Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip.
The prisoner opened his eyes. I'm still here. It's still day.
A cup of water was thrust under the flap at the base of the steel door, losing half its contents on the dusty concrete floor. The prisoner heard heavy footsteps moving down the dimly-remembered corridor outside.
The prisoner was disoriented. The vision, the dream had been so vivid. For a long time, he lay perfectly still; holding the shape of the girl in his mind as long as he could.
Drip, drip, drip, drip. Even the voice seemed subdued in the wake of her visit.
Finally he took some water; first dipping his fingers in the cup and trickling a little in his eyes, across his brow, his stubbled cheeks. Then, to drink. He took tiny sips, letting the water play at length over his tongue. Just to feel something.
After a long time, the water was gone. He spent some time turning the cup over in his hands, feeling its bent enameled shape, looking at the chips and scratches on its surface. Then he slid the cup back under the door as he'd been instructed.
Somewhere, down the corridor, he may have heard a moan. He couldn't be sure. The light under the door was different. More diffuse. It was later.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. The rhythm of the water threatened to lure him back to the voice.
There is no voice, the prisoner told himself. Once, he'd stuck his arm in the damn toilet to silence the leaking water, and had succeeded only in fouling his entire arm; in which state he'd been left for nearly a week before he'd been hosed down by guards barking laughter and disgust.
For a time the prisoner ran his hands over the concrete walls, first letting his fingers brush lightly against the gritty surface, then adding pressure until he felt pain. He imagined painting a masterpiece on the wall with his own blood. He imagined finding a hidden door or panel that he'd somehow missed all the other times before.
There is no voice. He sat down for a long time and felt the relative softness of the rags that were his clothes, and then the contours of his own body beneath them. He was no longer surprised by prominence of the bones in his weak, reduced frame. His hand easily encircled his lower leg.
Drip, drip, drip. There is no voice. He paced his cell, found his bare feet marching to the rhythm of the water. You are the dead, you are the dead. He wept, still pacing. He raged silently, inwardly.
The light under the door began to fade.
At length a thin porridge of rice was pushed under the door, and the prisoner fell upon it. He licked the enamel clean. There were no sharps with which he might hurt himself, nor any locus from which he might hang. He pushed his tray under the door, as he'd been instructed. It became dark.
He looked down at his brown leather shoes and couldn't quite remember why that should seem so odd. It was odder yet that a girl was sitting on his lap. The girl. His girl. Her arms were folded and she wore a girlishly petulant look.
He felt a hot rush of emotions at the pressure of her body. His hands were around her waist; he straightened and took his hands off her, afraid that he might soil her clean white nurse's uniform. He looked up at her, at her clear eyes, in awe. Pride, gratitude, and fear - of losing her - warred within him. He fought down an urge to touch her hair.
'Where have you been?' she said. 'Be with me, darling. Don't you want to be with me?'
The words injured him. And then there came the sound of dripping water.
The prisoner opened his eyes in darkness.
Drip, drip, drip. He moaned, loudly. Without hesitation, the voice began to mock him; to remind him of the futility of his life, the inevitability of his death.
The prisoner screamed, began to pound his head against the wall, to be away, to be with her again. And then the guard entered.
He was standing in a dark and limitless place. Lightning flashed in roiling clouds. Through the cold, howling wind, the girl came to him, her eyes on fire.
'Are you coming to me? Then come to me,' she challenged him, shouting over the gale.
For a moment, he felt fear.
She stepped closer to him, took his face in her hands. 'You know what you have to do,' she said.
He nodded, not without sadness, because he did know exactly what was necessary. And it started to happen. She stepped a pace away, smiling her encouragement.
He became aware that he was the centre of the storm, of a maelstrom, of a galaxy; and around him whirled all the moments and souls he had known, like leaves in wind. Like stars in orbit.
And he became the Singularity; and those stars streaked towards him to be one with him, complete him. Finish him.
He began to implode. As he left the world, he was aware of the girl, nearby. Still watching, eyes blazing. In the moment before he became light, he saw her mouth move.
'There's no way back now,' she said.
.
