My life began inside a test tube, not a hospital. The people on the outside thought it would be more humane if human guinea pigs, or people subjected to human testing, were made by scientists, and not mommies and daddies. For every day I had to try some experimental miracle drug or get injected with some kind of steroid, I cursed the people on the outside for making that decision.
While physically I was always healthy, inside I was dying. I never was told “I love you”, or even a “Good job”, instead, it was just always something like, “Patient twenty one, please step forward for immediate testing.” Even the décor screamed in your face, with grey walls, no windows, and low ceilings.

When I was about fifteen years old, I knew I couldn’t be able to take the mental strain much longer; I had to leave. When my plan, which I had conducted completely in my head, was finally perfected, I knew I had to immediately put it to action. I was being escorted by some big gorilla to my quarters after testing something called Advil, and as we neared my room, I began to act hopelessly sick; it wasn’t hard, that stuff tasted awful.
“Hey, patient 21! What’s your problem?”
“Well come over here and find out, you idiot!” I said between heaving gasps.
I heard him mutter some curses under his breath, but he walked over to me and placed one of his un-proportionately large hands on my forehead.
“You feel fine to me,” he said in his guttural accent.
While he had his guard down, I suddenly threw an elbow into his gut, and then when he toppled to the ground, I repeatedly kicked his face until my slip-ons were covered in blood. I just stared at him for a couple of seconds, breathing in sharp, quick gasps, his face turning a purple hue.
“You’re an animal!” The guard hissed; baring his bloody teeth.
I knew it would be inappropriate to start a monologue at that moment, so instead I snatched the guard’s baton from his hand and then repeatedly smacked him in the nose with it. Once I was certain he was unconscious, I grabbed his pistol, which he kept in a holster. My brow furrowed when I saw the mechanics of it. I knew how they worked; I had seen the guards use one on an escaped prisoner, but I didn’t know how to operate it.
The guard’s walkie-talkie became my immediate focus though, when it suddenly crackled to life.
“Jim, where are you?” Jim! Come in!”
I slipped the walkie-talkie off the guard’s belt; perspiration began to cloud my vision. I fumbled with the device for a few seconds trying to locate the button that would let me respond, but once I did, I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“….Jim, what’s going on? If you don’t pick up, I’m going to call for backup! If you’re alright and they find you, you’re fired!”
I quickly pressed the button, and in my best impression of ‘Jim’, I said, “I’m alright. Relax. I just slipped on my way back. It’s ok.”
“Sounds like you caught a cold too. Maybe if you talk to Mr. Hanson really sweetly, he’ll give you the day off tomorrow.”
“Yes. Thanks.” I let out a sigh of relief as soon as our conversation ended. I got up, with the gun and the walkie-talkie in my hands, and began to make my way toward, in the most literal sense, an exit.