New Dawn: Chapter One, Inescapable

Chapter One

{Warning: Contains Some Coarse Language and Minor Nudity]

~ Elsa ~

The world is no more lighted than it is darkened by the shadows, a world without windows and beaming sunlight but a world with stale lighting, the lighting of an ill-fitted basement, or a dungeon. Or a prison. At some empty space of wall in an empty void of darkness and illuminating light, there is a silver door, three slits for light to pass inside and pass out, a handle for me to open the door, and a room trapped inside. A room with not much to admire.

This silver door never moves, never breathes, and never opens with a promise of no return. When the door opens, it opens with the twist of my hand, and when the door slams shut behind me, it beckons for my return, knowing as I do that return I must, for home is where you return, is it not? To call this little room home is the best possible name for it. No way is it a sanctuary, but no way is it a personal hell. It is merely a room behind a silver door. That is all, truly.

A room for a girl. A room with a bed; no chair, no toilet, no bookcase or dresser. No more than this bed I sit upon, resting my feet, pondering. Soon I will be called for, no doubt, and I will rise to my feet, pace towards that silver door over there, and I will walk to the small room where I sit and eat my meals. Or I will be called to shower, or allowed to visit the washroom, or I will be allocated my daily leisure time, for I woke up merely ten minutes ago, and the whole blessed day has yet to come rushing towards me, like some wild animal.

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

I pause, hesitating, hearing those words rattling in my brain, not out loud, not from some speaker inside this room, or in the room outside of this one. The voice is not so much a voice as it is a series of sounds repeating over and over, and the only form of human contact I could imagine is wiped from possibility. There are no guards or servants or any other humans surrounding me. I am alone in here. I have grown used to it. 

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

Often it is repeated thrice, perhaps four times if they think I wouldn't listen to them...I suppose it isn't truly a them, is it? It's an automated sound blurring between a human and a robot, and I can't call the noises in my head entirely 'human' or else I'd be lying completely. It is time for my meal, I suppose. I walk the empty hallways and rooms alone, no escorts - no need. How I would ever escape here would be even a surprise to me.

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

I haven't ever seen someone else in here. My transfer from the outside to this sparkling new inside was in lighted corridors and there were windows. I say 'sparkling new inside' with serious sarcasm. This place is no more sparkling that rusting steel in the scrap-heap. It is no more new than second-hand sweaters stained with wine and dirt and, perhaps, stained with upchuck and vomit. Inside this world of darkness, I have not once seen another human's face. I've questioned whether other humans even exist anymore.

I've always shunned that idea however. Someone else must be alive, clicking buttons, pressing whatever button lights the shiny crimson bulb to indicate that the gears inside my mind have signaled for meal time. If that is how all of this works, and I am not mistaken, and there is actually some other explanation for the noises flourishing inside my mind. Someone else must be alive, just not down here with me. There is no need to be down here with me.

I used to cherish the lunches and the dinners I shared with my family, but eating alone, you realise a certain feeling associated with mealtimes. You enjoy the food served to you more often in the company of others, no matter if you're eating something you loathe or something you adore. Say, if I was surrounded by my husband, and my two daughters, right now as I ate this god-forsaken concoction of soup, I would feel more positive, more joyous, purely for the company that surrounds me, no matter the taste.

The soup is bland - has very little taste, despite the chunks of vegetables floating amidst the sea, lifeboats bobbing for safety and yet failing and wailing so desperately for a rescue that will never come. The soup, despite such a thrilling story, tastes not of sinking lifeboats, or perhaps it does - I have no clue for the taste of sunken lifeboats. The soup is soup, however, and soup is food like any other, so I eat as I do every day in here, alone, silent, slurping as I expect nobody to be watching me. 

Almost always following mealtime was showering. The water is not cold, but it is not hot either. It is somewhere between the frost icicles of winter and the boiled and rising steam of summer - it is warm, at least, and I feel refreshed, I suppose, but never as refreshed as I did back home, where the taps did not twist for one singular temperature, but twisted for the spectacle of range - from cold as ice to the burn of a flame.

