Good Doctor Locklear creepypasta
There was nothing but groggy swirls of illusionistic euphoria. The drugs they had administered to him were too powerful for anything else. His senses were obstructed, and he was alone with the cackling voices inside his head. They grew louder and louder until he could no longer bear it. He tried desperately to claw at his face, to do anything to hush the dull roar. But it was in vain, as his arms were strapped securely to his chest by the straight jacket that subdued him.
He collapsed onto the doughy floor beneath him. He had been in this miserable cell for who knows how many days now? Perhaps even weeks or months, God forbid, years. He had long since lost track of time, yet he did not care.
Those damn fools. Who the hell did they think they were? Locking him up. HIM. A man of science. A bringer of societal advances, and hero to mankind. They would regret this. All of them. If they would not have him as their savior, they would have him as their end maker.
His brow twitched for a moment as he willed away the powerful headache that always seemed to follow the voices. It was agonizing, yet he was glad for it. The pain seemed to flush his mind of the heavy psychotropic drugs that the nurses had given him in an effort to keep him from harming himself. Ha. Funny. Because it wasn't his own safety that they would need to fear for.
As the pain subdued, and his vision began to clear, he laid quietly in his cell. It was dark, and the only sound was that of his own shaky breaths. Shaking off the last of the grogginess, he tried to focus.
Yes. Today would be the day.
Now that his mind was free from the iron grip of the drugs, it all came rushing back to him. It had indeed been months that he had been locked up in this damned place. He had been captured inside the home of one of his patients. He couldn't for the life of him understand why the police had busted down the door and taken him away by force.
It had to have been the work of an enemy, or a rival practitioner that would benefit from his absence. That was the only logical explanation. In all his years of service to humanity, he had only ever striven to help people. He cared a great deal for his patients and they certainly were far better off with him in their lives. So why this?
For a moment he thought back to a previous patient. A sweet little girl named Anna. She was no more than seven years old. He remembered how weak and sickly she was before he began treating her. Her lungs were weak, and she could barely walk on her own. Without treatment he assumed she probably would not have made it to eight.
Tragically, no matter how hard he willed it, he could not picture her face. Those vile bastards would pay for robbing him of his precious memories. Had he been able to finish her treatment? Was she now strong and healthy enough to play with the other little girls? It was killing him.
Just then, he heard the rusty creak of the door to his holding cell. As if snapped from a daze, his mind began rapidly buzzing over the details he had prepared over the previous months during his short periods of consciousness between medication doses.
This would indeed be his last night in cell 399.
Consciousness rushing back to him, he dove to the wall directly to his left. He could just barely make out the familiar circular shape of one of the buttons attached to the padded material that covered the room. He swiftly leaned forward, and gingerly wrapped his teeth around it, pulling as quickly as he could manage without snapping the feeble string attaching it to the plush white fabric.
This night had been a long time coming. Over the last month he had slaved away in secrecy to bring the fruits of his efforts to harvest. His plan was ingenious, and if his hands weren't strapped firmly to his chest, he would have given himself a pat on the back.
He froze for a moment. The creaking of the door handle stopped. He could hear muffled speech outside of his cell, followed by footst