《I Am Cato》


 A Solitary Start

    The author is an illiterate caveman. Please critique his writing so that he can learn to speakwell, eat meat, and find a wife. Thanks


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    I run my hand down the spine of the book noticing how worn it has become. The pages have tuned a grimy tan and the binder more off than on. It¡¯s my fault, I know. A whole library to choose from and yet I keep coming back to the same one. Of Romulus, to Romulus: The History of Rome. I find the history of this great empire fascinating. Their lives are so colorful and active. There is conquest, love, treachery, hope, despair, and everything in between. Over a thousand years of constant action and reaction. Compare that to me in my white clothes, on my white chair, in this white room. Pitiful.


    ¡°Number Two it is time for your medication.¡± An old man with balding grey hair and oval glasses walked in the room. He wore grey slacks with a matching overcoat and a flimsy piece of laminated paper pinned to his chest that identified him as Hank. Fucking Hank.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I replied and nodded my head.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± Hank asked sternly with one raised eyebrow. Does he think his eyebrow is intimidating? It looks like a caterpillar leading a revolt from the tyranny of his face.


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± I corrected carefully keeping my face neutral. I always tried to hide my emotions, the less you showed the less they knew. Marcus Aurelius, one of my favorite emperors, frequently spoke about keeping the rationale mind above the emotional. Further here, in my cage, where my captors are constantly looking for a sign of weakness to latch on to, this rang truer still.


    Hank frowned as he handed me two purple pills. ¡°Take them quickly and report to the examination room in two hours.¡±


    I looked at the pills in his hand with trepidation and immediately notice, to my great dismay, that he once again did not bring any water. Most of my handlers do but not Hank. Nope, never that guy. Hank is special you see? Hank is what one might call... an asshole.


    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± I replied once more as I took the pills in my hand.


    Hank was staring at me. ¡°Well?¡± he inquired. The caterpillar seems to have made progress, now ever further up his face. Fight on little buddy, your people will remember this sacrifice!


    I popped both pills into my mouth and swallowed with a bitter expression. ¡°May I wash them down with some water from the restroom, sir?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he said with great a great pause and emphasis, ¡°you cannot use the restroom Number Two because unlike Trisha and Patrick I know that you are just going to throw the pills up at the first chance you get. I swear you are the worst one,¡± he finished.


    Worst one.


    He said it again. That means there are more. Hank is an asshole but his talkative nature gives me more information than the others. ¡°Who is the best one then?¡± I ask with my expression as innocent as possible, which is, for me, no expression at all. It is in fact, quite similar to my happy expression, and my sad expression, and my nervous expression. Oh, that actor I could have been!


    Hank frowns at the awkward twitching of my cheeks. ¡°The ones from before you, I mean,¡± he recovered. ¡°You are the only criminal we still have at the moment.¡±


    Pills without water are criminal.


    ¡°Of course, sir. I was mistaken.¡± I sat back down on my white chair and picked up the book once more, attempting to dismiss Hank by not looking at him. Ah, Commodus, time for the glorious decline. Woe to the perfect king and imperfect father that was Marcus.


    He stared at me, annoyed that I was ignoring him. ¡°Don¡¯t be late Number Two,¡± he says after a few tens of seconds. The door shuts quietly behind him.


    ¡°Oh eat a dick and choke on it, Hank,¡± I spit quietly under my breath. Somehow even if I am alone, they know what I say if I speak too loudly in this room. Thus I have learned to keep my vitriol low volume, less I step outside and get jumped by Hank¡¯s barbarian enforcers once more. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    I feel a slight burning sensation in my stomach as the pills begin to take effect. This happens almost every time. I look longingly at where my toilet once was before being removed. You served me well porcelain throne. I straighten my posture and breathe slowly, attempting to will away the pain. It was a hot, twisting sensation. Kind of like I had to take a really bad shit. Ah, porcelain throne, I miss you now more than ever.


    I considered throwing up again but there was no way to hide it. If I did so I would just be beaten bloody and then given the same pill tomorrow. No, best to just endure the pain and be done with it. All pain has limits and cannot go on indefinitely. I closed my eyes and refocused my center.


    The twisting pain was beginning to spread through my body. Slowly it circulated, touching each limb and even spending a long time in my skull, which was an extra special sort of pain. Probably how Hank felt when he choked on dicks. Ow. distracted, don¡¯t get distracted.


    After thirty minutes or so the pain began to subside. This was fairly usual. Sometimes the pills had barely any effect, sometimes they temporarily strengthened my body, and sometimes they caused me to become ill. The feeling vanishing after thirty minutes means this one was likely to do nothing. Works for me.


