whimpering.
I sit at the table, but I don’t feel like eating.
*
Someone in some philosophy book somewhere once said that expectations are a bitch. Not in those words exactly, but you get the idea. If you don’t expect things to get any better, then even the worst situations can feel tolerable.
Stop believing in heroes, and you won’t feel like such a victim.
Forget the police, forget the FBI. Forget your family. Your friends. Forget the comics you’ve read, and the movies you’ve seen. You’re trapped here. This is your life. Accept it.
And then one day you’re busy stuffing a dead cow with light bulbs when the door opens. A girl walks in.
She’s wearing a shirt with flowers on it.
Daisies. At a time like this.
I want to kiss her.
“Jesus,” she says. “What the fuck is this?”
“You have to get help. I…” There’s more to say, obviously, but I’m busy sobbing. Heaving.
“Are you alright?”
“No.” I shake my head, as if the act will help me stop crying. It sort of works. “Some sick fuck Senator is keeping me here. I’ve been here for months.” Maybe a year, though I can’t stand to say it.
“That sick fuck is my father,” she says.
“Oh.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t. He put something inside me. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll get help. Don’t worry. I won’t let him get away with this.”
“Thank you.”
“Granola granola.”
“What?”
“Granola granola granola granola granola granola.”
“What?”
She’s out the door. “Granola.” It closes behind her.
“Oh fuck,” I say. Heaving.
The speaker activates with a staticky cough.
I hear him laughing. Giggling.
You’re trapped here.
This is your life.
Accept it.
*
Years pass.
When I think the word decade, I slap my face.
A day doesn’t go by that I don’t open the door to Room 1, and look at those stairs that could lead me to liberty above.
Maybe this is heaven.
Maybe this is hell.
Maybe the Senator’s heaven is my hell. And maybe when you realize that, the meaning of life doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe you can stop thinking and just do your fucking job.
“Apothegm #1,” the Senator says. “There was never any device inside you. All you ever had to do was enter Room 1, and you could have left. I would have let you go.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Go now.”
The door opens.
I’m free.
But I don’t feel like liberating myself.
I want to go to bed.
Inside
Through the corner of my eye, Lucian looks something like a scarecrow with his arms outstretched, crows scratching and nibbling at loose shoulder hay. Head on, he looks more like me five or so hours ago. Only the little machines hacked out chunks of my remaining calf muscle, not my shoulder. I still own my shoulders.
Lucian shivers because he hasn’t learned to smile on his own yet.
“Is he cold?” the little girl outside says.
“No, he’s fine,” her mother says, or her nanny, or whoever’s job it is to lie to her at the moment.
I think of mother first since my mother told me at least twice a day that she wasn’t going to die, even though the letter I found in the trash said she was a “DEAD BITCH.” My mother also told me on numerous occasions that my father was a good man. What she didn’t tell me was that he kept sticking his nose in other people’s (important people’s) business. This was back when he had a nose to speak of.
The smallest of the machines carries the hunk of Lucian in its tiny pincers and deposits the flesh into the open slot.
Lucian waves goodbye, trembling, then the glass darkens.
As soon as the machines release him, he thrashes at them with his good arm and leg. They don’t put up a fight. Lucian manages to break off one of the protruding eye sensors from the machine that stuck the needle in the back of his head. He laughs like this is some sort of victory. I don’t watch the machines rolling through their mouse hole exits, but I know they
I sit at the table, but I don’t feel like eating.
*
Someone in some philosophy book somewhere once said that expectations are a bitch. Not in those words exactly, but you get the idea. If you don’t expect things to get any better, then even the worst situations can feel tolerable.
Stop believing in heroes, and you won’t feel like such a victim.
Forget the police, forget the FBI. Forget your family. Your friends. Forget the comics you’ve read, and the movies you’ve seen. You’re trapped here. This is your life. Accept it.
And then one day you’re busy stuffing a dead cow with light bulbs when the door opens. A girl walks in.
She’s wearing a shirt with flowers on it.
Daisies. At a time like this.
I want to kiss her.
“Jesus,” she says. “What the fuck is this?”
“You have to get help. I…” There’s more to say, obviously, but I’m busy sobbing. Heaving.
“Are you alright?”
“No.” I shake my head, as if the act will help me stop crying. It sort of works. “Some sick fuck Senator is keeping me here. I’ve been here for months.” Maybe a year, though I can’t stand to say it.
“That sick fuck is my father,” she says.
“Oh.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t. He put something inside me. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll get help. Don’t worry. I won’t let him get away with this.”
“Thank you.”
“Granola granola.”
“What?”
“Granola granola granola granola granola granola.”
“What?”
She’s out the door. “Granola.” It closes behind her.
“Oh fuck,” I say. Heaving.
The speaker activates with a staticky cough.
I hear him laughing. Giggling.
You’re trapped here.
This is your life.
Accept it.
*
Years pass.
When I think the word decade, I slap my face.
A day doesn’t go by that I don’t open the door to Room 1, and look at those stairs that could lead me to liberty above.
Maybe this is heaven.
Maybe this is hell.
Maybe the Senator’s heaven is my hell. And maybe when you realize that, the meaning of life doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe you can stop thinking and just do your fucking job.
“Apothegm #1,” the Senator says. “There was never any device inside you. All you ever had to do was enter Room 1, and you could have left. I would have let you go.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Go now.”
The door opens.
I’m free.
But I don’t feel like liberating myself.
I want to go to bed.
Inside
Through the corner of my eye, Lucian looks something like a scarecrow with his arms outstretched, crows scratching and nibbling at loose shoulder hay. Head on, he looks more like me five or so hours ago. Only the little machines hacked out chunks of my remaining calf muscle, not my shoulder. I still own my shoulders.
Lucian shivers because he hasn’t learned to smile on his own yet.
“Is he cold?” the little girl outside says.
“No, he’s fine,” her mother says, or her nanny, or whoever’s job it is to lie to her at the moment.
I think of mother first since my mother told me at least twice a day that she wasn’t going to die, even though the letter I found in the trash said she was a “DEAD BITCH.” My mother also told me on numerous occasions that my father was a good man. What she didn’t tell me was that he kept sticking his nose in other people’s (important people’s) business. This was back when he had a nose to speak of.
The smallest of the machines carries the hunk of Lucian in its tiny pincers and deposits the flesh into the open slot.
Lucian waves goodbye, trembling, then the glass darkens.
As soon as the machines release him, he thrashes at them with his good arm and leg. They don’t put up a fight. Lucian manages to break off one of the protruding eye sensors from the machine that stuck the needle in the back of his head. He laughs like this is some sort of victory. I don’t watch the machines rolling through their mouse hole exits, but I know they
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