Their Cruelest Human Experiment

My ex-girlfriend and my best friend loved conducting experiments. And I was their lab rat. When I had a fever, they fed me chili oil to test whether heat was a taste or actual pain. Knowing I was allergic to alcohol, they tricked me into drinking to see if "insobriety breeds absolute truth." Even when I caught them in bed together, their first reaction wasn't an apology. It was putting on a comedy sketch—to test whether a human being could actually laugh and cry at the same time. That day, it was Simona who smashed Jocelyn’s face open, then pulled me—hollowed out, stripped of any remaining will to live—away from that cruel, mocking laboratory. "With me around from now on, nobody’s ever laying a hand on you again!" I couldn't eat, so she went on a hunger strike with me. I couldn't sleep, so she drove me up to the mountain ridge to count stars. For a whole year, she stood by my side, unshakeable. Until the day I walked out of the clinic clutching a discharge summary declaring a clean bill of health, my heart set on spending the rest of my life with her—and heard Jocelyn’s mocking laugh ripple through her phone speaker. "Seriously, babe? You’re losing your touch. It's been forever and you still haven't reeled Matt in?" Simona flushed with defensive irritation. "Shut up! If you and Samson hadn't been so obsessed with testing how long it takes a guy with a broken heart to jump into the next relationship, do you think I would've humiliated myself by pretending to date Matt in the first place?" My blood ran instantly cold. I gripped the medical report so hard the paper tore. It turned out their experiments had never stopped at all. … "Humiliated?" Jocelyn’s voice dripped with nasty amusement. "From the look of that video of you and Matt in bed together, you were putting in plenty of effort. Didn't look like any kind of humiliation to me." Simona scoffed, laughing it off. "Oh, shut the hell up." The medical report slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull "whack". The air around me felt flash-frozen, biting deep enough to crack bone. Jocelyn clicked her tongue, malice lacing every syllable. "I was with him for three years, and he wouldn't even let me touch him. Kept preaching about saving himself for the wedding night. But you? Not even a year, not even officially together, and he let you ride him all the way to the moon." She sneered, "A broken-down piece of trash, and you’re acting like some kind of untouchable virgin." Simona blew a lazy ring of smoke toward the ceiling, offering a soft, indifferent chuckle. "Come on. You just called him trash yourself. What are you even mad about?" I bit down hard—so hard the metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth—just to keep from making a sound. Tears were already streaming down my face. Two months ago, I was deep-cleaning the apartment. When I slid the heavy oak desk aside, a flash drive fell out from the dust behind it. It was a digital archive. Every single video recorded the trials and tortures Samson and Jocelyn had put me through. Every clip captured my raw, pathetic misery in high definition. And their laughter—cruel, detached, like spectators at a circus—ran like a soundtrack through every single second of it. It was as if a pair of filthy hands had reached out from the dark and dragged me straight back into those humiliating, suffocating memories. The chemical burn of chili oil tearing at my tongue; the chest-tightening terror of alcohol sliding down my throat... When Simona had found me back then, all ten of my fingernails were chewed down to bleeding pulp. My clothes were soaked through with cold sweat. She had pulled my completely shattered self into her arms, whispering "I've got you" over and over again like a spell. And like a drowning man clutching at a drifting spar, I had sucked in every ounce of safety she radiated. Only to find out that while she was offering herself up as my savior, she was secretly recording the whole thing and forwarding it straight to Jocelyn. It felt like a heavy stone had dropped from a height, smashing my heart into a wet pulp of raw, unbreathable pain. I fled back to my room like a whipped dog, collapsing against the doorframe before sliding down into a pathetic heap on the floor. I don't know how much time passed. The door clicked open. Seeing me crumpled on the floor, Simona hurried over, her brow furrowing in instant distress. "Matt? What are you doing down here? Are you not feeling well?" She touched my legs, her expression tightening. "Why are you so freezing cold?" Then, just like she always did, she pulled my legs into her lap, trying to warm them with her own body heat. Except I couldn't tell anymore. Were