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Cecil would no longer speak. Only mutter and scream.
He would always be found wrapped on the hard cot of his cell, faint whispers of faint words. If you were paying close attention to his words, like Carlos often did, you would hear short sections of his previous radio announcements before he was detained. Sometimes on a rare night, Cecil would be lucid enough to cry. A sad, low weeping. A very human sound from a so-called creature that Carlos’s superiors have dubbed non-human.
The screams came with the knives and scalpels. His body was riddled with scars and sores, places on his skin have become permanently black or discolored from being injected with various drugs or substances. Some did nothing, others lit his veins on fire. Claw marks raked his arms, his own marks as he attempted to hold himself together through the pain of the injections. But the worst screams were when they dragged him away from his cell to the operating table. It was the only times when Cecil would actually attempt to fight back until they stabbed him with a tranquilizer and tied him down. The large X-shaped scar on his chest came from the original dissection, the one that happened only a day or two after his detainment. Back when he still talked.
Back when he would still scream for Carlos to come and help him, save him, tell them that he’s human, that he’s not a threat.
But Carlos could do nothing but look on sadly as Cecil was dragged away from him, kicking, screaming, and begging.
Cecil had developed a slight twitch after they had nearly picked apart his brain, electrocuting and toying with his mind and thoughts and prodding at his third eye before they finally operated. The little scar crown on his forehead is the only evidence left of the surgery. His hair had finally grown back.
Carlos, again, could only standby as he watched the man who claimed to love him have his sanity and his dignity stripped away. In the name of science, of course.
Carlos could not stand his passiveness. So he did his best to try and make Cecil comfortable in his own, personal Hell. He was the one who convinced them to give him a bed and blanket, to give him clothes to wear, to feed him real food. He even snuck in a radio, to give him something to maybe hold on to. But it was never turned on. No music ever filled the white walls of the cell. Just the hushed murmurs of a broken man.
But the worst thing about it was occasionally Cecil would mutter things along the lines of “beautiful, perfect Carlos...” and Carlos can’t take it. He’s never felt less beautiful in his life. He’s destroyed Cecil’s life. His heart and his mind are gone and Carlos can only feel monstrous.
But unless he wants to be “terminated”, he can do nothing but watch. Watch and pray for a chance as they amputate another tentacle off the crying man in the operating room.