Writing exercise 8/11/09
He was led to a non-descript cell by just one person, a woman in her thirties dressed in a robe. He knew it was an experiment, had known it when he woke to see this place, verifed it when he'd seen how strange it was, how alien. He'd been through the therapies before, dozens of them in his years as prisoner. He knew there were cameras hidden in the walls, affirmed by the confident way the woman strolled on ahead; her back and the blank walls verifying it.
They came to a door, a non-descript wooden thing which had no visible joints, and no handle. The woman turned and regarded him, her face sober but not overly so; he noted her eyes were blue with a tinge of green and they appeared yellow in places.
"This is where you will stay"
The man did not answer, merely looked around the vesibule ouside the door ; the blank walls, the door, noticed for the first time that the whispering of the slippers he wore was from a blank stone floor. Some sort of slate, he decided.
The woman touched the door, and it swung open to a small lit room with the same blank walls, but a high lit ceiling; the sort of ceiling that gave the impression of sky, despite the fact that it was only a dozen or so feet or so above the stone floor. She had stepped in ahead of him, fearless, and upon turning around was studying his eyes as he came into in the room and took it all in.
There was a simple cot, of the same fine material and workmanship as the door. He could see no joining marks, and the grain and color was dark and smooth. Both appeared oiled, it was the only word that he could describe, and were scratch and mark free. The same floor also had accompanied him in, but he could see no toilet, no sink, and no mirror.
Cocobolo. It had come to him, from the depths of his memory. The door and bed were made from cocobolo, and were worth a fair sum. Most folks who worked in the wood made it into gun or knife handles--he had never heard of someone using it for furniture or doors.
The woman was regarding him, having remained in the same spot, each of her hands clasped calmly in front of her at about waist height. He could see her naked wrists, and her steady breathing as she stood, patiently, waiting, expectant of his possible questions.
But he knew how the game worked. He ignored the woman now, laying down on the cot in the direction facing away from her. The wall met his eyes, and he pulled his knees bent and tucked them up into his chest, pulling at his own robes as he did so.
He hated to admit it, but there was a part of him which was terrified. He struggled to throttle the gibbering madman part of hiself into silence. Granted, this place was different from all the others, and he had grown accustomed to the routine of prisons. But this place was not bad, per se. This place was just plaing odd. What place didn't give a man a toilet? What place issued robes a man could hang himself with, not that there were any place to fix the noose on the smooth walls. What place allowed solo women guards? In any other place, that was asking for trouble.
The woman, sensing his desire to be left alone, turned for the door, again placing her back to wards him. He grit his teeth in anger, and shut his eyes, refusing her.
If he could have seen what she did he would have been even more astonished at the place he had been moved; she stroked the edge of the door and whispered to it, lips moving but no sound coming forth. The door trembled and went still again; she walked through the doorway and it swung silently shut behind her without the echo of a lock slamming home.
He swung back to the prone position, stretching out in the bed to feel it's ends. He couldn't touch, and decided that the bed was very nice. His eyes were drawn again to the ceiling, to the diffuse light. The ceiling appeared painted light blue, and the light appeared to pass through the blue; lighting like that didn't exist in a prison. Perhaps at the Bellagio hotel, but never in a hell-hole.
He longed to try the door and see if these people had locked him in.
Who were these people? Were they going to do, experiment on him? Perhaps his latest escapade had been too much and someone had realized he was beyond rehabilitation. If it were Roman times, he would have been led to the gladatorial tournaments.
His skin appeared as clean as he'd ever seen it, they had even lasered off his tattoos; the ink removed without so much as a mark. Why the pampering if they were just going to slam him full of drugs and monitor the outcomes?
He'd had the letters HATE on his left hand and FEAR on the right, and they were gone. Only smooth skin wrapped his knuckles. Since the room was absent a mirror, he wondered at his face. He wanted to touch it, yet refrained from doing so, knowing they wre watching. He'd had a red tear drop of blood and a screaming skull drawn there, and imagined his face with them absent. Perhaps that was why the woman had looked at him with no fear? They had been tools of intimidation before, and in places like prison one needed all the help one could get. He doubted he could find another guy in this place like the last one who'd inked him.
He turned again to his side, to the side of the bed pressed agains the wall, and closed his eyes to try and sleep.