Interpretation

by Dylan Callens

  After making all of the proper adjustments, subjects were sent specific data, starting with non-event memories. It was found that 100% of the false memories were accepted by the subjects as being true. In test two, alterations were made to each sense. Again, 100% of the subjects believed the false stimuli as true. In test three, behavior was modified by altering hormonal levels produced in the brain itself, combined with a data stream of proper ethical behavior. The response was nearly immediate. Poor behavior was changed within seconds and the new ethical code lasted for the duration of the experiment. Complete changes in attitude were visible. The rate of standard deviation, 0.3%, was the result of malfunctioning hardware.

  Recommendation: Continuation of this effort is critical to understand and control human behavior. The next steps should include a larger test group in a controlled environment. If successful, an attempt should be made in an uncontrolled environment, under strict supervision.

  Effectiveness Rating: 99.7%

  Chapter 7

  Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced. (Kierkegaard)

  Ninety years without slumbering

  Tick tock tick tock

  His life seconds numbering

  Tick tock tick tock

  It stopped, short never to go again

  When the old man died...

  “Who’s there?” Carl muttered, his eyes slowly opening to narrow slits. The squeal in his head subsided, as did the song. The sound was replaced by distant howling that hung in the cool air the same way that his breath rolled out from his lips.

  The mattress felt stiffer than a slab of concrete. With a grunt, Carl tried to roll to his side. Every muscle in his body lit ablaze with a fire that grew hotter, no matter how he positioned himself. Every joint swelled, making it impossible to form even a loose fist. He gave up and flopped flat on his back.

  Carl looked up to the ceiling; in the center of the stained canopy, a drop of water clung to a dark patch of mold, clawing its way towards the corner. The damp scent of rot caught in his nose, causing him to cough, sending sharp pains through his abdomen. When the coughing stopped, he wanted to clutch at his sides, but it was easier to stay still.

  Carl tilted his head. His eyes trailed towards the room’s barred entrance, which was framed with crumbling plaster. Pieces of stucco remained on the concrete floor, reminding Carl of his vision during lunch at Informacorp. He let out a sigh, watching his breath condense in the cold air, slowly floating away and dissipating into obscurity.

  He tried to move his leaden arm, but the weight was too difficult to overcome. When is this going to stop? he wondered. He had no desire to stay in this ugly world with its bland gray palette. All of it so real. Carl wondered if he was crazy, if he would ever be able to escape this delusion. If I am crazy, he wondered, would I be able to recognize it? The idea sent his mind reeling, unable to discern an answer that didn’t lead back to the beginning of a cruel paradox. A stabbing sensation in his intestines abruptly took him away from his internalized argument. There was no question about the reality of pain. That much was certain.

  Eventually, the agony in his belly dulled, giving Carl a chance to scan the room for clues. He wasn’t sure what to look for. Or even what questions needed to be answered. Those questions, he decided, were too numerous to sort out. Some hint, any hint about his location would suffice for the time being. But from within the gray confine, there were no indicators as to his whereabouts. Carl closed his eyes and continued to lay still.

  * * *

  Panic overcame his desire to lay down any longer, as a tidal wave of concern crashed over him. How long have I been out for? How will Liam manage on his own? Carl couldn’t discern if only an hour or a day had passed. All he could imagine was Liam sitting at home, curled in a corner, starving to death.

  He had to get up. Liam’s life might depend on it. If this was a delusion, Carl was certain that Liam needed his father with him. Even if it was just to feed the boy. Furthermore, Carl reasoned that if he did nothing, his body would become little more than the thick stench of putrefaction that continued to slap him.

  With every bit of effort he could muster, Carl sat upright. Dizzy, he dipped from side to side like a pendulum. He felt stomach acid bubbling its way up his esophagus. Carl contracted the muscles in his neck, able to hold the fluid inside. With his arms braced against the bed in an A-frame, he managed to steady himself. While the added support helped to secure his body, the room continued to spin in carnival ride circles.

  Carl took a deep breath. He pushed himself off the bed, rising to his feet.