I haven't seen someone I remember since I said goodbye to my husband. I had said goodbye to our children earlier still, and to see their heavenly faces even one more time, I would trade every single physical possession I could muster. They are worth every cent and every dollar. I have no clue how old they will be, or how old they are now. I have no clue what time it is, or what year it is. They could be growing miles without me, and I would never know. 
-- NOTICE: RETURN TO YOUR CELL, INMATE -- 

It has been so long. I rarely think of myself as an inmate now - a prisoner - for I never interact with someone to consider otherwise. I consider myself a woman trapped in the schedule and the routine, but not someone's prisoner or inmate, maybe because there isn't someone here to blame. It was an arrest to begin with, of course, but an arrest that faded into the million memories in my mind with time, and I suppose in this void of darkness I don't feel so imprisoned.

There is no oppression here. No upright and stable men, or women, to control me, or manipulate me. I am rarely granted my freedom within the confides of this trapping void, but I'm not caged like an animal, for eyes to glance upon, unless secret and hidden cameras peep upon me. Living conditions are poor, but I've learned to deal, to carry on with life. I've accepted this as another life completely, and that has helped, I suppose, for I'm not longing for an escape if I believe my eventual freedom is coming.

There are moments I feel more burdened by this world. This...this darkened and monotonous world surrounding me. The same drab clothes supplied to me, the same bland food to eat and the same tasteless water to drink and to shower in...nothing changes and nothing becomes exciting or grand. The world in here is plain and simple, and that simplicity is habitable, not the most comforting, but accommodating for me - the adapted me, not the woman I was with my husband. Or the woman living alone before him.

The door is sealed shut. The door will not open until I am offered to open it, and I will exit this miniature home I can call my own and I will venture into the bleakness for whatever I am offered to do in that moment, from the sounds vibrating in my head. Until then, I wallow in the silence. I ponder for the next moment, or I dance ballroom waltzes in my mind. Sometimes I imagine shaking someone's hand. Or even seeing another human in person, even for a minute. 

.
 . 

~ Mitch ~

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

Oh good morning, rattling voice in my head, speaking to me with a sound unnatural to be a human; automated. That is the second time this morning, and as I stirred awake with the first sound, I sit here with no intention to move just yet, not afraid but simply not hungry. Never hungry for the mess in a bowl known as 'soup'. Once I might've admitted to liking certain types of soup, but now there is no reason to enjoy the only food you vomit in the toilet bowl.

You learn to adapt to this dimly-lit world beneath the sunshine and the buildings with windows and doors not silver with three slits to peek inside. It isn't the home I called, well, home, but it is where I live now, and a prisoner's cell will never be the greatest room in the world. My only furniture is the cot I sleep on, and sit upon, and lean against, and do whatever else I can upon. At least the room very rarely smells of urine, unlike a prisoner's cell would. It still smells.

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

Third time. Possibly once more if I'm not tardy enough. 

 Mitch: I'm on my way, dammit. 

Nobody would likely have heard me. Or cared to hear me. I'm to be locked up and imprisoned, sure, but I'm not one of the criminals to be constantly monitored, which, I suppose, explains the lack of supervision of another humans. No need for guards; no escorts. I'm trusted to escort myself to whatever is assigned for me through the voices in my head - makes me sound like a person of the insane kind.

Sometimes searching for the correct door can be a challenge. In the darkness, the doors slip in the shadows, hiding in plain sight, for me to search and unearth them, some odd game of hide-and-seek I don't wish to continue playing. But then I know which door is correct, not only because I remember the patterns to walk from my cell-room to those other rooms, like where I eat my meals, and the shower, and the washroom, but because there is a sense. A sense that this is the following, and that is the wrong entrance over there.

The soup is bland - tasteless, simple, shoved in the bowl with very little desire or care. It sloshes with the twirling of the spoon, a sea of liquid. Chunks bobbing up and down, varying degrees of colour and shade. Disgusting, simply put. But it's food, maybe not for thought but for the stomach, so I'm not starving, and I'm feel satisfied a few minutes afterwards, even if the taste is bland and unsatisfying. I eat it. I feel full afterwards. Food here isn't a pleasure, it's a routine, and it is fulfilled and forgotten.

I swallow another gulp. Hmm, delicious.

The shower once represented cleansing, and cleaning of the dirt and the mud, as my mother would say, a pious and yet calm woman, devoted not solely to her faith, but to her children, and to her husband - my step-father. My father had abandoned us, or so it seemed, and she had married the father of my younger siblings, a calmer man too, less flighty, more stable. He was more my father than any other man known to this earth, even if our blood and our DNA denied it.

