Z2012SiteHThompson'sUnansweredTorture

I used to get letters everyday. My son wrote to me from the navy base every single day. I read about the drills at base, the connection formed, and even short stories that Lee wrote while clearing his mind. The letters were amazing, no matter the subject. Lee had a way of curving words to make anything wonderfully interesting. They gave me a sense of comfort and contact that I have been lacking since Lee left. Each afternoon as the sun began to sink, sat at my couch, with a hot cup of tea and read about my boy. On Tuesday January 2nd 1996, I waited for the mail to come, so I could become enveloped in the words Lee formed. Mail arrived in a pile of useless coupons, pleas for donations, and bills; lacking my daily note. I worked to convince myself that it was just an accident, that the mail was just late, that he was just busy. I paced around the house, cleaned things twice, read the back cover of a book multiple times. Anything that would keep my mind occupied, but I couldn't stop worrying. My mind would twist itself back towards the thought of Lee, wondering why I am going to be forced to live through a day with no word. I waited for a week. Seven miserable days with no sign of life from Lee, it was like I was staring at the flattened red line on his heart rate monitor. I was shut down, like a machine with no function. Finally the anxiety was getting to me, I couldn't sit at home with the dog in silence anymore. I slid on my knit gloves and drove over the icy roads towards the navy yard. Upon arriving, the ominous air pulled me from my car, feeding me more unrest. The gray sky around me was the expanse of my fear materialized. Each cloud a different scenario I had dreamt of why I hadn't heard from Lee. I walked as fast as my short legs would carry me. At the office I was curtly instructed that Lee was in the infirmary. I cannot quite explain exactly happened next. My blood congealed in my veins, my lungs shriveled to fall leaves, and my bones buckled to the point of being incapable of holding up my weight. I was conscious for the entirety of the experience, but my mind was wheeling. I didn't have any cognitive thoughts other than, “I must get to Lee. Now.” I stumbled and skid across the gravel towards the infirmary. I couldn't wait for them to tell me where he was or his condition. I just thrashed through the hallways. Opening every door, looking at the quiet bodies of the sick and wounded. Down at the end of the longest hallway, I thrust myself into a room and found Lee, lying unconscious on a cot, with a bloody bandage wrapped around his stomach. At that moment, I screamed his name, cried and shook, then fell to the floor as the world around me went black. I woke up, in a chair, leaned back against the wall, in the room with Lee. My hands were still quivering and my heart was still on an offbeat that made my eyes blur. I sat quietly in my chair, watching Lee’s shallow breath, hoping for some sort of reaction. Soon a nurse came in with a clipboard and bluntly stated, “Lee’s injuries were the result of unidentified enemy fire towards the base. Because of his location, he and three other men were randomly shot. Lee’s wound is in his stomach but he should make a full recovery. We recommend that you leave and let him rest.” Pangs of loss hit my gut like stones. I gave Lee a light kiss on the forehead as I left. Walking out was like a dream state, and I don’t even remember the drive home.