  Immediately, he stumbled sideways. His shoulder led him edgewise, while his legs were too weak to maintain control. When the wall abruptly halted his movement, Carl was thankful to have the additional support. He stood, leaning against the damp cement, unsure if his legs would hold him. He wished that his head would squeal one last time, no matter the pain, to bring him back to his reality. Back to his life.

  His wish went unfulfilled. Instead, he limped forward, using the wall as support. With each step, pain shot up his legs, causing tears to well up in his eyes. Through blurred vision, Carl felt his way along the wall, until he found a window entombed by metal bars. He clutched at the rails for added support. Carl tried to look through the window, but thick soot prevented him from seeing the outside world. Staring back at him in the window, however, was a man. Carl spun his head back, nearly causing him to fall. No one was there.

  Still shaky, Carl turned towards the window once more. The image mirrored him, but it wasn’t him. It was a shell of a man: cheek bones jutted against skin smeared with filth and adorned at the apex of his jaw with a wild beard. Recessed, hollowed eyes with thick, dark periorbital pads drooping underneath stared blankly back at Carl. Thick hair, matted into ropes, hung past his shoulders. Carl cringed at the image. He looked feral. Bringing his head closer to the window, Carl bared his teeth. He could faintly see the yellow coating in the window, but there was some relief that they were not blackened, like some of the other people he saw during these flashes.

  The tips of his fingers brushed through the dense meadow on his face. The coarse hair popped back up like blades of grass. He had never considered what he might look like with a beard. No, this isn’t me. He reminded himself: This will be over soon. A clank at the barred door snapped Carl out of his self-examination. He turned in time to see a tray sliding across the floor and the shadow of a person walking out of view. Carl called, “Hey!”

  There was no answer, so Carl yelled louder, “Hey! Where am I?” The only response came from echoing footsteps that slowly faded from earshot. “I need to get out of here. I need to see my son!” His shouts went unanswered.

  Carl examined the tray from a safe distance of five feet. On top of the platter there appeared to be food and drink, though the cup of brown liquid and the off-white brick barely resembled sustenance. Carl smacked his lips, which momentarily stuck together with the thick paste that built up around his mouth. The saliva in his mouth was lost to a dry desert that made Carl want to swallow; when he did, his throat felt like it might close up. Meanwhile, the sight of food activated a dormant hunger pang, the tremor of which caused Carl to mindlessly move towards the tray, only noting the weakness after he stepped away from the wall. Overcoming shaky legs, Carl managed to plant himself in front of the tray. As he bent to pick it up, a cramp in his leg caused him to fall to the ground. He banged his arm hard against the concrete. Writhing in pain, he called out, “Someone, please help!” Only his echo answered: “Help help help.”

  Carl pet his arm, as if consoling a wounded animal. He wished that someone would come and help him. He knew that no one would. With that in mind, Carl forced himself to sit upright.

  Up close, the greyish block on the plate looked even less appealing. He poked the slab with a finger, creating an impression of his print in the curd. Intrigued by the soft brick’s texture, he brought it up to his nose for a sniff. Only the moldy stench o
f the room permeated. Instead of taking a bite, he put the curd down to examine the brown liquid. Other than the horrible color, Carl couldn’t determine if there was anything wrong with it. Not that it mattered anyway; he was too parched to resist drinking it.

  The first mouthful was shocking; sulfur slapped against his tongue. Carl fought the urge to spit it out. He sealed his lips tight while a grimace clung to his face. With a great deal of effort, he was able to swallow the offensive liquid. When it was over, he exhaled, feeling the heavy odor escape his mouth.

  The drive to cover up the taste outweighed any suspicions that Carl had about the food. He tore a piece from the corner of the block and put the morsel into his mouth. There was no discernable taste, but flecks of the mush slipped away, catching in his throat, making him gag. He managed to swallow the piece, though he needed to wash it down. With his nose pinched, the liquid pushed the pieces down his throat. There was no taste to it, as long as Carl had his nostrils pressed. The moment that he released his fingers, the taste rushed forward, coating his tongue with sulfuric warmth.

  Despite being hungry, the thought of taking another bite caused him to gag. Carl smacked his lips together to find that there was some saliva. Enough that he could swallow, at least. That was good enough for now.

