We know each other. Or, we did. Now I’m different. You’re different.
I’m chained up in a glass bubble. Everyday for twelve hours they run electricity through my chains into me, torturing me until I give in. The next twelve hours a computer sends more currents into my brain. I’m supposed to give in and let it reprogram me. Everyday I don’t let it.
You oversee my progress. Everyday for twelve hours you sit through meetings about the progress of this initiative, bored and uninterested. The next twelve hours you sit next to the computer. You’re supposed to catalogue new developments. You talk to me.
“I’m sorry,” you say. You always do. I don’t think you know I can hear you. You rant. Why? Why this? Why you? Why me? You talk about how it used to be. How we used to be. You never mention time. I don’t know how long it’s been like this. You still look the same.
I still feel my limbs. The chains chafe my skin raw, but it’s not painful anymore. It’s itchy. I’ve forgotten what food and water taste like. I don’t talk. I think my throat is much worse than my wrists. It hurts. But the electricity is by far the most excruciating.
“I’m sorry,” you say, again, as if by way of greeting. I’m sorry too. What for, I’m not really sure though. Sometimes I want to respond. Show you I hear you, and I understand. Sort of. But mostly it’s all I can do not to give in, much less actually move.
This time seems different. You look different. Tired. Old. You look like you’ve given up. Ironic. I haven’t. For the first time we pass the hours in silence. Not once do you look at me. The bell rings. It’s time for you to go.
“I miss you,” you say, and close the door. The electricity switches on. It hurts a lot more than it used to. I think it’s because of what you said. What you didn’t say. You hate this even more than I do. You could change it, but you can’t. That’s why it hurts. You care. You always have. But there is nothing you can do.
Fighting the paralysing effects of the currents running through me, I twist my arm as harshly as I can, feeling the chains rub my skin raw. Rub my skin thin. Warm blood trickles down my arm. My feeble arms tremble as I force them towards the glass. I write. I remember that night we sat at your window, writing messages for the moon to see. I write. I remember that night you hugged me. It felt like goodbye. I’m done writing.
The door bangs open. You’re early. Barely. With my last bit of strength, last bit of willpower, I place my hand flat on the glass, bloody. Your eyes frantically read my message. They widen. This feels like goodbye. It is. You rush forward. The current starts. I concentrate on it and let go.
Your hand slams against the glass. Mine falls cleanly away from it, bloody handprint crisp.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and this time I know. I gave up. You give up too. Your eyes swivel from your hand, pressed up against the memory of mine, and look into my eyes.
“I love you,” you say, but I can barely hear you. I can’t even see you. Right arm up. Right arm down. Left arm up. Left arm down. Right leg forward. Right leg backward. Left leg forward. left leg backward.
