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Language:
English
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Published:
2014-08-24
Completed:
2014-08-24
Words:
3,199
Chapters:
5/5
Comments:
3
Kudos:
13
Bookmarks:
2
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493

Psychosis Neurosis

Summary:

(Short Chapters)

August 14–20, 1971

Professor Philip Zimbardo organized twenty-four male students to take on randomly assigned roles of prisoners and guards in a mock prison situated in the basement of the Stanford psychology building. And within days, the guards enforced authoritarian measures and ultimately subjected some of the prisoners to psychological torture. Many of the prisoners passively accepted psychological abuse and, at the request of the guards, readily harassed other prisoners who attempted to prevent it. The experiment even affected Zimbardo himself, who, in his role as the superintendent, permitted the abuse to continue.

Originally set to last for 2 weeks, it was terminated after only six days due to the actions of the participants spiraling out of control. But what if it hadn't been stopped? What if the abuse was allowed to continue until the end of the experiment?

This is the story of fallout for one man and the psychologist who is assigned is case...

Notes:

Rated M to be safe...

I wrote this short fic for a class a few years back, but lately I've been thinking about moving the focus away from these characters but using their story as a springboard for a larger look at what society might be like if scientific studies with human participants hadn't been subject to massive reforms in the wake of experiments like this one, the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment (really horrible) and the 1961 Milgram experiment, to name a few.

Some artistic liberties have been taken in the vein of this being an alternate history story and with how mental illnesses where treated in the 1970s, but comments and con-crit are deeply appreciated to see if there's any interest in a larger narrative arc.

First fic I'm posting online too, so really please! Comments welcome! :)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Micael, aka Prisoner #626, stands with his back against the wall, eyes darting from corner to corner, watching everything, for anything. He’s not sure. The drone of the air conditioner makes his muscles twitch; it covers up the tap of footsteps in the corridor. He knows they stopped at his door. Why? Then, the air kicked on. Where were they now?

His eyes are burning, but he doesn’t want to blink. If he blinks, he might get tired. Can’t sleep. Must never sleep, he thinks, refusing to look at the hospital bed in the corner. Sleeping is weak. They are always worse when they catch you sleeping, even if they ordered you to sleep. John Wayne only comes at night. Haven’t seen him in a while. He’ll probably be back again soon. Maybe it’s John Wayne in the corridor, waiting, watching for the lights to go out.

There is a TV here and a bathroom. A bathroom right in the room. Everything is silent, and moonlight kisses the floor. But he knows better. There may be no bars on his cell anymore, no bucket in the corner, but he’s still in prison. He can still smell the urine, feces and sweat they were forced to live in. His head itches with the anxiety welded to his scalp. He’s a bad prisoner, not a snitch.

They won’t let him shower.

“Go on, give him a kiss,” John Wayne sneers. See, he knew he would be back. 626 and the other prisoner glance at each other in despair. They know they have to do it. They have no choice, helpless, completely dependent on John Wayne, like armless, legless animals exposed in the wild. Survival. John Wayne raises his billy club and strikes 626 across the head. Warmth trickles into the frosted perspiration on his skull. “Fucking piece of shit. Do what I say! Give him a kiss.”

The chains around their ankles clink as they start their slow shuffle towards each other, publicly announcing the last crumbling shell of their humanity shattering into grains of dust, draining onto the dirt floor. The other prisoners watch, glowing rodent-like eyes, another secret to hoard in the shadows.

“You call that a kiss?” They look at John Wayne. “Try again.” He judges them, shaking his head. “Pansy-ass motherfuckers, do you kiss your mothers like that? Try again.”  Again and again. The hours pass.

Disappointed that it has taken so long to kiss to his satisfaction, John Wayne lays across them while they do push-ups He listens to the monotone chant of their prison numbers. Finally, he sends them back to their cell for an hour or two of sleep and he and the other guards play with different prisoners for the rest of their shift. But 626 knows it’s only a matter of time before he is called again.