  Carl crawled back to the cot. Hoisting himself back on top of the stiff mattress, he laid on his side and closed his eyes. He hoped that when he woke up, it would be in his own bed. His soft, plush bed. And the first person he would see when he woke up was his son.

  * * *

  “Wake up!”

  The shout caused Carl to shoot upright in his bed. A man, dressed in a white jumpsuit, or at least one that used to be white, stood facing Carl. He had the same emaciated look as the faint apparition in the window. Dirty, matted hair, bearded. Grime smeared across his skin in patchwork. The difference between the image in the window and this man was that the man in the window exuded a deep sense of dread and fear, while this man – the one in the jumpsuit – stood proud and confident of his actions, despite the blank look in his eyes.

  The man handed Carl a tray with the same meal as yesterday. While sliding it through a slot in the gate, he said, “You have five minutes to eat your breakfast, then it’s communal time. I suggest you hurry.” He walked away. Once in the hall, a woman pushing a cart full of trays followed him.

  Carl set the food on his cot, taking note that the pain from yesterday wasn’t nearly as bad. While movement was still labored, he was able to lift an arm without fire rushing through the muscles or sharp needles pricking his joints.

  The current problem, it seemed, was the greyish, semi-firm goop and brown water intended to be his meal. Carl imagined himself sitting in Brave New Burger, getting ready to bite into the “Pneumatic Special”. The fluffy, cheesy eggs piled thick between a perfectly toasted bagel. Sitting on the corner of the tray was a cup of hot Peruvian coffee, laden with cream and sugar – a dessert more than a beverage. He grasped the bagel with both hands and nibbled on the corner, trying hard to hold on to the fantasy, until bits of the rubbery curd caught in his throat. Carl choked on the flecks. Without thinking, his arm shot out for the water. He chugged the entire glass down, brows furrowed, holding his body back from any reaction. A quiet moan escaped his mouth when he was done. The taste of eggs, albeit rotten ones, blasted at his sense of taste. Once the liquid settled, Carl felt mildly re-energized.

  He took another small bite from the curd, then pushed his plate away just as the two people in jumpsuits came back. The woman called into the open air, “Open cell 9B.”

  The bars slid open, coming to a crashing halt.

  “Where am I?” Carl asked them.

  The woman answered, “Oh, I guess you don’t know. You were out for so long. This is the Bedlam Rehabilitation Center.”

  Carl scratched his head. He had never heard of the place before. “What am I doing here?”

  The woman drew her lips up to her ears and squinted her eyes before saying, “We wouldn’t know the answer to that. You can ask the doctor when you meet her. For now though, it’s communal time. Let’s go.”

  Carl objected, “But I need to get out of here. My son, he’s all alone.”

  “Oh no, I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said the man, his rubbery smile in full effect.

  Carl tried to smile back, but found that he couldn’t make his lips stretch out the way that he used to. “Please, just let me talk to the doctor. I need to see my son. This is all just a misunderstanding.”

  The man stepped forward. “No. It’s social time. There are no exceptions.” He withdrew an item that Carl thought to be a small flashlight. The man flicked his wrist. The item telescoped outwards, reaching nearly two feet. Carl heard a faint squeal come from the thin baton, a glissando that edged its way sharper until out of auditory range. Taking a step back, Carl sensed that whatever was about to happen would be painful. The orderly casually raised his arm, the rubbery grin still stamped on his face. The baton touched Carl’s shoulder, sending a painful jolt through his body. Every muscle tensed, sending Carl straight to the ground. When his muscles loosened, he clutched at his chest, trying to calm an erratic heartbeat. Slowly, it returned to normal. Still, Carl felt discombobulated, like everything around him was surreal.

  The man shrugged at Carl. “Sorry, but there are no exceptions. Are you ready to go now?”

  Carl laid still for another moment before scrambling to his feet. “Yes. Okay,” he blurted, fearing a second zap.

  They marched Carl down the hall. Empty cages lined the hallway until they finally came to one with someone in it. The man laid on his cot. Carl and the two orderlies stood in front of the bars. The man stood, then howled like a coyote.

