He couldn’t hear himself think over the sound of his own heartbeat. It echoed off the bare, concrete walls that were always too close. The ceaseless, desperate pounding drowned out everything else - if there had ever been anything else... he couldn’t quite remember. Breath came and went without relinquishing an ounce of oxygen or providing any refreshment. His chest rose and fell out of habit more than anything. The latest exhale rattled off the walls of the room that he wished was as empty as it looked.
His aching tongue ventured over his lips, feeling the dryness of his own mouth. There was no use trying to alleviate it, or to remedy the sandpaper texture that had taken up residence in his corneas. It was a waste of time.
And time was precious. The clock was ticking. His own body beat out every second, and as each one passed it fell on him like another stone dropped onto his shoulders. He was sure he could hear his spine creaking under the weight of each minute. He could feel the white-washed walls smirking at the knots that clutched the muscles of his back.
No, there was no time to waste, no time at all.
Swollen, bloodshot eyes stared back at him from his reflection, distorted by the dents in the metal table that lurked silently just at waist height.
He clamped his eyes shut, took another trembling breath, and forced himself to look down at what the gleaming steel presented to him.
He was the only one. They had said so, just before they had stripped him naked and thrown him shivering through the door to his perfectly unique prison. Few people could see what he saw there. Fewer still could see it and remain sane enough to act upon it, to prevent the worst from happening. He was the only one.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions he was allowed a free thought, the idea that he was special wriggled its way to the surface of his mind. If the rest of the world only knew what he was doing... if they only understood the sacrifices he was making for them... They would call him a hero for the things he did, and a watchful god for the all-important vigil he kept every minute of every day.
If only they knew how much they owed to him, they wouldn’t admonish him for all the time he spent in this place. They would not dare talk to him about responsibilities if they knew of the weight he carried on his shoulders. They would plead with him to make the right decision, and when he did they would grovel before him and thank him, their savior, on bended knee.
But no, that was Wrong. Such thoughts gave the impression that he had some kind of power. He was not special. He was not important. All that was important was that he keep things going. Everything must be Right. He was just a cog in an immense, unfathomable machine. The tiny piece of it that he could see was laid out on the cold metal table in front of him.
Now it was up to him.
A bead of icy sweat rolled down the back of his neck as he fought to remember the rules that the man, now nameless and faceless in his memory, had rattled off to him. He had said... Or was it...? There were so many of them, and he had spoken so fast, in such an uncompromising monotone. It was more than a human mind could possibly catalogue. But he remembered what would happen if he failed. He bit his lip with the effort of sifting through the minefield of half-faded words and sensations until he tasted warm salt. If he slipped up, if he forgot... So he had to remember.
But of course, the rules were subject to change, just like everything else. Except the consequences of failure, which were coldly and cruelly constant, and the steady ticking of the clock no one could hear.
It took every ounce of strength to force his eyes to focus on the problem laying in front of him. It seemed to stare back up at him accusingly, daring him to make the wrong choice. The cold air would condense against his skin, heated by boiling blood and muscles beneath burning with the effort involved in simply keeping him from swooning. He wasn’t sure where the blood in his body was going, after so quickly draining from his hands and face.
Time was running out.
He was unaware of how violently his hands were trembling until he raised one of them over the dreaded table. Fluorescent light highlighted the bones jutting from skin drawn taut with the strain. His brow knit into a grimace as he looked down at the twisted shadow it cast over the wretched device.
There, squinting down at the horror before him, he suddenly realized the truth. There was no right answer, no such thing as success. The pit dropped out of his stomach as it dawned on him that the best he could possibly do was to stave off the worst for another day. No matter what he chose, there was no winning. There was only survival, if it could even be called that.
He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. Harsh voices shouted from the walls, which had begun to spin sickeningly. He was going to pass out. No, he couldn’t, he mustn’t... The worst was looming, closer and closer, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt now, that there was no way out.
A wail of anguish in an unfamiliar voice escaped his throat as he drove his hand forward and crushed it against the part of the machine. For a moment, he dare not move, even enough to open his eyes.
Then, the entire room seemed to exhale softly, and he could feel everything settle back into its proper place. The machine blinked happily up at him. He let himself exhale with it, taking in air for the first time in what felt like ages. It was done. A feeling of immense freedom drifted up inside him as he straightened up and allowed his jaw to unclench. He could feel the walls parting for him, and smell the outside air pouring in through the cracks. He drank it in.
Suddenly, his basking was interrupted by a low, grinding sound from in front of him. As quickly as it had come, the air swept out of the room, scurrying away before the walls could again draw shut behind it. An invisible hand clenched over his stomach as the sound grew louder and closer.
The table in front of him churned, swallowing the calmly blinking device he had tamed.
There was a dull clunk, and then silence. In its place on the cold, unforgiving metal, sat another - perfectly identical.
***
Miles Lizak, is an aspiring writer. He writes because he can't do anything else. He is a Creative Writing major at Fairleigh Dickinson University, and a publishing intern at The Literary Review, a quarterly literary magazine. He hope to go on to earn a graduate degree and find a place for myself in the world of writers and academics. He has just entered his senior year, with that student’s terror, Real Life, looming on the horizon.