For one horrific month I didn’t hear from Lee or the navy base. I couldn’t busy myself with any entertainment and felt little to no reassurance from friends. Lee is my only child and his father died shortly after Lee was born. They were my only family, my only support group. Unable to speak with either of them made my coping that much more solitary and painful. The only thing I could do find to ease my mind was to read some of the old letters Lee sent me. One night while I was sitting on the couch, reading and eating a cup of soup, the phone rang. It was the navy base, calling to inform me that Lee had died from his injuries and that I was needed to come the next day and pick up his things. I felt destroyed inside; my ears imploded, my eyes turned upside down. My back hit the ground with such a force I thought there was chance I might bury myself alive. But that’s exactly how I felt, like I was underground with no air to breathe, but completely aware of my situation. I have now lost both of my people. The next day on the base was incredibly difficult. I felt like a ghost invading the land of the living, like I was invading a space that wasn’t my own. However, the process was quite easy, they had Lee’s things ready for me and I was able to leave before making a scene. When I got home, I sat the over sized box on the couch next to me and watched it. Perhaps hoping that somehow it would contort and morph into the image of my son that I need so desperately now. After a few hours of feeling sorry for myself I decided I would fold his clothes and put his things in his room. I slit the tape open with a razor and peer inside. It seemed like there is a lack of clothing, but I figured at that point that they might have given some of his uniforms to young new recruits. Also occupying the box were miscellany like photos and books. When I got to the bottom of the box, my heart skipped a beat. Lying at the bottom of the box was Lee’s journal that he used to write my letters. I held it in my hands for a few minutes just realizing how this little collection of papers had been my life support for the last year. How this was the only thing connecting my son and myself. I became aware of the significance held in this little object and just held it. I clutched it until my palms were white because I felt as though, like everything else, the journal would just slip away like a feather. At first I figured I wouldn’t open it, that it was a private source of freedom for Lee and that I’m sure he wouldn't want everything he had written to be seen by his mother, that I would just keep it as a token of our connection. But after about two weeks of letting it sit on my coffee table, quietly holding the last pieces of my son, I felt dragged by an uncontrollable power to open it. (journal entries) Reading these entries was the most horrific thing I have ever been through. I felt like a sick ragged dog. The effect on myself was like a disease, mentally, physically, and emotionally straining. I felt lost and betrayed and most importantly extremely angry. The sort of angry that made my stomach turn and caused me to fall to the floor in waves of tears. I thought numerous times of reporting the base to the authorities. But a part of me was scared. They were obviously such powerful people and they had no trouble killing my son, so getting rid of an old lady like myself would be child’s play. I was also becoming slightly paranoid. I kept getting the feeling that I was being watched, or followed, or listened to. I tried to just brush it off, to consider it was being caused by my losses. But I started becoming very careful about when I left my home, or what I said while on the phone. I kept wondering if the officials from the base knew what I know, if they were watching if I was going to expose them. Then one day, there was a knock on the door. There was a young woman there, standing squarely with her briefcase. She reported that she was from the base and just had some quick questions for me about Lee’s final affairs. I followed her to her royal blue sedan. We sat and talked for a while at the neighborhood pastry shop. She was kind but not overly talkative. I didn’t ask her any direct questions about the work of the doctors because she didn’t give off the impression that she knew a lot about anything outside of her field. I sufficiently answered her questions and we began our drive back to my house. As we made the final turn towards the house my stomach dropped like a roller coaster. There was a tail of smoke writhing in the wind from my rooftop. The windows were cracking and shattering as the flames ate at the side of the bricks. My entire house was drenched in red hot fire. It wasn’t like running, but it was all I could manage as I tripped and struggled to reach my home. In my dizziness I was able to make out two dark figures run from around the side of my house and jump into back of the car with the woman and they sped away down the street. Then it all occurred to me. The officials from the base had been watching me and found that I had read Lee’s journal. They knew that I could reveal them at any moment. So they sabotaged me. I realize, I didn’t even get the woman’s name and there was no way I would have been able to identify the two running to meet her. And the base knew that it would come across as too suspicious if a man and his mother were to die for unknown reasons so close together. So they were masterful and used their resources to get me out of the house and burn my only evidence against them – Lee’s journal. Now I have no way of proving what they did to my son and dozens of other innocent young men. I collapsed on the ground below me as I came to the realization that my son was a human experiment and no one will ever know.

The next morning as the firefighters were going through the flattened remains of the Thompson household, they shrugged heavily with the thought of having to tell another elder woman that almost all of her belongings were scorched. I could tell that they didn’t have good news for me by their faces, but I just ignored the sympathy. I was in too much utter shock. I dragged my feet in what used to be my place of comfort, that is now a site of terrorism. I try to find anything that I had gotten from Lee. Then I found it – his journal, blackened to a crisp and all pages melted and illegible. Only the very first page was slightly protected by the front leather cover. The words written were useless for my fight against the base, but they could act as a source of connection to myself and Lee. This scarred piece of white paper was my last memento I would ever have of him. And although my tears swell and my heart shakes when I think of what has happened and that I will never be able to save others from what happened to my son, I will forever harbor his memory through this last remaining scrap of his life.

Lee Patrick Thompson journal entries

Jan 2 1996 – I woke up this morning in the infirmary. My stomach was wrapped in a disturbingly red bandage. I stared in disbelief but I couldn’t look for long. The image and the connection to my body was too much and the medicine I was undoubtedly being given made me queasy. So I drifted back into an unconscious sleep for the majority of the day. This evening when I woke up from my sleep, a number of nurses came into my room. They checked my temperature, bandages, heart rate, etc. The one who was in charge came over to me and explained my situation. She said the base was attacked by unidentified fire and since I was working on deck of one of the ships, I was shot. She said that I should make a full recovery and be able to fight again. This news relieved me enough, so I could dream of the day when I could go back and start fighting again.

