Sally's Cypress

 I woke up in The Fog with my head spinning. I didn’t know the time. There is no sense of “time” here. Seconds feel like hours and the replaying recordings of screaming echoing through the halls only adds to the lack of perception.

We were trapped in some kind of hospital. A large wooden sign above me read Lery’s Memorial Institute. The dripping of the broken sinks and the squeaking of the metal beds rolling even with no one was on or around them. It’s like they’re crying.

The dead who had not yet decomposed who were trapped in this place of murder were hung up like cattle. Grotesque and repulsively distorted in different positions. Dismembered and bloated. Something only a Nightmare could manifest.

It was my turn soon. Three others had awoken in this place before me as well. Jake.. Kate.. and David.

We had one option.. Fix the generators and open the door. For the Killers could not pass through them like us.  A sick and twisted game no doubt.

Which as a team, we failed.

David tried to protect Kate by tending to her wounds after her first bludgeon to the head, but it was a fool’s errand.
They would have found them soon enough because her screams of Madness were constant and tumultuous. One you get Shock Treated by the Doctor, you can't control your impulsive screaming. She had gotten loud, and The Madness had infected her brain so much that she saw The Doctor everywhere she turned, dooming them both for eternity. 

But it was the Nurses Calling that soon brought her to both of them. The Nurse can sense your attempt to heal if you dare try in range of her heartbeat. And now they are rotting bodies on hooks waiting to be pulled up to the sky in the sweet release of death. No more than 20 meters apart: watching each other suffer. The hook wasn’t quite through the heart, so their death is slower than those victims of the tragic, Lobotomizing Momento Mori we know could come. I can’t help them now. The Nurse would come back and kill them instantly. I almost envy them.

Jake was found by The Doctor in the library bleeding all over his “Interview” cassette tapes and Doctor’s notes. Jake had accidentally blown up the nearby generator and tried to hide to no avail. He had no time to finish healing himself and he was trying to get the generator done. Relying on his bodies Adrenaline to get him out of this place. His heroic priorities would soon make him dead on the floor. He was killed in front of me, while I was hiding in a locker like a coward.

I waited for the heartbeat to cease. It was me now against both of them hoping to find a way to escape. Jake had been carrying a medkit. As he bit down hard on his belt, he held back tears as he attempted to sew up his own wounds from his first encounter with the Nurse and her cleaver. He had managed to escape from her once thanks to Kate and David taking her attention. No help from me of course. My selfishness was in vain. David and Kate were the brave ones. They saved him from his hooked imprisonment  before being taken by the Entity, as his time was almost up and the Demonic claws were beginning to enter every orifice on his body. He got away for a moment, but the dark end was inevitable. We were all sent here to die to the hands of the Doctor and his twisted mistress.

The insane Doctor Carter enjoyed watching as the metal hook pierced their skin and organs. They yelled in agony and he started to Whistle along jubilantly. Laughing; he was pleased with himself and his potential sacrifice for the Entity.. When the Entity was satisfied, the Killers are rewarded.

When The Doctor found Jake again bleeding in his library, he took it upon himself to kill the boy in what way felt like a otherworldly gift from his God. It was a dark blessing given to him: To have the opportunity to kill with his own hands before the grace of The Entity after the other two had died rightly- Their black souls consumed by the sky.

This one was his.

Others before him chose different means of torture killing. There was a wide selection of scalpels and other blades to rearrange the likeness of their victims.. Human flesh is so fragile and easily manipulated.

But that wasn't good enough for The Doctor.

Carter preferred the intimacy of what he called “Shock Therapy”. As lightning pulsed from his fingertips into the temples, the High Stimulus Electrodes burning the brain alive made him feel completed. A jolt of energy only comparable to a mind numbing high of great proportion.

He would leave them convulsing on the floor afterwards. Eyes melted and mouth agape. Waiting for The Nurse to patrol the rooms and come across this lifeless body to rot away and the soul to be consumed. Because for the victims to be hooked and sacrificed to The Entity, they must still be breathing. 

I crouched beside Jake and quietly mourned. He had saved me before and used whatever he had left to address my bleeding from the iron spiked baseball bat The Doctor had hit me with earlier.