The water pouring from the shower-head is not cold, nor is it hot, but just right, as that blonde little girl proclaimed of once she pick-locked her way inside the home of the three little bears. I suppose to begin with everything here was 'just right' - not for the life I had been living, but for the life I would lead from then forward, and the life I lead now. Even to begin with the soup was fulfilling - no five-star meal, but no five-star meal was to be expected. No five-star anything.

I wonder, what time leisure will be? Sometimes it comes directly after shower-time, or sometimes it is before. Often it is a random occurrence during the day, but then again, without time to tell, it could be during the night, and how would I ever tell what is the difference between them? It will come. It will come today.

-- NOTICE: RETURN TO YOUR CELL, INMATE --

But not directly after my shower. Perhaps give it thirty minutes or an hour, and then the ringing sounds will blast in my head, and I will know to open the cell door and walk to the leisure dome, as I've grown to call it. It's nothing entirely exciting, despite the wondrous name. But not yet, not now. Now, I'll walk back in silence to the cell - a hole in the wall, poking out from the common room. And yet there is nothing common about this room, for it is bleak and dark and shallow, a ravenous cave and hollow log.

I have paused outside the room. Staring inside, I can almost see myself, sleeping on that bed, sitting up upon it, thinking to myself. I can almost see my reflection upon the dusty sheets, upon the greyed sheets. I wish the slits in the silver door were mirrors, so I could see myself. Not to preen or to adjust my appearance, but to see myself in the morning, awaken to a familiar face instead of the darkness that surrounds me. I see a mirror rarely, only for specific reasons.

Returning to sleep. Closing my eyes. Drifting to a dream, if possible, or simply blacking out, blacked out like the darkness that surrounds me. Darkness always surrounds, even in the lighted halls or the bright white of the other rooms, rooms for eating and showering. You are devoured by this darkness, and yet it becomes familiar, some say a friend, to you. When I awake once more, it'll be time for something else.

.
.

~ Willow ~

 -- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Stupid sounds in my head. Shut up. No use swearing at the stupid sounds in my head, for they will not listen to me. No use at all. Maybe they hear my thoughts though...spy in my mind...like the creepy watchers they are, moping about inside my mind, toying with me. I must shut up. They could be listening.

"Hello, Willow," they would say, "how are you holding up in that cage of yours, like a blind rat, or like a hamster...a guinea pig..." I never did like guinea pigs. I liked hamsters, but not that guinea pig my sister adopted. He was horrid, he would poop everywhere, and I was...well, I was disgusted by my sister at the time, which did not help poor little Franklin...the guinea pig. I don't even fucking care about guinea pigs. Stop talking about them, Willow.

 -- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR MEAL -- 

I suppose I should stand to my feet, scuff them against this bare floor, pace from this room to another - the one where I eat my meals. Meal time almost always is uneventful and bland. But I mustn't starve myself to death, oh no. They would be most upset. I'd think their little brains would explode if I starved, but they would never starve me, as narcissistic as I may sound. That ugly voice would just repeat over and over until they dumped food in my mouth, somehow.

So each day I eat. Digest the food given to me, digest the food required of me. Sit down at that uncomfortable wrought chair at the table covered in cloth, eating the food of the poor, or of the prisoner, I suppose. Tastes delicious every single freaking day, of course. Despite the unsightly appearance. No, the soup is slithery and sickening, but I rarely vomit. I've forced myself not to.

Sometimes I sit here, alone, in the darkness, the empty bowl in front of me, and I think to myself of where I am, or where I could be. Imagine the possibilities. This could be some underground military unit, or we could be drifting off in space and I would not even notice...no, this room is still, solid ground beneath, or above too. Perhaps I could throw this bowl against the floor. Or the roof. No, I would be shocked. Again. That is my punishment here.

The showers are nothing extraordinary. I do not scream with excitement to know it is time to shower in here. I shower once after the morning meal, and once after the night-time meal, but there is no certainty that is either of those times when I eat my meals. I shower once after I wake up, and once before I fall back asleep. Unless I nap during the day, which certainly happens when the room I call my own is so damn bland. The shower is nice.

The shower is nice. Not freezing cold. I never burn myself underneath the water. I remember the first time I showered in here. I bit my lip when I couldn't change the temperature. I sighed to myself, sorrowfully, when I realised this would be every other shower from now, same old, same old. There are no towels. I wondered how I would dry myself, but then I flicked the switch. One enormous blow-drier from the sky. Hold onto your flesh, or else be stripped of skin completely. I never have had that happen. Silly thought.