Jan 3 1996 – My greatest friend Jon came to visit me earlier today. He told me some quite disturbing thoughts. He thinks that the admiral has lied to me. He thinks that I was shot on purpose by one of our men so that I could be sent to the infirmary. Apparently a handful of men have gone into the infirmary and not returned to work. This story is disconcerting, but I’m not paying too much attention. Jon has always been a worrier and if he gets the slightest idea of a conspiracy he goes and makes everyone he can uneasy. I feel that his concerns are heartfelt but that he is making a big deal out of something with no evidence.

Jan 4 1996 – I’m incredibly tired today. Since I am trying to get stronger, I am not knocked out as quickly from the medicine. So sleep is a little harder to find because of my pain. But what really kept me awake, were the horrifying noises that echoed in the halls of the infirmary outside of my door. There were shrieking screams that sounded like injured dogs. The sound of pounding on doors made me think people were trying to escape. I was more frightened, however, when I tried to get up from my cot to check the halls. I couldn’t move. My whole body was strapped down with steel chains. I forced myself not to panic; it had to be that they didn’t want me to fall in my sleep and make my injuries worse. But it was incredibly unnerving. I couldn’t find sleep until the light crawled into my room this morning.

Jan 5 1996 – After lunch today, big men in doctors’ clothes came in and held me down. A nurse gave me a shot of a thick blue serum. I’ve had many shots before, but this one was different. The needle was thick and it hurt like a blade going into my skin. I must have fainted because this is the first I’ve been conscious since they left. The place of injection is very warm and sore, I don’t really know what to do about it or what the medicine was. Each time I have tried to ask a passing nurse, they give mumble a word or two with no meaning to me whatsoever. Strange.

Jan 11 1996 – Still in the infirmary. I haven’t been writing. It is very hard to do. My hands are shaky and everything hurts. They give me a shot of the blue medicine everyday. I feel kind of lost and dizzy all day. They say it is just the medicine and that I will get used to it. I hope they’re right.

Jan 12 1996 – It’s weird – how everything has changed recently. The floor moves right away from me when I walk and I fall. Every time I sit up I have to be very slow or my eyes spin. I can’t eat too much because if I do I throw it right up. I just lay down most of the time getting shot with the monster of medicine.

Jan 14 1996 – I was moved to my own room. It is in a place they call the Annex. I have the whole room to myself. Nothing is on the walls and the windows are guarded with wire that sparks. The door stays bolted and I cannot leave unless one of the nurses comes and enters a secret code.

Jan 15 1996 – Birds. All I hear are birds. Scratching at the windows with their daggers. Their spile-like beaks breaking into my room. Their black feathered wings slashing like tornadoes. Beaks pecking coming at my face, snapping like alligators’ teeth. I scream and slash at them, but they never leave. They attack all the time.

Jan 17 1996 – I haven’t written because I was in the infirmary. They said I tried to claw out my eyes and scratch at the walls with my fingernails. I don’t remember this at all but I have cuts around my eyes and bandages wrapped tight around my fingers.

Jan 18 1996 – I decided to write all over the walls since they were so boring and white. I broke pens open and used my hands to rub it all over the walls. I even used my cuts and scabs to make red ink for my painting. I can see all sorts of things in my painting, even people that I can talk to sometimes.

Jan 21 1996 – the walls talk back to me. They tell me scary stories and make me realize things I hadn’t seen before. Like I see the other people in the room that I didn’t notice and we talk together. I also see the faceless baby that stares in the window at me at night.

Jan 22 1996 – the voices are here. They talk all the time and the nurses say I’m the only one who hears them. They just don’t get it. They don’t understand. They don’t have the powers I do.

Jan 23 1996 – we were allowed to go outside today. I saw another man there. He was talking and he was saying bad things about the voices. I started shaking and running towards him. I hit him in the face. I don’t feel bad, he was mean to my friends.

Jan 24 1996 – I don’t sleep in the dark anymore, I leave the lights on all the time. If I turn off the lights the scary voices come. I don’t like the scary voices. When they talk to me I start crying and screaming. The nurses come and tie me to my bed when I do that. They say that I’m bad for being loud.

Jan 25 1996 – the nurses said they are going to give me special medicine tomorrow. They said the voices and all my scary thoughts wouldn’t be there anymore. They said I would be happier and safer. I’m happy for that.