The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor filled the void, like a gentle drop of water hitting a pond.
Adam was stuck in darkness for as long as he could remember.
Eternity lay stretched before him, yet he was unable to move forwards within it.
He was chained by an unbroken, suffocating void that swallowed nearly every sense, except for the one he wanted to lose the most: the constant feeling of pain.
He was incapable of seeing the outside world, talking, or even moving a single muscle.
His world was a constant, maddening symphony of metallic groans and digital chirps; the continual sound of machines beeping and pumps working in rhythmic, tireless succession. It was an arduous strive to keep his barely functioning body tethered to a life he couldn't control anymore.
Sporadic voices would occasionally drift into his ears, a cacophony of blurred, unintelligible whispers and murmurs that blended with the ever-fading background.
The sterile, potent smell of medicine, antiseptics, and chemicals perpetually wafted throughout the room; a sickly sweet and bitter scent that clung to his labored breath.
And then there was the bland, tasteless viscous fluid that were periodically, unceremoniously, shoved down his throat; a constant reminder of his dependence.
Cold.
It was a pervasive, bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the crushing realization of his circumstances: he was utterly unwanted and profoundly unloved.
His continued existence, he instinctively knew, was a calculated charade.
A half-hearted, cynical attempt by the uncaring government to prevent public opinion from souring. To quell a potential uproar that might tarnish their carefully constructed facade of benevolence. To maintain overall profits.
He had been in an accident when he was very young. A catastrophe that had stolen his childhood and condemned him to this state of dead-living.
Poisoned by chemical-laced water, he, along with countless others, had fallen victim to the abysmal oversight of a negligent government and lax health regulations. Or perhaps they were bought out officials who overlooked obvious lack of protocols?
He remembered, vaguely, the orphanage, a place that had once hummed with the tranquil laughter and quiet, scattered steps of dozens of children.
An image that slowly shifted hues.
Slowly, agonizingly, one by one, everyone there had become afflicted; their small bodies swiftly succumbing to the creeping illness. They faded, their lights extinguishing with little fanfare, dying in obscurity because nobody was willing to pay any attention to unwanted children.
Their frail, barely nourished bodies to weak to combat the illness.
Their cries for help, their silent suffering, were drowned out by the apathy of a world that deemed them disposable.
Few tried to speak out, but their voices were drowned out by the wealthy.
Memories of holding his dying brothers and sisters within his frail and pale arms were one of the few memories that he was cursed with remembering.
No, not the memory, but the physical feeling of their warmth fading in his arms.
They pleas and begs for help or forgiveness, the constant weak shuddering from the extreme cold they felt within. Their hands drying his tears before falling helplessly to the side.
Constant wailing and blood-filled coughs painted his young, blank canvas red. The faces and names slowly faded, but the color of death and agony had only deepened the color.
Red was the ink used to paint his life.
Flashes of red played in his head like a broken record, his unmoving body boiling with hate for those who had caused him to be in pain, for those who made him forget the faces of those he used to share his dreams with.
It was only after dozens of grim case reports began to flood in, a mounting tide of sickness and death that could no longer be ignored, that the government and involved parties finally, 'sincerely' apologized.
They offered the surviving children, Adam among them, and many other victims, the 'attention' they needed; a cynical charade of compassion.
Yet, Adam knew the truth, a bitter truth that gnawed at his fading consciousness.
His body, even then, had always possessed a strange, underlying resilience, a stubborn refusal to yield that made his illness less severe than most. Even as others succumbed, he clung to life with a primal tenacity.
But even with his abnormal strength, he could only slowly feel the myriad medicines, supposedly administered to 'heal' him, subtly betraying their purpose, making him grow weaker and weaker with each passing day.
It was a slow, insidious poisoning, a protracted execution disguised as care.
Days bled into months, and months blurred into indistinguishable years.
First, the light vanished from his eyes, plunging him into the perpetual night he now inhabited.
Then followed the silent agony of losing his voice, his inability to even utter a sound, to scream his frustration.
Finally, the last vestiges of motor function abandoned him, leaving him a prisoner within his own mind, a silent, unmoving statue.
He had long lost track of precise time, but from the vague, repetitive snippets of nurses's conversations, he was able to discern that around a dozen years had passed. This meant he was likely a young adult now, his childhood stolen, and his youth a silent, confined purgatory.
It was only through his sheer, unyielding will to survive, a burning ember of defiance in the vast darkness, that he had endured this long, struggling and fighting against an unseen enemy, his heart never forgetting the hatred.
At first, his prolonged survival was merely a tactic for the shadowy men in suits, a strategic move to prevent any potential lawsuits. But as these very men observed the young miracle stubbornly clinging to life, a new, more insidious plan began to form in their calculating minds.
"Desperate Child Struggling for Survival! Here at XXXX, We are Doing Everything in Our Power to Save This Tragic Soul!"
It was a simple yet disturbingly effective plan for public relations, a shimmering shield of false philanthropy; evil men shrouded in righteous accolades, boasting about their false magnanimity.
They paraded his silent suffering across media channels, twisting his tragic existence into a heartwarming tale of corporate benevolence, subtly diverting public scrutiny and artfully concealing their blatant abuse of power and their past heinous violations of health regulations.
Adam, trapped in his inert shell, could only register the sickening falsity of it all, the cold, calculating way his suffering was being converted into a sign of hope.
He was a symbol, not a person, a pawn in their elaborate game.
His humanity had long been stripped away from his weak hands; leaving a bloody splatter of rage and hate.
But even the most effective propaganda campaigns eventually lose their luster.
Eventually, the public grew bored, their attention drifting to the next fleeting tragedy.
It was only after he was truly forgotten, when his use as a public mascot and tool had waned, that the doctors finally delivered their cold, clinical verdict: he was a lost cause, utterly brain-dead, no longer capable of living as a normal human.
Their 'humane' solution, whispered with a practiced solemnity, was to put him out of his misery.
To let the red wash over him.