 I could sit here and feel stupid and sorry for myself all day. Such a happy feeling, the loneliness of this all.
-- NOTICE: RETURN TO YOUR CELL, INMATE -- 

Fuck you. Wish I could wipe that smug little sound from my mind. I want to sit here and feel stupid and sorry for myself all day. Not inside that cell, behind a locked door. Let me stay. Let me embrace the freedom of space and time. Such a happy feeling, the loneliness of this all.

 

-- NOTICE: RETURN TO YOUR CELL, INMATE -- 

Shut up. I'm returning to my cell. I am returning to my cell. The ground here is dark, and looks coarse and rough, but it is not, for they knew our feet would be bare. No need bleeding the feet raw when the luxury of footwear was stripped away like my clothes were. Blue pajamas all I wear. The prisoner's outfit. Horrid to unzip when I need to pee, worse to shower. Remove the whole suit to cleanse the self, then wear another set of blue pajamas, laid out for me.

Inside my cell again. The voice can pause, halt speaking, or halt transmitting, however they call what is happening inside my mind. They have pick-locked their way inside my head to converse with me, but the topic of conversation is one-sided and forceful, for they merely force me to eat, or to return to my cell, or to focus on my leisure activities. They never force me to sleep, thankfully. That is my decision. Whether I sleep or stay awake, drifting further from the dream world.

The next time I hear the ringing in my head, shoot me. Kill me here, blood dripping from the sheets of this solitary bed. Drown out any cries or pleas for help with the pillowcase. The world in here is a tragic disguise for the life I once lived. The world without human contact is a miserable one.

.

.

~ Elsa ~

Emptiness. Hollowing and vast, it becomes an essence with which we are devoured within, or a void we are comfortable escaping to. An essence I am devoured within, and yet true, a void I have grown comfortable within. Not merely as I have to, but because there is something inside of me that beckons it. Beckons the emptiness for at least there would be something to think of, something surrounding me.

No more thinking of that stuff. But that is the thing with being here, I suppose. You think the strangest things once the things you once thought of are worn out. You think of the wondrous things and the oddities you ignored when the world surrounding you was so fascinating itself, or at least your life was fascinating itself. Now my life is bland, and I sit here without thought, until something creeps in. Contains itself within you.

Perhaps the purpose of this lack of freedom was growing boredom. I cannot leave this room without the ringing sound in my head, but even if I could, what would I do? The rooms I have access to are bland, or useless if boredom is the issue. There is the leisure room, I suppose, but what is inside is often replaced day by day, with some intention from those who caged me here, I suppose. Some time soon I'll be in there, in the leisure room. Time will tell.

Pacing this room can change my thoughts. One moment I could be remembering my children, or my husband, but then I could see some empty space in the darkness and inside my mind, the topic would switch - now I could be thinking of my childhood, or of high school and its traumas, or perhaps now I could begin to think of my own flaws and my weaknesses. They seemed to be a frequent topic with no one to say otherwise.

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR LEISURE-- 

Time to go. Be hasty and avoid constant reminders from the sounds, avoid piercing sounds repeating over and over, or headaches. The door will be unlocked now, as usual, and I can move towards one of the other doors, searching for the door labelled 'leisure' upon it. Nothing is difficult to locate, especially now. Locations burned into my brain. Everything memorized. Times for meals and showers and leisure and washroom periods are randomized, I suppose. Or perhaps they are not. I cannot tell the time in here.

I open the door, peering outside into the darkness. The circular pool of light casts its artificial shadow upon the ground - the ground is not coarse or rough, no, despite its appearance. The light-blue outfit I wear clings to my skin - it is humid, not burning hot, but the coolness, the cold, has shifted. Today it is humid. I can feel myself begin to sweat. I can feel droplets of sweat forming, and then halting, as the coolness returns, chilling me.

Outside of the cell it is cooler; colder. My feet step forward, gracing the wintry ground beneath them. I peer forward, and the room is not empty. There is something in the centre of the room - it is not moving, not breathing, not human or animal. It is familiar. I saw it yesterday, or the day before, or sometime earlier. I remember sitting down to play. By myself, alone. They must've moved it today, into the common room. The not-so-common room.

