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I thought I'd try my hand at something new and write a little story - I don't think I've done that since I was at school which seems like a shame in a way. I'd appreciate whatever criticism you have to offer.
Introspection
I know why I'm here, of course, and it terrifies me. I don't know how they got to me, how they managed to kidnap me or if anyone is likely to come to my rescue. Deep down I'm sure that they were thorough. I'm alone here. The only person I can rely on is myself.
I wait.
I try to stay calm, despite the fact that the blindfold ensures that the only vision I have comes from my over active imagination. I can picture small men attentive to my every reaction and yet relentless in trying to break me. They won't ask me questions yet, I know that much. I can lie with the best of them until even I won't know who is telling the truth. No, far better to break me down till I have no resistance left. There's nothing I can do to stop that. They know it and I know it and I can imagine the road that leads there. That's when I start sweating.
Stay calm. They want me to panic. They've tied me to a chair, bound me by the wrists, legs and chest and left me immobile but not uncomfortable. Discomfort would almost be welcome at this point. At least it would distract me from my thoughts....who are these people and what have I done to piss them off? Maybe this is all a mistake, maybe they don't want me at all and maybe I should be trying right now to convince them of that. They haven't gagged me, I'm free to speak. I turn my head to try to catch a sound, a hint that someone is near me, that someone is reachable. But what shall I say? Convince them I'm just a nobody, that they have no reason to do this? No. That lie is too big even for me to swallow. If only I knew what they wanted, who they worked for, I could maybe bargain with them. But anything I say in ignorance is just going to give them more ammunition, just another way for them to get inside my head. The frustration of this is unbearable and I grit my teeth, steeling myself for a shout into the unknown. I pull against my bonds, even though I am sure they will hold fast and try to use my weight to topple the chair. The futility of my effort enrages me further, and I let out a scream as I realise that I can't even hurt myself as I struggle. This is pointless.
I slump.
I slump and I inwardly watch myself do it. The pattern of thoughts and emotions is plain in my body. The creep of despair is apparent to anyone who cares to look and the resignation to my fate is far from a sign of strength. They are watching and they are waiting and just because I am slowly puzzling out my situation, giving myself the appearance of free will, that doesn't mean I am deviating from their script. I'm a puppet on strings and the image briefly angers me, before I recall that this itself is part of the show. But where can one turn once fatalism ceases to be a refuge? Nowhere. I wait again.
This time, I don't have to wait for long. Something in my demeanour must have satisfied them, because I can hear them coming. At least I think I can hear them. The sounds are faint at first, like tiny distant bells but that isn't all. I can hear, or at least I think I can sense.....something. A pause, a collectively held breath. Anticipation. We are almost here now. I think I let out a whimper as I imagine the cutting, the slicing. Will they disfigure me, mangle my body and revel in my horror? Can they now read me so plainly that my worst fears become their tools, so that I perversely become the director of this bloody show? Or will I just become a thing of fear and of pain, screaming as if into the void? I have no illusions of courage in this place, and no false pride to protect me from my own fear.
They approach and my blindfold is removed. The lights blind me and I can barely make out the shapes around me, though I can see that there are several, and I cower at what I imagine is their eagerness to start. The room beyond is dark and hidden, as I expected it to be. This is a stage and I am the star, bathed in my own spotlights, holding the attention of all. Soon we will reach the climax, just a moment longer.
They seem to circle me, doubtless performing some vital task and I struggle not to look at them, at their tools and blank faces. I look up instead and see a light in the distance as my vision clears. At first I am confused as I peer into the blur in front of me. But slowly, I see a figure watching from a room overlooking this one, communicating with my torturers and gauging my reactions. Here is the architect of my misery, and I am being allowed to look so that I can finally understand. I squint again to make out this figure, who waits for my enlightenment with no hint of impatience. And for a moment time stands still as I look as if into a mirror. I am standing in the booth and waiting for the pathetic creature in the chair to see, to know and to understand. What will happen, must happen. And the spark of recognition blazes plainly on that loathsome face, finally giving way to acceptance and an eerie calm. We lock eyes and I feel no pity and I see no silent plea. Our communication is perfect and our intentions as one. A nod and a faint smile from the distant figure in the chair signal us to proceed. |
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