    I flipped my book open once more, excited to watch Commodus make his obvious mistakes. The author likes to criticize that Marcus should have killed his son rather than let him inherit the throne but I find that an unjust statement. Would he still be the last ¡°Good Emperor¡± if he was the kind of man who killed his own son?


    But as I had this thought something began to change within my body. For some reason, the pressure that I believed to be gone had come back and was centering itself in my skull. The pain rose steadily like waves on the beach, sets of seven building each more terrible than the last. What did these sick fucks do to me now?


    Supposedly I am a criminal. That¡¯s what they tell me at least. I killed a woman and her child but due to my mental state I was not executed; instead, I was brought to this facility where they could cure me. Hah, cure my ass.


    The idea that I killed someone does not sit well with me, of course. It bothers me quite a bit in fact. I do not believe myself to be a cruel or hateful person. Sure, I hate Hank but he deserves it. That does not mean I would go around slaughtering women and children. Furthermore, I have no memory of the occurrence which makes it even harder to believe. Would I not remember if I killed someone? Or perhaps, as I have been told, the memory is so painful to me that my brain has found a way to block it out. Dissociate that part of myself from the one I accepted, thus locking away both the bits of memory and personality. In that case, do I not deserve to be here in the land of dick-eating Hanks with their Castro-like eyebrows?


    The pressure in my skull increases. It has been an hour and a half now. Only thirty minutes left before the Gauls arrive to drag me from my pristine abode and torture me before their gods. I hope Sydney is not there. She always puts sharp things in places where they don¡¯t belong and I must admit that I am very much a fan of my current size and quantity of orifices.


    Twenty minutes left. My brain is struggling to distract itself from the pain that has become nigh unbearable.


    I wonder if Hank and Sydney are a couple? If so, I bet Hank is the one who takes it. I believe that it would be too abrupt a change for Sydney otherwise. It is curious though, is she accepting of the fact that ¡°Hank takes dicks in his mouth! Fuck this fucking hurts!¡± I scream aloud, no longer worried if anyone hears me. Being beaten by the goon patrol would be far better than what I am enduring now.


    I kneel on the ground in the fetal position. My knuckles have turned white as my fingers pull mindlessly at my hair. Something is wrong. It is never this bad. I need to stop whatever is happening. I shove my fingers down my throat and in one violent motion barf all over the floor. Pointless, nothing but gastric acid splatters across the cold white concrete. The pill is fully in my system now.


    Spitting at the ground between spasms I see a faint red has mixed with my saliva and bile. Is that from my stomach? Am I bleeding internally? No, I can¡¯t taste iron around my gums. So it is my teeth that are bleeding then? Why the fuck is that happening? Ah, I see, I¡¯m simply clenching too hard. I¡¯ll just have to¡­ nope, can¡¯t unclench now. Bleed on my un-pearly whites. If in the afterlife you see my old throne, tell him an old friend says hello.


    Five minutes to go. I am on the floor quivering in a putrid pile of what was once my insides. The pain that was once isolated to my skull has spread through my whole body and left me with a tingling sensation. Like the pins and needles feeling from having your foot fall asleep. Except everywhere. And worse.


    Thirty seconds.


    My vision is fading. I see blackness at the corners of my vision. Where do loser lab rat criminals go to when they die? Heaven? Hell? Or perhaps the Romans had it right and I will have to cross the River Styx to be judged by Jupiter. Ah, I have no way to pay him. I wonder what happens in this instance then? Perhaps someone will bring a bit of extra coin. Does the afterlife have beggars?


    Faintly I heard the sound of many footsteps and some guttural voices. Something about a lab, the director, and a communal. What is a communal?


    Hands grab me thought I only recognize it from the floor moving farther away. My eyes are closing and the last thing I see are two large caterpillars. Caterpillars? Oh, I see, it¡¯s Hank.


    Fucking Hank.

 Away From the Light

    The first thing I notice is an overwhelmingly putrid stench. It is like that of meat left out to rot in the warm sun. My eyes snap open and I immediately feel my stomach curling as I roll to my side and throw up whatever was left of my insides. Wiping my mouth I sit up with a blank stare and try to take in my surroundings. It is a move that I quickly regret. In every direction there lie bodies. All of them are going through various degrees of decay. Each one of them the slim, small corpses of children.


    I need to leave.