I took his belt to bite and help mask the pain. Remembering and channeling his brave Iron Will.

I suddenly heard a soft heartbeat and panicked. I needed to stop bleeding on the ground or I could be tracked.  A nearby set of stairs revealed a chest at the bottom. I carefully walked down to the basement where it smelled like death and disease. It was humid and hot down there. Like behind the wooden walls lay the passage to Hell.  I searched through the chest looking for something that could possibly help me.. A new medkit or a flashlight maybe. But there was nothing. A broken key, dust and some dirty bandages.. I was losing hope now.

Though biting Jake’s belt helped suppress the sounds of anguish, I could not avoid the coughing that seemed to manifest from a sudden blockage in my throat. The air was thicker down there, I could smell the flesh and it was making me sick. My lips feeling cold, I started to lose color and choke.

I got dizzy and ran up the stairs towards the center of the building. The electric vines emerging from Tesla Coils making thunderous crashes lit my way through the main procedure room towards the shower halls.

As I started to run, I heard a loud siren blare. The sound of the doors being powered. An Adrenaline took over me as I started to run faster towards a door I had seen earlier while they were taking Kate away.

I heard Carter approaching the door as well, his music blaring over the speaker system through the TVs in every room. He was running much faster now as the thrill of the hunt guided him,

for no one escapes death here.

I tried to hide but he could effortlessly sense me from the Whispers of Madness which had already affected my mind from our earlier encounter.
So I had to keep running trying not to hit things and leave any blood or scratch marks along the way.

Running for what seemed like an eternity, I finally reached a long hallway where there was one window and a locker. I jumped inside thinking I was safe. I waited until I couldn’t hear his music anymore…

Suddenly she flew towards me. She must have heard me whimper in pain as I caught my breath. I dropped Jake's belt somewhere and led her right to me.

As she opened the doors and grabbed me by the neck, my already damaged trachea almost rendered my scream inaudible.

I went limp in her arms as I waited to be slashed and beaten once again to be taken beyond. She carried me to one of the metal beds, keeping her hand on my neck and choking me tighter. I remember everything going dark as her cold bones caressed my cheek.

I realized in that moment that she was trapped here too. Forced to move swiftly and collect the carnage that The Doctor always left behind as his imagined Iridescent Queen of servitude with loyalty to the Entity.

She too was doomed to always needing to feed the insatiable demon known as The Entity that controlled her, The Doctor and this place. 

A Mori was different than a sacrifice. It displeases The Entity if it had not already been fed. The Mori was only for the mere pleasure of it’s assailants wishing for a more personal act of murder. She had chosen me, for I was the last one alive and the only one who would have her face be the last they see and not The Doctors. She had given to the Entity already and I was her kill.  She stayed mostly silent with a Gentle Wheeze passing her bruised lips. Her eyes blind and bandaged, she could violently taste my fear.

It was over as soon as she started. There I lay; Lifeless. As she flies away to once again begin pacing..  waiting for the next time the Fog brings new life to be taken so beautifully. 

She sometimes stops to notice the bed on which she killed me. Slowly rolling towards her with the sounds of soft guttural moans from my Stridor. She collects these sounds of suffering and Spasmodic Breaths in glass bottles and labels them with names to be used later at her disposal to make her stronger. At least I will always be remembered.


She suddenly hears a familiar sound in the distance. She turns and blinks. More are arriving. It's time to hunt again.

Fin.

Accepted Defeat

Look beyond the clouds and stars
a mirror image of what you are
flashed before you
soon revealing
a friendship bent but slowly healing

Imagine a time where we had met
as children chasing silhouettes
a vision shining through the night
I’ll gladly lead you to the light

The sun will bleed and rise for you
awake and greet your eyes for you
you’ve right to yearn for something more
My thoughts, biased
intentions, pure

I thank you for this inspiration
Alas, I’m tired of temptation
fueled by honest admiration
transformed into intimidation

You’re like a song
stuck in my head
I lay awake
alone in bed
undeniably sublime
I see you running  through my mind

Imagine for a moment, please
that I am more than what you see
An image soon personified
by everything I’ve kept inside
boggled by uncertainty
these emotions have unsettled me

your compass points another way
I fear of sounding too cliche

All emotions,
here unfurled
For we are from opposite worlds

Ray Harryhausen

This was an essay I wrote for extra credit in Video Production, I just added pictures and videos to make it more blog-friendly and entertaining.