It's chess. I played as a child, then stopped as a teenager, never played once I married my husband. I remember seeing a chess set once in the store, and almost bought it to teach my children, but no doubt they would play it on some electronic device if they truly wanted to. So no use wasting money, I thought. It was the first thing I played in here, for leisure time. Wasted my time alone trying to out-smart myself. No use switching seats, just reach over and move a piece. End up favouring one colour over another.

But I'm not alone today. I can see him standing over there, moving towards the chess table too, his stare focused upon mine. We are silent, but we have noticed each other, and no doubt we are both thinking a million thoughts inside our minds. Who is he, and who am I? He approaches the chess table faster than I do. He seems more eager to speak to me. Or more eager to play chess, but I doubt that. There are one million unspoken questions to be answered.

 He is there, staring at me. The first human face I have seen since they locked me away in here, in the darkness. In the hollowness. His face is comforting, for he isn't someone I recognise, so he isn't someone I loathe, or someone I've missed too much to avoid crumbling to my knees, crying the tears of everlasting joy. He is a stranger, but he is human, and he can talk to me, likely. We can speak of this world. Hopefully.

Mitch: Who are you? 

His voice is gentle, assuring, but he is confident now, wishing for an answer, but not praying - too weakened for praying, or simply not a religious fellow. 

Elsa: I could ask the same of you. Before I came here I was Elsa. 

Mitch: My name's Mitch, unless they changed it.  

He laughs. I laugh too. 

Mitch: I don't know what we're doing out here. 

 

I pause. Pondering what he has said as I pace towards him, towards the chess table. His name is Mitch. I've only known one Mitch, a boy from high school. He was in my History class, but he had blonde hair, like sand. Forget Mitch from History, and from my history too, I suppose. What are we doing here? We are prisoners, he must know that, but he must ask what we are doing in this room, with the chess set.

Elsa: We play chess, of course. 

Mitch: I can't believe you're so comfortable with all of this. 

Elsa: I'm not comfortable at all. I pause. But I'm masking it. I don't know why I'm seeing you now, but I am. Pause. I'm white, so I start. 

Mitch: Well isn't that some wondrous racism right there. 

He pauses. No, I get it. It's chess.

Elsa: I sat in this chair... 

When was the last time I played chess with someone? In my childhood, I suppose. With my father, or with my mother, or some friend of mine? A long time ago. This time I must favour myself. I cannot cheat like I would when I was alone. Then you couldn't quite call it cheating. 

Elsa: Your turn. 

Mitch: I'm thinking.  

He glances at me sometimes, when it isn't his turn. I suppose he hasn't seen a woman since his imprisonment. It would be a strange sight to him. A woman. Like it feels to see a man after so long without. 

Mitch: How long do you think we've been down here? 

Elsa: You think we're underground too? 

Mitch: I'd imagine it. 

Elsa: I have no clue how long. Could be years and I wouldn't notice.  

He plays his turn. Weak. Must not have played as a child.
Mitch: I think I'd notice if we'd been down here for years. You'd just feel it. 
Elsa: Say we've only been here for a month...days blur together, and it could feel like a year, but it may have only been thirty days...
Mitch: It's been longer than a month. 
Elsa: Of course it has, I was posing an idea...

I don't believe I was ever actually brilliant at chess. I think sometimes my opponent, being my father or mother, would go easy on me, let me believe I was winning with my own skill. That's the flaw with playing as a child. You are taken seriously, so you feel serious when you aren't. I gave up with chess before I would be taken seriously with it. 

Mitch: Maybe it's been around six months...

Elsa: I don't know. I never kept track of days early on. I don't now. 

Mitch: I started to early - that's how I know it's been more than a month. I stopped at thirty, gave up. That was some time ago too. 

Elsa: We've been alone for some time then...

Mitch: What's to say we've been in here for the same amount of time? 

Callum: I've been in here for more a month, definitely. 

He spoke, surprising us, but not scaring us. I think we both expected there would be more than the pair of us. Just didn't know when we would meet them, if ever. Here he is, standing alone in the darkness, speaking to us. No shock or disbelief. He is calm. He smiles to us. 

Callum: Sorry if I intruded on your chess match. Haven't seen other people in...in a while, kinda like forever.  

Our chess match is concluded abruptly. There are three of us now, not two, and three cannot play chess. Not like we truly feel like chess anyway. 

Elsa: Who are you...sorry, what's your name? 

Callum: It's Callum Corney. Oh wow...I haven't even spoken my own name since I've been here. 

Elsa: Yeah...me neither. I pause. Hey, I'm Elsa, and this is Mitch. 