    Pushing off the ground with my hands, I shakily stand up. Swallowing both my spit and my nerves I do my best to stumble towards the edge of this hell hole. My foot catches on something beneath me and I end up spawling forwards, crashing heavily on top a corpse.


    I know that I should not, but how can I? I look down and a mere inch below my nose lies the lifeless eyes of a young girl. Her eyebrows all but gone and not but one thin strand of black hair is clinging weakly to her skull like the last piece of straw on an old broom.


    With great effort, I pull myself back up and move much more carefully than before to the edge of the¡­ communal? That is what they said, right? That is what this is I suppose. Just one big communal grave.


    So these were the others that Hank always misspoke of? The other criminals? What a crock of shit. These are children. Most of them appear younger than me. A cold laugh escapes my lips. All this time they tried to make me feel guilty for something I didn¡¯t do. They told me over and over again about how terrible my crime was. How I deserved to be locked in my white birdhouse and fed their seeds. Meanwhile, they were slaughtering children and tossing their bodies in the backyard. Fuck.


    The ditch in question is easily 5 feet deeper than I am tall, which means escaping will be somewhat difficult. There is no way I can simply pull myself out so I consider kicking a hole in the dirt wall that could be used as leverage but, as I should have expected, my shoes and my robes were taken. Just a boy in his underwear hanging out with a bunch of dead children, you know, day in the life.


    Looking around I spot a rock with a large divot on one side. Perfect! I can use that to scoop out the footholds and make my escape easier. I reach for it then pause. Not a rock, a bone. A shoulder bone maybe?


    Whoever it belonged to does not need it anymore. I doubt they would begrudge me doing whatever I can to escape the terrible death that awaits me here. At least I hope they would not. If they do, then they deserve to sacrifice their scapula to me. This logic is circular and I¡¯m an idiot.


    I clasp my hands together and off a quick thanks to the whichever child this belonged to, hoping that either heaven accepts them or their next incarnation goes better. Next, I pick up the bone and begin my dirty work. Hah! That was a good one. ¡®Dirt-y¡¯ work because it is both dirty and I¡¯m scooping dirt. How funny I am at this moment.


    Alone.


    Naked.


    Surrounded by dead bodies.


    I¡¯m not insane, you¡¯re insane!


    ¡°Pheew,¡± I exhale slowly and wipe my brow. I really need to get my head straight. This place is getting to me, and I can feel it. I was never the most balanced sort and this particular situation is not helping. I can lose my mind later but for now, I need to focus on surviving.


    Soon I have dug out four decent sized holes and wedge my feet into the crevices to leverage my body upwards. It doesn¡¯t take long and before my pale thin hands are clawing at the top of the wall. Small clumps of dirt fall upon my head and stick to my sweaty back. Briefly, I become amused at the thought of some scientist showing up right now and pissing his pants in terror thinking that the children have become zombies to enact their karmic vengeance. I must perfectly look the part. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Finally, I get my knee over the top of the ledge and pull my body completely upwards. Struck by inspiration I suddenly know what must be done. Nothing in my life has been clearer to me than this moment.


    ¡°Braaaaains!¡± I groan in my best zombie impersonation.


    Silence echoes through the night. Well, I suppose that is fair, it is not like I expected applause anyhow.


    A weird cough escapes my lungs, ow it hurts to laugh. That makes me laugh harder. Soon I am in hysteric, and soon after that, I am bawling. This is probably the most pathetic cry of my life. My chest is heaving and I have lost all control of my facial muscles, not that I had much, to begin with. I feel like a young toddler taking his first faceplant on asphalt. Experiencing a new form of pain, formerly unknown to me.


    All this time there was no reason for my torment. To our torment. We were all just lab rats to be plugged full of chemicals and tossed in the trash once our minds were sufficiently rotten. I once read that only the weak are cruel and that kindness was a trait of the strong. I don¡¯t think that is true. The weak are never given the chance to choose whether they should be kind or cruel because the strong always take that choice from them.


    Shakily rising to my feet I take a look around. I am in a woods of sorts. There is light coming from one direction, several lights actually, dim and multifarious in nature but almost blinding to my darkened eyes. The lab, I presume. I stare at it for just a moment before then around. Ponderously placing one foot in front of the other I begin my journey as far away from the light as I can go. Honestly I don¡¯t know if I can ever feel safe again, not with humans. Definitely not in the light. Now In front of me now lies naught but trees and darkness. It is comforting.


