My friend Claire and I are on duty today: two very special nurses. Not the kind who actually care for patients, but the kind who enjoy treating them like toys. Just look at us: tight-fitting white uniforms, gloves pulled up to our wrists, professional demeanour… but underneath it all is pure malice. And there he is, our patient. So fragile. We dont know what his illness is, but we certainly know what our therapy is: the total annihilation of his dignity. Its already a miracle that we let him breathe.The first medicine? A nice spit right in his face. How does it taste, slave? No need to answer, we already know: it disgusts you and excites you at the same time. And the more you struggle, the more we enjoy it.Then we move on to the bandages: tape, plastic, ropes. We wrap him up tight like a salami, immobilised and powerless, ready to be used as we please. He is no longer a patient: he is a laboratory object. Ours.We look him in the eyes as we laugh at him: a man who no longer has a will of his own, reduced to a guinea pig for our experimental treatments. Every order is a blow to his dignity. Every laugh is a wound deeper than the skin.We crush his face with our feet, ****** his mouth open, ridicule him by calling him a nobody, a failure, a malingerer. It is our therapy: contempt as medicine, humiliation as anaesthetic.Will he recover? Of course not. After treatment like that, you never recover. In fact, all that remains is addiction. He already knows this: he will ask again, he will beg us to put on these uniforms again, to put on the gloves again, to treat him like the refuse that he is.Because, after all, what could be more irresistible to a slave than being the property of his cruel nurses?