these gestures real? Or were they just another layer of performance? I stared up at her, my voice shattered, cracked almost beyond recognition. "Simona." "Hmm?" "I want to go home." Her movements froze. Ever since that nightmare two months ago, I had been too terrified to even look at my old apartment, let alone step foot inside it. I had been living exclusively at Simona’s place. Hearing me suddenly ask to leave caught her completely off guard. "What's wrong? Did I do something?" I didn't answer. I just repeated it, stubborn and flat. "I want to go home." The air hung heavy and suffocating for a long, quiet beat. Finally, she gave a slow, reluctant nod. The entire drive back, I kept my face pressed against the glass, staring out at the blurred gray of the highway. Simona tried to start a conversation two or three times, but I didn't give her a single word. With a sigh, she reached over and turned on the car stereo, cueing up my favorite playlist. Before I got out of the car, she caught my hand, her voice sickeningly, impossibly tender. "Call me if you need anything. I'm always here for you." Right as the words left her mouth, her phone buzzed on the console. She glanced at the screen and swiftly flipped it face down. But I had already seen the name flashing on the display. "Samson." All the remaining color drained from my face. Without a word, I turned and followed her car. Simona’s sedan drove steadily and parked right in front of Samson’s house. She punched in the security gate code with practiced ease—proof enough that this wasn't her first time here. A moment later, the lights on the second floor flickered on. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, two familiar silhouettes melted together, kissing with a desperate, frantic hunger. Then, they collapsed onto the frame, bodies rising and falling in rhythm. So "this" was the real reason Simona had been so willing to play the long game, to lower herself into the trenches of my life. In a dizzy flash, the memory of a year ago superimposed itself over the present. Back then, I had stood in the exact same spot, watching those exact same two shadows intertwine against the glass. My hands and feet had shaken so violently I could barely stand. I had dialed Simona’s number, desperate and shaking. "Dial... dial..." But the woman who had promised just hours ago that she was "always here" didn't pick up. Looking back now, Simona hadn't always been available when I needed her. Like that time my stomach ulcer had flared up so badly I thought I was dying. I must have called her a dozen times. She didn't answer a single one until the pain finally dragged me under into unconsciousness. When I woke up, she was the first person I saw—her eyes swimming with worry, her voice choked with tears as she begged for my forgiveness. All that helplessness, all that raw, stinging grievance, had vanished the second she looked at me like that. She had told me her phone had died; the battery had flatlined. Except that exact day happened to be Samson’s birthday. He had posted a photo online with the caption: "Right here, right now—everyone I love is right beside me." In the picture, he was leaning happily against Jocelyn’s chest. And tucked away in the corner of the frame, peeling shrimp into a bowl, was a hand wearing a familiar silver ring belonging to Simona. With trembling fingers, I hung up the call that was never going to be answered. Instead, I dialed a different number. My voice broke, thick with tears the second the line connected. "Uncle... I miss you." ... I walked the streets like a ghost, stumbling through the mist. The rain started coming down in sheets, drenching me to the bone until it was impossible to tell where the rain ended and the tears began. I didn't know how long I’d been walking when I heard someone shouting my name from somewhere behind me. I didn't turn around. I just kept shuffling forward, lost in my own hollow orbit. Until fingers clamped hard around my wrist, jerking me to a halt. Jocelyn’s anxious face swam into my blurred field of vision. "Matt? What are you doing out here? Where's Simona?" I stared at her. This was the woman I had loved and defended for three whole years. Before I met her, Samson had loved playing pranks on me. Compared to the sadistic experiments that came later, those had been harmless little jokes. I still remembered the first time Jocelyn saw Samson dump soy sauce into my can of cola. She had flown into a rage, completely shedding her usual composure as she hurled the tainted drink right into Samson’s face. "There's a line, you jerk! Even jokes have limits!" Back then, she was my shield. But somewhere along the way, I don't know when, she and Samson had struck a chord. The