Ned begins to have his own doubts, and discovers something shocking about Michael that he's seen before.
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For Your Own Good 5
Ned sat at his desk in the ICU muttering a fairly foul string
of various curses. When he had exhausted his vocabulary of
profanities, he went back and started over. By the third time that
he realized that he was repeating himself, he began to extemporize
and wax grammatical. His swearing gave whole new meanings to the
words “foul mouth.” Fortunately, all four of his charges were
either heavily sedated or just plain unconscious due to mental
trauma. He turned back to his notes with a sigh. His computer had
just performed the notorious “Illegal Operation” and shut down on
him. “Fuckin’ Bill Gates MW Word macros bullshit…” he
muttered, “Wish you and your MS team were in here with me right
now, Mister, damn ME edition…” and at that point he began to get
verbally creative again.
He paused after another good rant, looking around at the four
beds in the warm room. Like most of the other rooms at IO Rehab
for Boys, it was painted white with a few small slits here and
there in the walls that held things only he or a guard could
access. There was, of course, the mirrored spy globe in the
ceiling – which he realized had no doubt recorded his every word
and gesticulation. Just for good measure, he flipped his middle
finger at the shiny, uncaring globe and continued with his work;
lately he was finding little joy in that work.
It had seemed like a good idea, taking this position. He was
studying urology as a specialty area at med school, and the IO
posting had offered him free room and board and 50% tuition
assistance. All that he had to do in return, his contract said,
was to “medically service the inmates as required by IO standards
and remain on campus as scheduled for duty.” He had had no idea
that that had meant that he would spend his days cutting off the
genitalia of young men, most of them hardly into puberty. He had
thought that he would be getting more practice in the GP area as
well. Certainly he had that. Routine exams, checkups, shots and
such. What really annoyed him were the castrations. The tedious
paperwork or the seemingly endless stream of maintenance exams and
enema therapy didn’t bother him. But every time he took a young
man’s testicles, or cut off the penis of a restrained and unwilling
patient, a small part of him seemed to die.
At first he had thought that he could compromise his
principles in the matter, but of late he was wondering.
He let his gaze drift around the room. In the bed nearest him
was Thomas, the chart said. There were so many of them. So many
boys, so many faces, and most – he thought – that were certainly
being punished far beyond that which they deserved. Thomas was an
average white boy, aged 15, average build … average … average …
average … the chart said. He was on the mend from several broken
ribs and a concussion that he had sustained in a rec room brawl.
He was slated to return to his dorm the next day, bandaged and
suitably punished. Ned shivered as he recalled the hours that the
boy had spent locked up in the padded ‘cooling’ room, screaming,
and his injuries unattended, while the ULF generators relentlessly
tore at his brain. It was the standard punishment – theoretically
infinite, unbearable pain with no tissue damage. It worked well –
most of the time. Too well, in some cases.
In the next bed was Scott, another average boy. “Average,”
Ned snorted half aloud, glancing at the IV that was feeding Scott
not only nutrients but painkillers and sedatives as well. For
Scott, Ned felt little to no sympathy however. He had read Scott’s
record upon his arrival for treatment. If anyone should have been
in IO, it was Scott. At the age of 16, Scott’s record stretched
back to the age of 5. It started with fights, disturbing the
peace, etc., the usual – then progressed to more violent crimes
such as rape and assault with a deadly weapon with intent by 16.
Scott’s only claim to fame was that his records stated that he
was ‘suffering’ from Superman Syndrome – meaning that he had
two ‘Y’ Chromosomes instead of one. He also had, predictably,
higher than normal testosterone levels. For Ned, Scott had been an
interesting case study and it was the paper that he was writing
about Scott and his extra ‘Y’ chromosome that had crashed his
computer.
Ned carefully pulled back the sheet and checked Scott’s
bandages and catheter. The total emasculation procedure had gone
well, and Ned expected this boy to heal up with only minimal
scarring. Of course there would be nothing left of Scott’s already
overactive sex drive and sex life, but to that Ned had no
sympathy. His records stated that Scott had already fathered at
least three children that were proven, and the several angry
fathers whose daughters the boy had deflowered were just as happy
to learn that Scott’s sowing of his oats – so to speak – were
over. Scott was listed as ‘HRT Denied’, and would live out the
rest of his days as a full eunuch, IF he made it to 18 and
graduated. It was the boys like Joey and Cheng that bothered him.
Ned didn’t always agree that it was for their own good, but in
Scott’s case he made an exception.
In the bed next to Scott was Andre’, a boy of some racially
mixed descent that was so mixed up that the term “Heinz 57”
or “mutt” came to mind. Andre’ had just arrived, committed to IO
for one year on the orders of his family. Ned snorted as he looked
over Andre’s chart. Father unknown, no brothers, two sisters,
being raised by his mother and her sister – and her sister’s
significant other. “Significant other? What the hell is that?”
