Windows and Mirrors

Into the garden

"No- not The Box. They've got to be lying"

I'm dragged by arms, my feet scrape on the ground. I feel like I'm in a pool, strapped to a thousand-pound weight- sinking, deeper and deeper. That's when I begin to resist, kick, flail my arms around. Anything to escape their tight grip. All that earns me is a fist to the nose and an injection. The sinking feeling is gone though... I'm weightless. I'm higher than a kite but at least I'm flying amongst the birds, rather than drowning in the depths of the ocean. My vision blurs at the edges until familiar darkness takes over and my consciousness ceases.

When I wake up, I don't want to open my eyes. I'm aware of everything going on around me, but I fear what I'll see when my surroundings become apparent. With a deep breath, I reassure myself that I'll just be back in my cell, I'll open my eyes to concrete walls and mold, a small barred window, and a door, that's all. I'm disappointed. Glass, all 4 walls, along with the ceiling, the ground is white tile. The seams of each of the walls contain LEDs that shine only one color, bright, sterile, bleak, white.

I'm on my feet immediately. The room seems to be about 10 feet in length and 8 in width. The height is about 10 feet as well, "cozy" for my 5'8" self. I then turn to my attire. The last thing I remember wearing was a black jumpsuit, made of rough material, and on the back were numbers I have ingrained in my mind. 867205. My identity is based on those 6 numbers, without them, I cease to exist in the world of my captors. I'm nothing without them, I am those 6 numbers. My name is unimportant, I am 867205.

I'm dressed in silk, this time blue, a sky blue. The feeling of the fabric against my skin is satisfying, comforting even. Its softness matches nothing I've experienced in the last half of my life since I was imprisoned. When they talk about 'The Box', it's always vague. The only thing they ever mention is the number of people who've gone crazy and offed themselves while in there. That's about it. It's something everyone fears but at the same time, don't know anything about. The threats of the higher-ups are what instills this fear into us, we're taught to blindly agree, and listen without giving anything a second thought. Questioning is for skeptics and skeptics are crazy. Where do crazy people end up? The Box.

This isn't so bad. I get nice clothes, enough room to lay down, and a well-lit room, things I've been lacking the past decade of my life. Through the glass, I see a garden. Vines on a trellis, roses, and tulips that would make a wonderful bouquet, all different colors, and shades. Grass shines vibrantly in the setting sun, my bare feet ache to feel its texture, too bad I'm stuck behind these 4 walls. At least the view is pretty. I try and make myself comfortable by sitting down, leaning against one of the walls. I have the feeling of being watched, all that's surrounding me is glass...all that's protecting me is glass. I don't see any cameras or anyone else for that matter. Should I feel lonely? I enjoy the silence, it's peaceful, there's no dread weighing me down, no one to threaten me for thinking out of line.

One thing I've been missing for years is the flow of time. Sure, sunrise to sunset marks a day, 365 days makes a year, just count the days, right? I did, I made it to 98 and gave up, I began to feel hopeless knowing that I had to number my days to remember my past. Since then I just moved on. Keeping me going were the inconsistencies from day to day in the schedule. One day we'd be searched, the other we'd be taken to a different corridor and given new "living quarters" for a week or two. I have time now, a clock that hangs on one of the walls. A red exterior, made of simple plastic. Each hour is numbered by its roman numeral, looks like it's half past 7.

It's second-hand ticks and ticks. I'm only now realizing it. My peaceful silence is broken, but at least I have something to cling to. A small opening in the tiled floor appears, and out pops a tray, covered in saran wrap and a note. I scramble over to the tray and unravel the note, it reads: When finished, place all trash, and remaining food scraps on the tray. They will be taken back and discarded. Hoarding and failure to comply will result in punishment. Have a nice first night, 867205.

So there's food, my first meal. I hastily unpack the tray to find, a portion of beans, 2 slices of plain white bread with butter, and half a sausage cut into small pieces. Fine dining. Within 10 minutes my tray is empty, and I'm full. My plastic utensils are bent from the speed I ate at, I didn't even realize I was hungry until I took the first bite. I wrap the garbage in the saran wrap and place it in the middle of the tray. What about the note? Is it trash? Would it be hoarding if I decide to keep it? Better safe than sorry, there's no need to keep it, it's just a simple threat, it has no value. I place it on the tray and slide everything over to where the opening appeared earlier.

Not even seconds later, the tray is gone, with everything on it. This only proves to me I'm being watched, right? It could also just be a coincidence, that I finished eating right when a certain 'time window' for my meal, was over. I'd just eat slower next time. Do I want to know if I'm being watched? Do I even want to be watched? This being alone is a nice feeling but I don't think that will last. Maybe I'll get a visitor in the garden- to watch me day to day in my little room, we can watch each other live our lives, be unspoken friends, through the sound-proof window. That would be lovely. I yawn, fatigue introduces itself, my eyelids become heavier with each passing moment. I have no pillow, no blanket, but the room temperature is ambient so I should be fine. I lay my head on my arm, and tuck my legs up to my chest, slowly drifting away...farther and farther.

I sit, counting. Counting what? No idea. Years could be passing, or time could have halted. Where am I even sitting? White tiles, surrounded by windows and a clock, only it doesn't tick. An empty garden, a room filled with no sound other than numbers. I look down once more and the tiles are black, my counting stops and starts again, this time backward.

76, 75, 74...

No longer am I 19, I'm 16, then 14, soon I'm back home. Age 8, handcuffed and drugged. Threatened and Caged. Imprisoned. My old room had a nice big window, a white shag carpet, and I wore blue almost every day. These distant memories form the nightmare I'm trapped in, and my reality is a warped version of my past.

41, 40, 39...

Farther back, age 6. The younger I am the less I remember, the blurrier everything gets. My childhood before capture is a painting, one I marvel at and admire, crafted with intricacy and care. Everything after that is nothing more than a burned letter, written with hate and sorrow, addressed to no one in particular, its final destination the trash can, arriving there as a pile of ashes.

15, 14, 13...

Bright lights and bright eyes, the sun gleaming. A name called out, my name. "H-"

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I am 867205, nothing more, nothing less.

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