pranks escalated. They dressed it up under the sterile, academic title of "conducting experiments." And the Jocelyn who used to protect me smoothly transitioned into the lead researcher of my degradation. Along with my closest brother, they had both turned their backs and driven a knife into my spine. That day I caught her cheating, the triumphant, sickening smile she wore had burned itself into the back of my eyelids. So who was this current display of worry meant for? Herself? I lowered my gaze, locking onto the dark ink of a tattoo just above her wrist bone. A sharp pang stabbed at my chest. I had once asked her to get matching tattoos with me. She had wrinkled her nose and shot it down instantly. "Tattoos are for lowlifes and trashy people." And yet, right there on her wrist, she had permanently inked a bold, sweeping letter "S". A loud, unashamed declaration of her devotion to Samson. A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up in my throat. So this was the difference between being loved and being tolerated. Jocelyn hauled me into her car. She pulled out a pack of tissues, gently wiping the water from my face before wrapping a dry woolen blanket around my shoulders and shoving a heavy rubber hot water bottle into my hands. She was impossibly, sickeningly attentive. As if she hadn't been the one running sadistic tests on my body all those months. As if she and Simona hadn't been laughing, calling me a piece of trash just last night. She drove me all the way to my doorstep. That was when my body finally gave out. The world went pitch black, and I collapsed. Jocelyn stayed by my side, nursing me through the entire night. Somewhere in the feverish haze of dawn, I mumbled a question into the dark, asking if she had ever felt even a single ounce of guilt for what she’d done. "Yes!" Then, a rush of warm breath hit my lips as she pressed her mouth down hard, grinding against me with a desperate, bruising force. ... The next day, I woke up with my head pounding like a jackhammer. Simona was sitting beside the bed, clutching my hand so hard her knuckles were white, her eyes rimmed with angry, pathetic red. "Matt, I'm so sorry. My phone died last night, it shut off by itself—" "That excuse again." Was she really too lazy to even invent a new lie? Her eyes dropped, landing on the swollen, bruised mark on my lips where Jocelyn’s mouth had crushed mine the night before. Her face twitched, as if she’d been pricked by a needle. "Matt, let's make it official! Let me take care of you the right way, where I have the right to!" I stared at her, forcing the corners of my mouth upward into a dead, skeletal smile. "Okay." Simona froze, her brain clearly short-circuiting for a second. Then— A sharp, explosive "pop" cracked right outside the bedroom door. "Yes! Hypothesis confirmed: The time required to heal from heartbreak depends entirely on whether you replace them with a new flame or an old one! Both experiments are a resounding success!" Samson strode into the room holding a party popper, a wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. Jocelyn followed close behind him, a bouquet of flowers clutched in her arms, though her smile didn't reach her eyes. She looked almost disappointed by the outcome. Simona frowned, her expression shifting into genuine confusion, as if she had no idea they were coming. Samson casually tossed the empty party popper onto my lap. "Well, Matt, empirical data proves it takes you one year, two months, and eight days to transition into a new relationship after a heartbreak." He chuckled, shaking his head. "A bit on the longer side, which tells us your psychological resilience really needs some work." He gave Simona a casual slap on the shoulder. "Thanks for playing your part, Simona. Couldn't have brought this experiment home without you." Simona lowered her gaze, falling uncomfortably silent. Then Samson hooked a thumb toward Jocelyn. "And let's not forget our secondary trial: "When faced with the advances of an ex, the subject still chooses the new lover." He shot me a cocky, knowing wink. "Guess the new model wins every time, huh?" My eyes shifted to Jocelyn. She squirmed under my gaze, guiltily ducking her head to avoid my eyes. A bitter laugh threatened to tear its way out of my throat again. So "that" was when the second experiment had started. Was it the moment she pulled me into her car out of the rain? Or when she stayed up all night nursing me back to health? I thought I was prepared for this. I thought my heart had already been carved out and hollowed. Yet it still felt like someone had driven a fistful of needles deep into my chest, twisting them slow and deep. Seeing the grotesque, ugly smile twisted across my face—a