The Cell

“It's time, Mr. Jacobs.”

Already? How long could it have been? Not that I could track time in this room. No windows, lit at all times in the same dim twilight. And who knew what these shots were doing to my mind.

I nodded and stood up obediently to walk to the slot in the door. I had tried to fight the first few times. That hadn't gone well. They would get the shots – whatever they were – into me one way or the other. This was involved less bruising.

“Hold still.”

A moment later there was a familiar stab in my upper arm, delivered through a slot that closed as quickly as it opened. I never saw the people who brought me here. Never saw the people who kept me here. When I had refused any commands in the first days, the lights had gone out completely and I was manhandled into compliance.

I didn't fight anymore. Every day I felt myself caring a little less. I wasn't sure if it was the injections or just the sheer ennui of living in a ten foot cube with nothing resembling distraction. I had tried meditating for a few days, but I was too restless now. I shadowboxed, jogged a bit. Sometimes my head cleared a little after that. I was just as likely to suddenly feel exhausted and collapse on the bed until the next demand came through the speaker.

I sat down and stared at the single light embedded in the ceiling. I blinked once. Twice.

“It's time, Mr. Jacobs.”