Ned wondered aloud. From what his records and admission notes
said, Andre’ hadn’t done anything wrong other than be born as a
boy. It was as simple as that. At 14, his family had claimed that
he was delinquent, and acting oddly. Puberty wasn’t going well for
him, and something had to be done before his “bad habits” got out
of control. He was disrupting his families’ lives, and needed
help. His help had come in the form of low-security boarding at
IO, counselling and classes, and – of course - testicular
castration.
Ned checked Andre’ over, and moved on. The standard
castration appeared to be healing up normally, with nothing to
worry about. Ned decided to release him the following day, another
boy robbed of his impending manhood. Andre’ was labelled as “HRT
Pending,” meaning – so Ned thought – that the final say in that
matter would be left up to Andre’s family. “Don’t hold your breath
waiting for that first shot,” he mumbled to the unconscious
boy, “Your family thinks it’s for your own good, you know.”
Then he stopped. In the last bed was Michael.
Ned didn’t fully understand Michael’s case. They had placed
the boy under his care, but beyond Michael’s recent, simple
castration, removal of his small testicles only, this boy was out
of Ned’s league. Of course his supervisors and teachers were
handling Michael’s other problems, such as the psychotic episode a
few days before and his memory recoding. That was far beyond Ned’s
field of expertise. They had said that they wanted Ned to be there
with the boy, since he seemed to trust Ned more than
anyone. “There’s just something about YOU that he likes,” they had
told him, “You get through to him where others don’t.”
“Why me?” Ned mumbled, running a hand softly over Michael’s
head, which had already grown out, to almost ΒΌ” from the 00000-
initiation cut he had been give upon arrival. “Why did it HAVE to
me ME?” He remembered with considerable regrets the question the
boy had asked during his admission physical – “Are you gonna
castrate ME?”
“And I told you ‘no’,” he whispered to the still, slight form
in the bed, “And I lied. I’m sorry, Mikey. God, I’m in over my
head here.”
Ned’s thoughts were scattered as he checked Michael’s catheter
and wounds. The two small stitches on each side of his tight,
small scrotum were holding. But how was he going to feel when he
awakened to find his balls gone? There was only minimal swelling
and quite a bit of bruising, but all in all it had been routine.
But the boy had been lied to. Open the sac, pull one out, ligature
the cords, cut and cauterize, dispose of the uneeded testicle,
close the wound – repeat for other side. Michael had been placed
in his care with Foley catheter and IV and NG-feeing tube already
installed. But what would happen when he finally awakend to
discover that he was a eunuch? Everything was running just as it
was supposed to run, no kinks, no clogs. It had been two, almost
three weeks since his psychotic episode and exam thereafter.
Everything had seemed to be going fine. The exam was routine,
Michael had said that he felt fine. He had been returned to the
dorms. Good marks in class, good reports from his counselors, no
behavioral problems. Ned remembered the first initial exam, and
the brutal shot of ULF that Ames had given the boy to shock his
brain back into some semblance of working order just before. He
sighed again, wondering what it was about THIS boy that was
different. They had sent him down to Ned after a second barrage of
tests some weeks later, and added that his vitals were stable
enough for the routine castration. Ned had objected, on grounds of
the other trauma. To him, it had looked like they had very nearly
killed the slight boy. But he had been overruled. He could only
wonder to what kind of testing they had subjected the poor boy.
Aside from the IV, the NG and the catheter, there were two angry
red welts on the sides of Michael’s head and what looked like a
large mosquito bite just under his left ear. It was the NG,
however, that bothered Ned the most. If the boy needed it to be
fed, it meant that he had been – and probably would be –
unconscious for some time to come.
He read over the chart. Michael had been a bad kid, into a
lot of trouble, but nothing really violent or sexual. He had just
hit puberty, according to his bloodwork results and physical
reactions. Of course he was slated for routine castration, just as
all the other boys in IO were – that was standard procedure. There
hadn’t really been any noticeable onset of secondary sexual
characteristics, however, and this really annoyed Ned. He hated
cutting prepubescent boys, but even the boys like Andre’ – who were
in for only short periods of time – were automatically castrated.
He thought of all the things that were now forever denied to
Michael. True, he might qualify for HRT, but it wouldn’t be the
same. If indeed the boy survived the next five years and whatever
the hell they were doing to his brain, for reasons unknown, he
could have HRT and grow up into a man and lead an active sex life.
Ned thought about it. He had read that the orgasms were harder to
reach, and felt different, but were entirely possible. Of course,
Michael didn’t yet know what an orgasm was, so he wouldn’t really
know a typical one, or even miss it.
And Michael would have no children of his own.