look worse than any weeping—Samson laughed so hard he had to double over, clutching his ribs. "Man, Matt, don't tell me you're getting bent out of shape again?" "We were just running a few harmless tests. Why are you always so uptight?" "All right, all right, look—consider this a peace offering." With that, he snatched the bouquet out of Jocelyn’s hands and shoved it straight into my arms. They were roses. My absolute favorite. A droplet of water clinging to the petals flickered off, splashing directly into my eye, burning with a sharp, stinging acid. But a second later, the skin where the flower water had touched my wrist began to prickle, flare, and erupt into an angry bed of red hives. My heart seized. That wasn't water. That was alcohol! The mastermind, Samson, clapped his hands together, his face lit up with academic glee. "Well, Matt, you should really be thanking me. This trial confirms your alcohol allergy isn't just internal—even topical skin contact triggers an immune response!" "Granted, it's a mild contact reaction, but hey, good data for the future!" Simona shot Samson a lethal glare, then whipped around to grab my hands as I started frantically scratching at my inflamed skin. "Stop scratching! I'm taking you to the ER!" "I've got the allergy meds right here, just take—" Jocelyn rummaged through her coat pocket, pulling out a prescription bottle. She flipped open the cap and tipped it into her palm. Empty. She froze like a statue, blinking stupidly before slowly turning her head toward Samson. Samson blinked right back, completely unfazed. "Ah. That one was titled: "Can psychological suggestion suppress somatic pain?" He grinned down at me. "The objective was for you to mentally convince yourself that you're fine—just grit your teeth and push through it." That was the exact moment the last frayed wire in my brain snapped. I lunged forward and hit him across the face with everything I had left. The smack echoed like a gunshot through the room. The sheer force of the blow whipped Samson’s head violently to the side. Jocelyn shrieked, her expression warping in terror as she threw herself at me, shoving me backward with all her weight. Simona rushed forward too—not to check on me, but to catch Samson as he stumbled. My stomach slammed viciously into the sharp corner of the oak desk. A hot surge of liquid boiled up from my gut, and the room went blindingly, agonizingly black. "Matt! Are you out of your damn mind?!" Simona screamed, her voice shrill. "It was just a few little tests! It's not like it's going to kill you!" "Samson was just checking the severity of your allergy, he was trying to "help" you! You don't have to appreciate it, but hitting him?!" "And let's be real for a second," she spat, her eyes flashing with venom. "Your parents died because they were trying to save "Samson" in that fire! He’s spent all these years treating you like a brother, looking after you, worrying about you—what's so wrong with him having a little fun at your expense?" The absurd, monstrous words washed over me. Yet they sounded like they were coming from underwater, muffled by a thick, heavy curtain. I couldn't catch the shape of them anymore. My abdomen felt like it was being ripped apart from the inside out, stitch by bloody stitch. With a supreme effort, I forced my chin up. I watched the three of them cluster around Samson, supporting him as they guided him away from me. And then, I laughed. I laughed until the hot, wet trails of tears spilled over my cheeks and hit the floor. ... By the time the ambulance arrived and loaded me onto a stretcher, the paramedic had already tried calling my emergency contact a dozen times before someone on the other end finally bothered to pick up. "Is this Ms. Simona? Mr. Matt is currently en route to the hospital. He has suffered severe internal trauma and is showing signs of acute organ hemorrhage—" "Impossible!" Simona’s voice cut the paramedic off, sharp and absolute. "His post-op recovery has been fantastic. All his metrics were normal at his last checkup. He can't suddenly be hemorrhaging!" My brain felt like it was detonating from the inside. So "that" was it. The clean bill of health I received that day... that had just been another phase of their experiment, too. The paramedic spoke with calm, grim professional patience. "Subject to severe physical blunt-force trauma, recovering internal organs are at extreme risk of rupture." There was a dead silence on the line for several seconds. Then, Samson’s voice drifted through the speaker, crisp and mocking. "Is Matt trying to pull another stunt to get back at us? Hiring actors to play doctors—" The line went dead. Click. I closed my eyes, and the tears slipped silently down