That felt so forced. Suppose I haven't introduced myself in so long.  

The two men faced one another. In simpler times, long ago, it would be the men who would face one another, in superiority and to evoke fear, but as time shifted, and we evolved, the barrier crafted between the men and women blurred. Women could face one another in superiority, or to evoke fear. The men here returned to the past. 

Mitch: Do you know where we are? 

Callum: Of course I don't. I...I've been locked up just like you.  

Mitch: We're the first people you've seen since - 

Callum: Since my imprisonment, yes...didn't mind the silence. 

Mitch: Bet you're glad to not be alone, though. 

Callum: I adapted, as likely you did too. 

We all adapted, it seems. Humans would. All animals would. In times of change, an animal adapts, to survive, to flourish even in harsh climates or times of struggle. Without the will to adapt, an animal would suffer, or perish, and so an animal, for example a human, chooses to adapt above all else. 

Mitch: We adapted. Now we're here, and we're full of questions. 

Callum: And so am I. 

Elsa: Our questions can't be answered by each other. 

Mitch: Then we agree we're together in this. Callum Corney, was it? Shake on it, yeah? 

Callum: Yep, and you were...Mitch something? We're in this, as long as I know your last names. You too, Elsa. 

Mitch: Mitch Cullen.  

They shake hands.

Elsa: Pleasure to meet you both. The name's Elsa St. James. 

Mitch: We agree that we deserve answers. We were hidden in the dark, alone, for however long, wherever we are, and we will not return to that solitude. 
Callum: We deserve answers, I'd agree there. 
Mitch: Welcome aboard. 
Callum: Thank you for letting me join you. 
He pauses. There is silence between them as I watch on, silently. Too conflicted whether to risk interrupting their male-to-male conversation. Too conflicted whether to let the past be revived or join their conversation with my feminine voice. I will ignore these thoughts. Sure. 

Callum: I have one question I think you can answer though, just...just please consider it. It's nothing much. 
Mitch: Shoot ahead. 
 There is a pause, and Callum sighs softly, before speaking. 
Callum: I...I was comfortable here, alone, but I...I was never comfortable up there. We...we get our answers, but...could you let me live alone once more afterwards? 
Mitch: Whatever you want, dude.

Willow: Why would you want to live alone for the rest of your life? We could literally build our own society down here and you wish to die alone? 

Jesus Christ, who was that? I turn, facing the chess table. There she sits, alone, in matching blue, exact to the blue I wear. Her hands are folded upon her lap. She stares at us with an intensity I did not recognise, or perhaps recognized once but forgot after however long since I had seen another human.

 Willow: I'm sorry if I offended you. 

Elsa: Oh, you scared me, sorry. My name is Elsa, and you are? 

She didn't speak, but she knew I was there, she understood the gesture and glanced in my direction, a petite smile forming, then retreating. She had startled us, appearing seated upon the chair I once sat upon, in front of the chess table. She had yet to respond.

 Elsa: This is Mitch Cullen and Callum Corney, and you are? 

Willow: My name is Willow. She pauses. Willow Maison. 

No more. No less. That is her response, and at least it is a name. No further comment or anything else. Silence between women. 

Elsa: Do you...do you have information to share about this place? 

Willow: I do hate it here. 

Elsa: Do you...do you know what month it is?  

Willow: No idea. 

Her answers are short and useless. She seems angered, or possibly socially-deprived, as we all are. I should give her some time to adjust to seeing other humans' faces. I don't think I've fully adjusted myself. It is all so strange to think about. 

Elsa: I'm just going to talk to Mitch for one second - 

Willow: No. She pauses, shaking her head. Please, just...just stay with me.  

Emotion empties itself in her voice. She speaks now as a human with feelings and desires, not as the depressive robot from mere moments ago. 
 Elsa: I can stay here and talk to you...
Willow: I would like that. 
Elsa: Maybe...maybe you could tell me about yourself, Willow? I pause, pondering. Did I tell you I like your hair? 
Willow: You didn't mention it...

I can tell the other two have noticed her now. They are silent, staring so obviously at her, surprised and yet so casual with it, merely offering the simplest and politest of gestures to her. 
Mitch: It's nice to meet you, Willow. Have you missed human society as much as I have? 
Callum: We've agreed we're searching for answers, like some sleuthing team. You in?  
The roles of the men and women have been reversed now.  