    After a while the ditch is behind is long behind but it is not enough. I keep going forward. I must.  The ground has cut open my pale, unused feet. In an odd corner of my mind, of which there are many, I wonder whether lab rats who have escaped to the wild adapt to the circumstances or simply die an innocuous death? I read that the founders of Rome: Romulus and Remus, were raised by a she-wolf. That sounds awfully convenient to me. If a big mama wolf wanders up to me right now and lifts her tit I am all for it. Ew. There should be a better word for that. Breast? I guess that¡¯s a small improvement.


    At a certain point, I realize that I should stop walking. Truly I should. The lights from the lab are not even a dim flicker from here. The stars are now the brightest thing in the sky along with the moon and that big red crescent thing. Big red thing? Mars perhaps? I never read that it had phases like the moon but perhaps that is just another detail stripped from my education by my dear friends Hank & Co.


    I need food, water, and sleep. If I am to live past tonight these are my requirements as a human. Related to this, I need to not be murdered by a roving band of child murdering scientists. I quiet my erratic brain and try to listen for any sound that may alert me to those needs. There is nothing of course. No sound of flowing water, nor¡­ what the hell would food sound like? Just a wild burger with two legs running around the tree¡¯s screaming, ¡®sizzle!¡¯ for all the world to hear? That would be amazing. After red stripe Mars who knows? I think it may just be best to keep an eye out for this elusive Sizzle monster.


    The easier option then would be rainwater. The leaves around me are damp and the grass has grown thick enough to hint at regular rainfall. But is that enough of an indication for me to bet my life on?


    The last option would be finding and following animal tracks. First off, I don¡¯t know what the fuck animal tracks look like. Second off, who''s to say those tracks would lead me to water and not a bears belly? Lamenting my education of unsorted non-fiction books I decide on gathering rainwater.


    I walk a bit further until I find a tree with unusually wide and firm leaves. Not really knowing how it should be done I gather small pebbles and use them to way down the middle of the leaves, leveling them out some and forming a dip in the middle. It is far from impressive but its the best I can do with my quickly fading focus. Admiring the wide and winding branches of the tree, I decided it would make a reasonably safe place to sleep for the night. With the last of my strength, I clumsily work my way upwards earning myself several scrapes for my efforts. Reaching a point where it seems safe to lie down without risk of falling to my death, I do so. I close my eyes and tree to find some peace in the blackness. But I am not alone, in my mind, I see hundreds of dull-eyed children watching me. I fear they will be my nightly companions for a very long time.

 Naked and Cold

    Today I woke up free.


    That word feels powerful to me. It is a recognition both that I have yet to live a life of my own and that I will do so from this day forth. Freedom is something millions of people have fought and died for throughout the countless millennia of human history. The right to choose is perhaps the bloodiest liberty discovered by our greedy race. And though I may not have fought for it, I did die for it.


    It rained last night. That was my second thought. I have heard that freedom tastes sweet but for now, it is cold and wet. On the upside, this should mean my makeshift leaf drinking fountain should be ready for use.


    That thought in mind I decided from my perch and walked over to my clumsy contraption. As I presumed, the light rainfall was enough to fill many of the leaves with delicious and hydrating acidic rain. The taste of dirt and stone only furthered enhanced the flavor of this rare delicacy. I shouldn¡¯t be complaining. The mere fact that I water to drink at all was quite fortunate.


    After filling up as best I could, I figured it was time to get moving again. This did not mean that I had any idea where to go but I¡¯ve always had a wanderlust. It had been caged in my white-walled prison for far too long and I was anxious to set it free.


    Surprisingly, my journey had barely started when I heard a strange sound coming from somewhere nearby. My stomach immediately set to rumbling and I could only hope that the noise I heard would lead me to food of some sort.


    I quickly set off in the direction that I believed it came from. I did not know what I would find nor did I have any idea of what to do when I found it. However, most any change in circumstance would be an improvement from naked and alone in the woods.


    A moment later and I was but a treeline away from where I had heard the disturbance. It was more clearly audible now. It was a humming of sorts, much like a bird but less natural and a pinch deeper. Not that it wasn¡¯t pleasant; it was. It just very much was not the humming of a bird. Which most likely meant that merely 10 feet before me was the first human I would meet as a free man.


    Child.


    Boy.


    Man sounds best.


    I panicked for a moment. What if all humans were bad? Well, maybe not bad but at least selfish. What if I am seen as a threat and killed on sight? Or hell, what if I¡¯m seen as valuable and taken captive yet again? If I escaped one hell to land just to land in another I don¡¯t know if my fragile psyche could endure. Perhaps it would be best if the person didn¡¯t know I was here? I could just watch them for a minute and try to determine their personality. If they seem trustworthy I will reveal myself and if not then I will sneak away.


