The fuzzy off-white makes everything blend together; the sterile, antiseptic smell makes the stomach turn. Everything looks so dull and pale, colorless, even the people. Walls, floors, and faces resonate light. Linoleum tiles chill the bones, numb the skin, warp the mind. One naked, white bulb swings, back and forth, back and forth, a man and his noose. What makes it swing? The screams upstairs.
When did those screams start anyway? I can't remember. They ring in my ears now, so even silence isn't silent. Every moment is just a blur of light and sound. Blurring should only happen while in motion, common sense tells me that, yet everything is still blurred. My eyes won't focus, no matter what common sense tells me. Perhaps common sense should tell them instead. But for now I suppose I can live with this. Not that it's really my choice.
Are those footsteps I hear outside my door? There's a tap, rap, tapping on the cold, tile floor. I can hear it over the screams.
They're coming.
There was music blaring in the background of my world.
There was a breath sighing, silent in my ear.
"Am I dead yet?"
"No."
"I wonder why?"
"It hasn't been long enough."
"Well, how long does it take?"
"Generally a lifetime."
"Now that's silly."
I sat up, my back aching from lying on the linoleum, and gunshots rolled up my spine as I stretched. It felt good. The pain dulled. Every joint in my body creaked as I climbed to my feet, unfolding my scarecrow limbs up, up, up, and the ceiling slowly grew closer until I actually thought, just for a moment, that the off-white barrier might be moving down, down, down to meet me. Then it stopped, still two feet above my head, and I couldn't help but release a sigh of relief.
"Claustrophobic?"
"No. Not really."
With a lazy sweep of my head, I glanced about me. Nothing had changed. The walls were still the same, sickly color as the ceiling, and the floor was still an expanse of little, square tiles. A white-washed, wooden chair still sat in the corner, four legs still holding it up, one of the panels still missing from the three-rung ladder-back. There was still a mattress, shoved into the corner across from the chair. It still lay on the floor, covered in clean, off-white sheets and topped with two, off-white pillows.
"So nothing has been disturbed?"
"How boring."
"Indeed."
An itch blossomed on my left side, right under the ribs, so I stretched my arm up over my head to raise my shirt tail and scratch. Every time my nails scraped pink lines across the pale of my skin, however, the irritating, little tingle moved, gradually making its way across my belly. My lips curved downward in a soft frown. I focused on the feeling of it, the tightening and loosening of the tiny, little muscles over and around my mouth. Concentrating so hard on how the pieces of my face were moving, I forgot to keep moving my fingers. Then I let my jaw go slack, air escaping me in a rushing yawn. Now that gave me an idea.
"Maybe I could just hold my breath."
"You'd start breathing again once you passed out."
"Then I wouldn't pass out."
"I do believe your brain might be oxygen deprived enough already."
"You're not helping."
They stop, dark against the dark beneath the door, the shadow of a shadow's shadow. Then there's nothing. The screams have stopped, leaving my source of light to swing, back and forth, back and forth, until it slows to a stop as well. My shadow rides with it, back and forth, back and forth, flitting around me like a moth. Is it trying to escape something? Is that something me, the room, the smudge of darkness from outside? Should I set it free?
There is motion under the door. They tap, rap, tap on it to draw my attention. Should I speak, or do they know that I can hear? Nothing follows. Everything is silent once more. Those screams ring in my ears, yet I can hear the silence as well, and it echoes in my skull. Maybe I should set it free as well. Would a silence understand freedom?
They move away, taking their dark, little blur away from my cold, tile floor. I can hear their footsteps, tap, rap, tapping down the hall. What did they want? Were they waiting for something?
It's too late now.
There was a shadow creeping on the edge of my world.
There was a star shining, dead in my eye.
"Have you given up yet?"
"No."
"You should."
"I'm thinking."
"And how far has that gotten you before?"
"Hush."
"Very well."
I made my way to the chair, watching my feet, bare and pale, studying each step. Each muscle moved separately, yet they all moved together. It caught my attention, the intricacy of the motion, so simple and yet so complex. Wonder held me. The distance seemed to close too quickly. Then something in my mind moved. Something broke my concentration. All calculations and elaborate processes were lost, literally, in the blink of an eye. My expectations had been so high. How disappointing. Concentrating on the intake and release of air, I sighed, turned, and slowly made my way back to where I had begun, back to square one.
"What are you doing?"
"Walking."
"Where?"
"To the chair."
"You were almost there."
"I lost my focus."
"And this means you have to start over?"
"Yes."
"I see."
I stared at my feet again, concentrating once more as I set off on my path once again. This time I moved slower, noting every pull, every push, of every force in motion. My eyes focused on specific details, drawing them up and out, ingraining them in my memory for later scrutiny. The delicate gestures that converged in each movement slid together, flowing with a liquid grace. Oh what a work of art is the body of a man. All puzzle-piece gears and levers inside, and yet so precise and refined once wrapped in layers of satin paper skin. Even the action of reaching a state of stillness deserves examination.
The door is cold and solid, a panel of soft radiance, blending in with the rest of the world, save for the thin darkness crouched at the bottom, ready to spring at me like some spectral beast. Which is more dangerous, what lies outside these walls or what lies within? Perhaps the walls themselves are the danger. They hide so well in one another, a continuous, pale, and unreasonably solid mist. What else do they hide? Is it the shadows or is it me?
My shadow dances about me, frolicking gaily with the glowing man hanging high in his gallows. What does he hang for? Did he perform some dark deed that deserves such punishment, to swing wildly to the screams of tormented souls? Perhaps he's screaming, too. Yes. He's screaming. I can hear him now. But why does my shadow dance? Doesn't it see that he suffers?
They're outside again. My shadow kisses their feet like a servant. No wonder it dances so. Anguish is its music. Should my voice join this hellish symphony now that I have been so betrayed? Why must my own phantom become my Judas?
I try to scream.
There was a monster stalking in the heart of my world.
There was a blade piercing, deep in my mind.
"Did you hear that?"
"No."
"Listen."
"I hear nothing."
"There was a knocking."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"We shall see."
I turned once more, concentrating on the air that moved about me. Then I again followed my careful path across the little room. Step by step, I made my way, so alert to my progress that I thought of nothing else. There was nothing of importance in this world save myself and my cold, tile floor. Nothing else mattered, therefore nothing else existed.
"Did you see that?"
"No."
"Look."
"I see nothing."
"There was a movement."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"We shall see."
Slowly, the door emerged from the mist that clouded my view, a blank panel silhouetted in thin, dark lines. Beneath it, something moved. There was something there, dark against the darkness, the shadow of a shadow's shadow. Then there was nothing. I strained my ears and forced my eyes, collecting each sound and image to the least and lowest detail. Nothing.
"The door."
"What?"
"Watch the door."
It was moving, sliding away, dissolving into the wall, and the darkness was seeping in. I backed away, widening my eyes to take in more, to identify something, anything, within the blackness closing in. There was nothing but darkness on darkness, shadow on shadow, fear on fear. A hand rose, reached out, and a fiery pain froze me. Every intricate gear, every delicate muscle, every graceful motion I had so deliberately studied fell useless.
"Phase One: Creation successful."
Creation?
"Phase Two: Orientation in progress."
Orientation?
"Phase Three: Observation in progress."
Observation?
"Prototype 1 to remain under surveillance."
Under surveillance?
"Prototype 1 to remain..."
To remain?
"Prototype 1…"
Prototype?
"Prototype…"
Prototype.
I have no voice.