Elsa: Well, I like your hair, and I...I believe getting to know one another would be nice and simple, but maybe that's the mother in me creeping out...oh, guess I never mentioned I was...am a mother. 
Mitch: You have children...
Elsa: Two. Pause. Two girls, cute girls. 
Callum: And you have a...
Elsa: I have a husband. I haven't seen them in forever. 

She hesitates, listening to me speak of my family. I wonder if she has anyone she misses dearly outside of this darkened world. 
Willow: I...I like your hair too. She sighs, lowering her head. I feel for you, not being able to see your family - your children, your husband. I miss my brother. He would be worried sick if he knew where I was. 
Elsa: You...you didn't tell him? 
Willow: She lifts her head. He expected me to imprisoned in a building with windows, and surrounded by other prisoners. He knew...he knew how social I was. Am.  

Willow: But look where we are? This...this is not some normal prison. We are underground, most likely, or in some void unknown to man. There are no windows, all doors are locked or sealed, and we have no clue if the world outside still stands upon two feet. She swallows, staring at me. We could be the last women on Earth. 
 Callum: We might not even be on Earth...
Elsa: I don't want to imagine we're somewhere else...
Mitch: I suppose we could be... 

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Some time later. No ringing sounds in our heads alarming us to retreat to our cells - no alarms for the end of leisure time, which now seems to have adapted to become human-contact time. I don't feel hungry, or tired, or need to use the washroom. I need only to stay here, with the others. I am clinging to this human contact, even if we still feel so confused and strange with all this. We are clinging to one another to stay sane.

Elsa: What will happen when we must return to the cells? What if...what if we never see one another again? 
Mitch: That...that could happen, if this was a mistake. If it wasn't intended for us to meet. But if not...
Elsa: If this wasn't a mistake, maybe we never return to those cells. 
Mitch: This isn't our freedom call...

Callum: I wouldn't say we're free, but...but maybe we have new freedoms, like human-contact permitted. After all this time, we can speak to one another - the prisoners of this place. 
Willow: Then we shouldn't waste our time chatting in the corner - 
Elsa: Where do you suggest we go? 
Willow: I want to play chess. 

Mitch: How is that any better than chatting in the corner? 
Willow: The chess table coerced us here, one by one, into the centre of the room. If there is a hidden clue, or a hidden anything, it is here, in the centre of the room, within this chess table. 
Mitch: Why would there be clues? This isn't a game - 
Willow: I know. But I still want to play chess. 

  Mitch: Is she insane or - 
Elsa: She's not insane. She's just like us - isolated for so long, only to be thrust outside and surrounded by humans we don't recognise. We all face this situation differently, and for her, it seems playing chess will clear her mind.
Callum: I don't even know what we're doing near Elsa's cell - 
Elsa: We're waiting. Something will come.

She approaches the chess table, distancing herself from the three of us. I know she doesn't dislike us, or loathe our presence, but there was something she spoke of, about her brother. She said...she said he knows how social she is. Perhaps the isolation annihilated her bubble of constant chatter. She needs the slow build-up, not the swift change. Unlike her imprisonment. I suppose the three of us standing over here wouldn't have noticed as much. 

???: How long have you four been here, with one another? 
He moves towards the chess table, smiling politely, dressed in the matching blue suit, much like pajamas. Who is he? Another prisoner...his hair is snow-white, and so are his eyes. His skin is pale. He looks less human than us, but he is similar, familiar in some aspects. He is human still, just...odder. 
Willow: Who are you?  

Sky: My name is Sky, but...I have no last name. I have been merely Sky for all my life, and now even in here I am purely Sky. He pauses, staring at us - the four strangers, to him at least. I'll ask my question again: how long have you four been together? 
Willow: An unknown amount of time, but...but we haven't left this room. 
Sky: You didn't know each other before today? 
Willow: Unless it ticked over to midnight and changed days while we chatted, no, we're all relative strangers. 

Sky: And nothing seemed...off, or strange, before today? 
Mitch: I think I saw a soup stain on the floor at my last meal time. That's about it. 
Callum: Oh, hey, sorry, that was my fault. Try to slurp that soup as quick as possible to get rid of the taste in my mouth, and I spilled some with my last meal. 
Mitch: Ah, no problem, dude. Me too though, with the horrid taste and stuff. 