As many Disney fans may have noticed, Pixar animation studios has a knack for including inside jokes and references from other movies; more commonly known as “Easter Eggs”. This can include characters from other movies appearing in unlikely circumstances, to names of important people who have worked with or influenced Disney in some way.

In Disney Pixar’s production of Monsters Inc, there is a reference to the name of an influential member of the animation world represented by the name of a sushi restaurant called “harryhausen's.” This of course making a funny and respectful bow to one Ray Harryhausen.

He is known as an “American visual effects creator”, writer, and producer who fathered the form of animation known as “stop-motion” .  He was born on June 29, 1920  and recently passed away at the age of 92 on May 7, 2013.He was very passionate about film and the idea of bringing fantasy to reality.

As a child, living in Los Angeles, California, he was mesmorized of the magic and character that could be personified by the film industry.  He was a fan of dinosaurs and often made miniature set pieces to create interesting scenes being performed before his very eyes.At 13 years old, he was able to experience a truly unique and progressive time in film history; the showing of The King Kong. in California’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater. 

This stop-motion film was one of the most influential of that time because in the 1930’s,  productions were really beginning to blossom with special effects and character makeup. This of course, fueled Ray’s excitement, giving him the curiosity and motivation to continue with his passion to make movies.

He started using marionettes to produce shows and continued to educate himself on the strange and intriguing type of animation by attending museums and reading whatever article he could find on the subject. 

His early attempts included making  dinosaurs and prehistoric settings in a production studio he built in his father’s garage. This time also being before the reach breakthrough era of technology, he originally used a 16mm Victor camera. This was not an easy task because it was incapable of capturing an individual frame, so until he was able to purchase his a Kodak Cine II, the animation didn’t always come out as smoothly as intended.

As a young adult, he ambitiously called and managed to arrange a meeting with one Willis O Brien of MGM Studios. He brought in a model of his most recent work at the time titled “ Evolution of the World” and was critiqued by Willis. He was one of Rays idols and biggest influences because of his work on King Kong. It was O Brien’s suggestion to study the anatomy of his dinosaur creations more closely that gave him the professional outlook and metaphorical push he required. Taking that advice, he soon enrolled into Los Angeles City College to take classes in Art and Anatomy, as well as art direction, editing and photography at the University of Southern California. 

This gave him the understanding he desired that helped his production style, eventually making more professional films.He began creating short films that made him more well known in the community from Army Propaganda and orientation films to submitting animated Nursery rhymes around schools with much success. But it was his work on MGM’s Mighty Joe Young in 1949 which was considered his breakthrough into the film world. Working again with his idols, the film was awarded  the Best Special Effects award at the 1950 American Academy Awards ceremony

He did special effects for many other feature length films including 20 Million Miles to Earth,  The 7th Voyage Of Sinbad, Mysterious Island  and the 1963 production of Jason and the Argonaut. Knowing that there’s a reference to his work in that movie in the music video Bones, by the Killers, I watched the skeleton fight and was very taken aback by the fluid motion of his animation work portrayed in the film.

Ray was honored with various awards for his work throughout his life. He won an Oscar in 1992, presented to him by Tom Hanks, in 2010 he was also awarded a  British Academy of Film & Television Arts award for his  “unique contribution to cinema” and in 2011 he was awarded a Lifetime Achievement award by the Visual Effects Society.

Ray Harryhausen was undoubtedly an artist with ambition and character beyond words and recognition. Film makers and individuals who enjoy and appreciate the magic of film-making will remember him and his influence for years to come.

Now, after his retirement and eventual death, the organization by the name of The Ray & Diana Harryhausen Foundation, now owns his rather impressive collection of models, artwork,  miniature sets,  infinitely preserving over 50,000  items to keep his legacy alive.

4am

late at night

a wish for peace:

A dreamless sleep where nightmares cease.

One lonely tear; the stream runs cold

At night she wants a hand to hold

A warm embrace to ease her mind

A love that's true, fearless and kind.

She thinks of him and her heart skips a beat

through a layer of stone carved from endless defeat.