Ned thought about it. ‘He’s a thief. A neglected,
malnourished, unloved little thief who was trying to survive. Big
crime. Yea, that’s genetic all right. Let’s deny him the right to
have children, lead a normal life, and lock him up with rapists and
murderers and let him see someone whom he trusts – the first one he
calls a friend – in this hellish place - kill another inmate. He’s
gonna learn all kinds of new things. GREAT therapy in MY book.
Really a great way to make a reformed citizen of him.” Ned thought,
half aloud.
But he still didn’t understand. Michael seemed to be adapting
well enough, until Sam had killed Harvey. True, Harvey deserved
what he got, or so Ned thought. He just thought that Sam could
have done it at a more tactful time. He also didn’t understand the
ULF punishments that the boy had been given, even for seemingly
minor transgressions. He couldn’t understand why, or to what end,
they were tampering with his memory either. He wondered about Ames
and his cronies in administration. He was sure, that given time,
the boy would have gotten over the shock of Harvey’s death. Hell,
by the next hour he was trusting Sam again. And he certainly
didn’t understand – or even know – what kind of therapy the boys
were getting while they were asleep, via the pillow transceivers.
All Ned knew was that once in bed, the boys slept deeply and
couldn’t move, OR wake up without an electronic pulse that let them
wake up. All he knew was that Michael was getting “too much” as
they had said. A mistake, they had said. An oversight, they had
said. And as for the memory tampering, well – they had said that
from what he had seen so soon after arriving at IO that it was
really for his own good.
Ned continued to read and absently stroke Michael’s head. The
chart read with terms that Ned only partially understood.
- serotonin levels decreasing
- dopamine levels increasing
- overall neurotransmission levels too high
- EEG abnormal
- CAT scan inconclusive
- ULF reactions bad
- Erratic activity in temporal lobes
- Decreasing activity across Corpus Callosum
What the hell did it all mean? Ned had his own ideas about it
as he poured over graphs and figures that he didn’t totally
comprehend. “I’m studying urology and GP, not brain surgery,
dammit,” he muttered. But he’d seen this list before. He had read
over the same data many times when he had been overseeing the
aftercare of another boy’s total emasculation surgery. He thought
back and began to draw some conclusions. It didn’t take a genius
to realize that 2+2=4, unless you were in some obscure form of
modern math. That was one plus to his job in the castration
department – he got to read ALL of the patient’s data files. He
just didn’t understand them all. The last time he had seen a chart
like Michael’s was for a boy who had willingly and even happily
volunteered to become a complete and total eunuch. In light of his
impending castration, this other boy had asked for a penectomy as
well, leaving no traces between his legs that he had even been a
boy in the first place.
His mind began to wander. Ned had certainly not understood
that one, but had found some justification for it later that had
cleared up some of the mystery. His reasoning had been that if he
didn’t have any balls, he wouldn’t have a sex life and he didn’t
need a penis and that it would be just as well to have off with it
all at once. So, Ned had asked him again and again. Each time,
the boy had said, yes, he wanted it all gone. And so he had done
it. It was only after the operation was completed and the boy was
made a total eunuch, did he find out that his own student trainee
was the boy’s friend who had talked him into it. This trainee had
assisted Ned in the surgery, passed his class and moved to the
next, and secured himself a better academic marking in the
process. In addition to all the other time he had spent training
and aiming at early graduation, working with Ned had given him
another career opportunity. It was after that that Ned made sure
he knew which boy was bunking with whom and what was going on.
When he had finally learned that Sam had talked Cheng into
nullification – when Cheng was there by mistake and up for
adoption – he had shown Sam the data and what he had actually
done. They had, at that point, secretly agreed to be shocked and
apalled together and NOT to mention it to Cheng. This boy was the
first one that he had encountered that didn’t seem to mind – in
fact – WANTED to be fully ‘nullified’ as some called it. He was
certainly the only one who had been happy about it when he had
awakened to find nothing but bandages and a latex tube between his
legs. Ned grinned in spite of his feelings in the matter. He
still had the image in his mind of young Cheng standing naked in
front of the mirror in the exam room when the last of the bandages
had come off and the cathater had come out. The Asian eunuch had
been so proud of his new look. However, most of them were so
humilitated and depressed that they usually withdrew, hardly even
speaking to anyone for months. Still, it bothered him. Joey came
readily to mind.
Ned leafed through the notes again, called up the nullified
boy’s records on the computer, then Michael’s, and compared them.
With the exception that Michael still had a penis, they were
identical. He slumped in his chair in shock. The stats didn’t lie
to him. The others in the room were routine urological surgeries
and minor injuries, but not Michael. Sickened a bit, Ned stared
helplessly at the smiling Asian face on the high-resolution
screen. “It’s so detailed,” he said aloud, “even that funny
haircut of his…he just can’t make it stand up right…”
Michael was headed straight down the same course as Cheng, and
Cheng was sick.
In fact, Ned knew for certain, Cheng was dying.