlights as I say–
“...Yes.”
He grins. 
“Well, what’s your name, then?”
I feel sick, but I can’t help myself but tell him.
“Norman Belle.”
He smiles. His eyes are dull, but glimmer with something. 
Something somewhat sinister.
“Well, Norman…” My name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. “What’s wrong with me? My family surely isn’t sick anymore. I’ve been more aware of your lies than you think.”
I feel bile rising in my throat. I back away from the surveillance screens, though I can still see Subject– Abel– twitching. Twitching, as I reach for the button, reserved for emergencies. Once pressed, it releases a gas containing a strong amnestic. It’s certainly a last resort– once given amnestics, Abel can no longer be considered as a “clean” specimen– as in, his symptoms cannot be reliably traced to his illness. Any symptom could be an effect of the gas, or VCJD. We wouldn’t have any way to know. 
And yet, I press the button anyways. 
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Hospitals