BACK
The prisoner opened his eyes. I'm still here. It's still day.
A cup of water was thrust under the flap at the base of the steel door, losing half its contents on the dusty concrete floor. The prisoner heard heavy footsteps moving down the dimly-remembered corridor outside.
The prisoner was disoriented. The vision, the dream had been so vivid. For a long time, he lay perfectly still; holding the shape of the girl in his mind as long as he could.
Drip, drip, drip, drip. Even the voice seemed subdued in the wake of her visit.
Finally he took some water; first dipping his fingers in the cup and trickling a little in his eyes, across his brow, his stubbled cheeks. Then, to drink. He took tiny sips, letting the water play at length over his tongue. Just to feel something.
After a long time, the water was gone. He spent some time turning the cup over in his hands, feeling its bent enameled shape, looking at the chips and scratches on its surface. Then he slid the cup back under the door as he'd been instructed.
Somewhere, down the corridor, he may have heard a moan. He couldn't be sure. The light under the door was different. More diffuse. It was later.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. The rhythm of the water threatened to lure him back to the voice.
There is no voice, the prisoner told himself. Once, he'd stuck his arm in the damn toilet to silence the leaking water, and had succeeded only in fouling his entire arm; in which state he'd been left for nearly a week before he'd been hosed down by guards barking laughter and disgust.
For a time the prisoner ran his hands over the concrete walls, first letting his fingers brush lightly against the gritty surface, then adding pressure until he felt pain. He imagined painting a masterpiece on the wall with his own blood. He imagined finding a hidden door or panel that he'd somehow missed all the other times before.
There is no voice. He sat down for a long time and felt the relative softness of the rags that were his clothes, and then the contours of his own body beneath them. He was no longer surprised by prominence of the bones in his weak, reduced frame. His hand easily encircled his lower leg.
Drip, drip, drip. There is no voice. He paced his cell, found his bare feet marching to the rhythm of the water. You are the dead, you are the dead. He wept, still pacing. He raged silently, inwardly.
The light under the door began to fade.
At length a thin porridge of rice was pushed under the door, and the prisoner fell upon it. He licked the enamel clean. There were no sharps with which he might hurt himself, nor any locus from which he might hang. He pushed his tray under the door, as he'd been instructed. It became dark.
He looked down at his brown leather shoes and couldn't quite remember why that should seem so odd. It was odder yet that a girl was sitting on his lap. The girl. His girl. Her arms were folded and she wore a girlishly petulant look.
He felt a hot rush of emotions at the pressure of her body. His hands were around her waist; he straightened and took his hands off her, afraid that he might soil her clean white nurse's uniform. He looked up at her, at her clear eyes, in awe. Pride, gratitude, and fear - of losing her - warred within him. He fought down an urge to touch her hair.
'Where have you been?' she said. 'Be with me, darling. Don't you want to be with me?'
The words injured him. And then there came the sound of dripping water.
The prisoner opened his eyes in darkness.
Drip, drip, drip. He moaned, loudly. Without hesitation, the voice began to mock him; to remind him of the futility of his life, the inevitability of his death.
The prisoner screamed, began to pound his head against the wall, to be away, to be with her again. And then the guard entered.
He was standing in a dark and limitless place. Lightning flashed in roiling clouds. Through the cold, howling wind, the girl came to him, her eyes on fire.
'Are you coming to me? Then come to me,' she challenged him, shouting over the gale.
For a moment, he felt fear.
She stepped closer to him, took his face in her hands. 'You know what you have to do,' she said.
He nodded, not without sadness, because he did know exactly what was necessary. And it started to happen. She stepped a pace away, smiling her encouragement.
He became aware that he was the centre of the storm, of a maelstrom, of a galaxy; and around him whirled all the moments and souls he had known, like leaves in wind. Like stars in orbit.
And he became the Singularity; and those stars streaked towards him to be one with him, complete him. Finish him.
He began to implode. As he left the world, he was aware of the girl, nearby. Still watching, eyes blazing. In the moment before he became light, he saw her mouth move.
'There's no way back now,' she said.
.
BACK