    With my mind made up, I snuck closer and closer to where the sound originated from. I was doing my best to stay low and make as little noise as possible. Many of the books I read taught a clear lesson about not stopping on dry twigs while moving stealthily in the woods. Apparently, those were the equivalent of auditory landmines out here. It seemed that those destined to be caught always stepped on twigs before the enemy spun around with a swooshing sound. As it is, I am not inclined to be swooshed.


    Peeking my head through a brush I got my first glimpse of the target in question. It was not a sizzler which only disappointed me briefly. It was, however,  a human. Most importantly, it was a human dressed very differently from my old jailors. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The human in question was female. Wow, why am I an idiot? Who says things like that? Let¡¯s start again.


    The person who made the sound was a woman and from my limited perspective, she was quite beautiful. She had long dark curls of hair that cascaded down her back and ended just shy of her hips. Her muscular tan shoulders heavily suggested a physical lifestyle and perhaps a unique skill. For clothing, she wore a pair of worn out blue jeans and a black t-shirt with some old metal band rocking out on it. Finally, across her back was a metal crossbow matched by a long hunting knife on her hip. I was both intimidated and turned on.


    As if she heard my thoughts she suddenly whipped around, drawing her crossbow and aiming at me in one smooth motion


    Wait.


    Did I just get swooshed?


    ¡°Get out,¡± she said in a steely voice.


    Without much of a choice, I followed her orders.


    The reaction on her face was something I would remember for a long time. Partly in shame but mostly in fond amusement. She was, for lack of a better description, both extremely confused and extremely uncomfortable.


    ¡°Who the fuck are you?¡± she asked with her eyebrows scrunched together in disgust.


    In my heart of hearts, I wanted to respond to the question with Spartacus. How perfect that would be! I look at her eyes and weigh my chances. Nope, no compassion there. Them there are shoot you in the liver eyes.


    ¡°I¡­¡±


    But what if she gets the reference? Maybe she won¡¯t shoot me then? Ah but how much would a bolt hurt? Probably a lot. Plus I would die, which should be more important to me than it currently is. A route of questioning I can examine later, for now, I need to think of a name. A name like Spartacus.


    Nope, not that.


    A crossbow bolt is literally a sharpened stick designed to fly through the air and penetrate flesh. I am the flesh! Besides, people shit themselves when they die and I¡¯m in my underwear. That¡¯s a bad legacy.


    ¡°I am¡­¡±


    Her eyebrows were scrunching tighter and her finger squeezed ever so slightly more on the trigger.


    ¡°I am¡­ Cato!¡± I declared at last.


    A perfect name and perfect delivery. What a glorious start to my life of freedom.


    ¡°What the fuck kind of name is Cato?¡± she asked.


    I should have said, Spartacus.


    ¡°My father was Italian,¡± I responded after adjusting to my shock, ¡°He loved the classics.¡±


    She gave a half-hearted shrug and a shake of her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about and I care even less. What I do care about is why a boy was following me around in the woods where nothing but a pair of tighty whities? Not to mention peeping at me through a brush.


    ¡°A pair of what?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Your underwear, you little creep.¡±


    Oh. They are quite tight.


    ¡°I don¡¯t actually have any other clothes,¡±  I said.


    She stared with no change in expression.


    ¡°And I heard you humming so I became curious¡± I continued.


    She raised one eyebrow encouraging me to continue.


    ¡°I am just very, very lost, and honestly quite cold. I also think it would be really unfortunate to die in my underwear so I would like it a lot if you don¡¯t shoot me¡± I spoke carefully with my hands up. ¡°Also I¡¯m probably not a creep.¡±


    Her amber eyes showed surprise before a faint smile teased itself from her lips. Finally, she lowered the crossbow. ¡°I guess so,¡± she said staring intently at me before lowering her gaze to my¡­ oh.


    Awkwardly placing my two hands in front of my crotch, I did my best to look her in the eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t happen to have any clothes I could borrow, do you?¡±


    She gave a light laugh. ¡°Yeah, I might have something your size,¡± she responded. ¡°The name¡¯s Angela by the way.¡±


    This time I failed to hold back my rambling brain before it spit out a response, ¡°and what kind of angel goes around with a loaded crossbow?¡±


    She gave me a very serious look and I worried that I may have crossed some sort of line.


    ¡°The Italian kind.¡±


    We both broke out in laughter.