into my hairline. That fragile organ that had taken a year to repair didn't make it this time. They had to go in and excise the damaged tissue entirely. Well. At least I wouldn't have to carry around the lie of a "clean bill of health" anymore just to navigate this disgusting world. After choking down antihistamines and waking up from the operating table, I insisted on discharging myself against the frantic protests of the nursing staff. My flight to P-Country was boarding soon. It was time to go. I dragged myself home, packed a single suitcase with a few changes of clothes, and gathered every single identification document I owned. As for the rest of it? The hourglass Simona had made me by hand; the necklace Jocelyn bought me; the matching brotherhood jackets from Samson... Keep the garbage. I didn't want any of it. The only thing I cared about taking with me were my parents' ashes. I pulled open the bedroom drawer. It was empty. My heart hammered against my ribs. I tore through the apartment, ripping open every box and cabinet in a blind panic. Until my phone buzzed with an incoming image from Simona. My parents' urns were sitting right there on her kitchen counter. [That slap you gave Samson gave him nightmares all night. Come apologize to him in person, and you can have your parents back!] My parents had died burning alive so that they could pull a ten-year-old Samson out of a blazing wreck. How could they use my dead parents as leverage to humiliate me?! I bit down on the inside of my cheek until the meat tore, tasting blood as I crushed the phone in my fist. [Fine.] ... Inside Samson’s living room. Under the watchful eyes of all three of them, I slowly folded my knees and bent down. "I'm sorry." "Matt, you're my brother! You don't ever have to say that to me," Samson gasped with performative shock, stepping forward to pull me into a tight embrace. But as his arms went around me, his mouth pressed right against my ear, his voice dropping into a venomous hiss. "Did you see that, Matt? Every single woman you love still chooses me in the end." "Just to fill you in—your parents' ashes? We swapped those out ages ago." "The working title of this experiment was: Can you tell the difference between human ash and pig ash? It's been running for months, and since you never noticed, the data is pretty conclusive." The final thread holding my sanity together snapped. I lost my mind. I screamed, my hands flying out to clamp around his throat with the strength of the damned. Jocelyn shrieked, throwing her weight onto me to tear my fingers away, her fingernails clawing deep strips of flesh out of my arms. Simona’s eyes were bloodshot. With a feral snarl, she kicked the back of my knee, driving me down onto both knees. "You faked an apology just so you could hurt Samson!" she screamed. She pinned my head down, slamming it against the hardwood floor, over and over and over again. A white-hot agony bloomed from the bridge of my nose, flooding my entire skull until the world fragmented into jagged black static. I couldn't see. I couldn't hear. The next time I regained any flicker of consciousness, I was lying crumpled like a piece of garbage against the curb beside the industrial dumpster outside Samson’s apartment complex. My phone buzzed in my pocket with a text from Simona. [Come back and apologize to Samson once you’ve cooled down.] [As for us... we can talk about it.] Blood from my forehead leaked down into my eye, mixing with the cold rain and dripping off my chin onto the pavement. "Talk?" Talk about how to keep playing their lab rat? My heart felt completely, permanently dead. I blocked all three of their numbers, deleting every trace of them from my digital life. I dragged myself home, grabbed my packed bag, and got into the cab waiting at the curb for the airport. ... Simona spent hours staring at her phone, waiting for a reply that never came. A cold knot of unease began to twist in her gut. She glanced over at Samson, who was currently sprawled out lazily across Jocelyn’s lap. She stood out here like a sore thumb—an unwanted third wheel in a room where she no longer had a part to play. Clenching her fists, she turned on her heel and walked out of the apartment in silence. She pushed open the door to her own place. It was dead silent. It felt entirely different from the apartment she shared with Matt. When he used to live here with her, he would always be waiting with a tired, gentle smile, asking her what she wanted for dinner. A heavy, suffocating pressure sat on Simona's chest. She walked upstairs. As she reached the doorway of the study— Something white caught her eye, lying half-hidden in the dust by the baseboard. It was the discarded medical discharge summary.