  “Christopher, you know we don’t like the howling,” the woman scolded. “Now, let’s get going. We’re already late for communal time.”

  Chris paid little attention to her. His focus was directed at Carl. “Oh look at that. Ya brought me some fresh meat.” He eyeballed Carl’s face. “Well, he don’t look so fresh to me. Smells kind of past his prime.” Chris gave half a smile.

  Carl tilted his head, perplexed by Chris’ accent. He had only ever heard a southern drawl on the Exoche and listening to it in person seemed unreal. Equally unreal was the way that this man smiled. It wasn’t a smile that he’d ever seen before. Only one side of his lip curled up. His eyes didn’t squint. This man apparently didn’t know what a smile was. Even his posture was too straight, his shoulders peeled back too far. There was some kind of wisdom in the way he held himself. In comparison, the orderlies were blank slates.

  “Open cell 9F.” The door skimmed over the concrete floor until it clanged to its resting spot. Chris folded his hands behind his head and marched out of his cell. “See, I’m playing nice, boss. No shocks today.”

  The male orderly looked back at Carl and rubber-smiled.

  The four of them continued down the hall. As they approached the lift, the woman called out, “Elevator to first floor.” The door opened, allowing Carl and Chris to enter first, while the orderly kept an ape-like grasp on the baton, ready to strike if necessary.

  Chris turned his head towards Carl. “So, freshmeat, ya got a name?”

  “Carl.”

  “Carl. Talkative, huh? Where you from?”

  Carl looked at Chris. “Sorry, I’m trying to figure all this out. You’re Christopher, right? I’m from Albany. How about you?”

  “Just Chris,” he paused for a moment. “Albany, huh? Ain’t that a pretty place,” Chris cackled, as if he just told the world’s best joke.

  Carl didn’t understand what made Albany so amusing. “Yeah, it’s a nice place.”

  “Was,” Chris said. “I imagine it was.”

  The orderly piped up, “Christopher, careful what you say. You know that I don’t want to hurt you, but if you start speaking that Untruther nonsense, I’ll let you have it.”

  “Sorry, boss. No need for that stick today.”

&n
bsp; “That’s better.”

  Carl watched Chris stare at the display, which marked the floors as they descended. At the fifth floor, Chris began tapping his foot while his head and body rocked slightly along with the beat. As they passed by the fourth floor, his body tensed. Carl could hear Chris grind his teeth. This made Carl freeze, unsure if maybe the elevator was about to drop to the bottom and they were going to meet their demise. The orderlies were completely oblivious to Chris’ concerns and kept on smiling; the male still held his electric wand towards the inmates. Finally, the number over the elevator door changed to three. Chris exhaled deeply. Carl empathetically exhaled with him.

  The relief that Carl felt was temporary.

  “First floor,” the male orderly informed Carl as it came to a stop. When the doors slid open, loud, indecipherable conversation rushed in. The wave of sound caused Carl to step back. There was no time to sort out the noises. The orderly was insistent on Carl moving forward, giving his command by pointing the baton towards the door. Carl’s heart thumped against his sternum, making it hard to breathe.

  Once out of the elevator, Chris said, “Let’s go,” motioning towards the gate. “It ain’t so bad in there.” He took a step towards the noise. Carl followed close behind.

  “Open common area,” called out the female orderly.

  Carl and Chris walked through the entrance. Carl stopped to look back. The gate slammed shut, with the orderlies standing on the other side of the bars. Chris grabbed Carl by the arm to keep him moving along. “Don’t look back,” he said. “They’ll just give you that weird-ass smile of theirs.”

  Posed as Michelangelo’s David, a skeleton stood in the corner of the room. Marasmic ribs jutted out his sides and where muscle or fat should fill the gaps, cellophane skin clung fast in a deep concave. A low moan escaped him, adding a bass frequency underneath the nonsensical chatter. On the other side of the room, a melodic stutter skipped out of a patient’s mouth like a scratched record. Next to him, a woman squatted down, collecting her own feces. She smelled it, then asked the stutterer, “Does this seem right to you?” He stared straight ahead repeating, “Tick. Tick-tock. Tick.” Carl wanted to smack the back of his head to help move the song forward.