Sky: I have no idea if this is a mistake or this is meant to be, but I do know one thing. We are here together, which is meant for something. 
Willow: Thank fuck we can talk to humans again. 
Sky: There is that, but other things. We could search for our escape. We could rebuild society down here. He pauses. I overheard your earlier conversation. 

Mitch: Where were you, and why didn't you say anything? 
Sky: They...they hadn't freed me from my cell, not then. Now, of course, they have. I...I was hesitant, in case I would be buzzed...
Callum: Buzzed...like zapped? 
Elsa: If you disobey, they zap you, right in the head up here. 
Callum: The hell - 

Sky: We are prisoners. This is their prison, whoever is holding us hostage down here. If we continue to live in isolation, soon enough we'll forget humanity entirely. No doubt humanity has forgotten us. 
He is right. Even unspoken, our plan is simple. All we wish for is escape. Escape from the darkness; escape from the loneliness and the isolation. It is time now, more than ever, to unite with strength, to exhibit our strongest qualities, and finally, once and for all, escape.

.
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~ Metis ~

 Darkness in a cave may be daunting. Darkness in a world unfamiliar or forgotten may be troubling, more so for a smaller person, smaller in age. Darkness in here is conflicted. The darkness yearns to be everlasting and erupting, and it yearns to mask the light, and yet the light is stronger by this darkness, burning brighter. Then, the darkness here is creeping, like the vine, and it is poisonous, but sometimes it is comforting. Comforting when you need the darkness to blanket the light.

 The bed, what they deem to be a bed, is uncomfortable - the mattress is thin and solid, not cloud-like or feathery. Not floating in mid-air, hovering upon the framework of the bed, but weighed down by my flesh, weighed down to nothing of excitement or joy. Simply an uncomfortable mattress. The pillow is softer - it is not a rock, not rough and jagged - but it is far from perfection. Yet I can sleep upon it, and so I do sleep upon it, without complaint unless within my thoughts.

 They requested a chair be placed inside the cell upon my arrival. They hoped the ability for me to be seated during any conversations would be pleasant and I would be less-troubled. The chair is more comfortable than the floor, or standing, so I suppose they were correct, in the sense. They haven't spoken to me, however. Utter silence. Perhaps they lied simply to tease me. I would not be surprised.

 I am alone in here. Sometimes I can leave, for meals, or to shower, but those occasions all end. I am alone for those too. Not even someone to guard me from one place to another - I suppose they trust I will not kill myself with the shower head, or with that flimsy spoon for the bowls of soup. I could always shove the spoon down my throat, but I would never wish to kill myself. Only if the opportunity arose to perfectly sabotage them, I suppose. If they couldn't revive me....

-- NOTICE: IT IS TIME FOR YOUR REST, PRISONER --

 I slam my hands against the glass walls of the cell. I am an animal of display. Shut up, shut up, shut up. End the torture of telling me what I must do. 
??: Metis. Calm down. 
There is a voice. I haven't heard the voice before. He has never spoke to me, if the voice is truly a male's voice, and not changed or adjusted, as if magically. 
??: Please. Listen to the instructions. Calm down.   

 I do not deserve to be his prisoner. I do not deserve to be ordered around, forced to rest and eat and shower, as if I am to adapt to how a human is to live, and to react, and to breathe in this world. This is not my place, and this not land, but I am his prisoner, or her prisoner, whomever they may be, and I am trapped here. 
Metis: I do not wish to sleep, sir. 
??: It is not your choice. You must be well-rested for the visitation. 
Metis: And...and what is this visitation? 
??: You have a visitor in the morning, your highness.

 In the morning, I will have a visitor. Another face for me to see, unless this visitor simply speaks to me. I would like to see the visitor's face. Just to see someone else, other than my reflection in the glass - that would be a miracle, or a blessing, unless...unless, of course, the face was one I did not wish to see. There are people's faces that I could see that I would rather instead just sit here in solitude, instead of seeing them. But I suspect this visitor will not give me a choice in the matter. I will see them tomorrow.

The solitude is not so horrific. It is straining, and it surrounds you in dreariness and in disdain, but the solitude can be rebuilding. It can be adaptive, prevent you from suffering in the error of your ways. In here, wherever I am, the solitude is inescapable - my cell is inescapable - but with time, you awaken yourself to what could be positive in this light. You will focus on yourself in here. You will rebuild yourself, and in the morning, there will be a new dawn rising. 

A new dawn for all of us, not merely the imprisoned.

~ End of Chapter One ~