Too many thoughts

Her head starts spinning

Alas, late at night, the inner demons are winning

Alone in the dark

No distraction

No savior

No discernible excuse to display this behavior.

Exhausted to the point of delusion

The walls start moving;

she succumbs to illusions

She closes her eyes,

repeats comforting lies

and all her remaining energy dies.

Now she can dream.

At least that's what it seems..

For no one can hear her;

she silently screams.

The nightmares arise.

She's tortured and dies

For this is beginning her nightly routine.

Please Don't Tell Me How The Story Ends

I do not own this. It was actually a reading for my philosophy class. lol

This is a short story published in 2004 by

Thomas D. Davis

The heavy door closed behind him, and he glanced quickly at this new detention room. He was startled, almost pleasantly surprised. This was not like the drab cell in which he had spent the first days after his arrest, nor like the hospital rooms, with the serpentine carnival machines, in which he had been tested and observed for the last two months—though he assumed he was being observed here as well..
This was more like a small, comfortable library that had been furnished like a first-class hotel room. Against the four walls were fully stocked bookcases that rose ten feet to the white plaster ceiling; in the ceiling was a small skylight. The floor was covered with a thick green carpet, and in the middle of the room were a double bed with a nightstand, a large bureau, a desk, an easy chair with a side table, and several lamps. There were large gaps in the bookcases to accommodate two doors, including the one through which he had just entered, and also a traylike apparatus affixed to the wall. He could not immediately ascertain the purpose of the tray, but the other door, he quickly learned, led to a spacious bathroom complete with toilet articles.
As he searched the main room, he found that the desk contained writing paper, pens, a clock, and a calendar; the bureau contained abundant clothing in a variety of colors and two pairs of shoes. He glanced down at the hospital gown and slippers he was wearing, then quickly changed into a rust-colored sweater and a pair of dark brown slacks. The clothing, including the shoes, fitted him perfectly. It would be easier to face his situation, to face whatever might be coming, looking like a civilized human being.
But what was his situation? He wanted to believe that the improvement in his living conditions meant an improvement in his status, perhaps even an imminent reprieve. But all the same he doubted it. Nothing had seemed to follow a sensible progression since his arrest, and it would be foolhardy to take anything at face value now. But what were they up to? At first, when he had been taken to the hospital, he had expected torture, some hideous pseudo-medical experiment, or a brainwashing program. But there had been no operation and no pain.
He had been tested countless times: the endless details of biography; the responses to color, scent, sound, taste, touch; the responses to situations and ideas; the physical examination. But if these constituted mind-altering procedures, they had to be of the most subtle variety. Certainly he felt the same; at least no more compliant than he had been in the beginning. What were they after?
As his uncertainty grew to anxiety, he tried to work it off with whatever physical exercise he could manage in the confines of the room: running in place, isometrics, sit-ups, and push-ups. He knew that the strength of his will would depend in part on the strength of his body, and since his arrest he had exercised as much as he could. No one had prevented this.
He was midway through a push-up when a loud buzzer sounded. He leaped to his feet, frightened but ready. Then he saw a plastic tray of food on the metal tray that extended from the wall and a portion of the wall closing downward behind the tray. So this was how he would get his meals. He would see no one. Was this some special isolation experiment?
The question of solitude quickly gave way to hunger and curiosity about the food. It looked delicious and plentiful; there was much more than he could possibly eat. Was it safe? Could it be drugged or poisoned? No, there could be no point to their finishing him in such an odd, roundabout fashion. He took the tray to the desk and ate heartily, but still left several of the dishes barely sampled or untouched.
That evening—the clock and the darkened skylight told him it was evening—he investigated the room further. He was interrupted only once by the buzzer. When it continued to sound and nothing appeared, he realized that the buzzer meant he was to return the food dishes. He did so, and the plastic tray disappeared into the wall.
The writing paper was a temptation. He always thought better with a pen in hand. Writing would resemble a kind of conversation and make him feel a little less alone. With a journal, he could construct some kind of history from what threatened to be days of dulling sameness. But he feared that they wanted him to write, that his doing so would somehow play into their hands. So he refrained.
Instead, he examined a portion of the bookshelf that contained paperback volumes in a great variety of sizes and colors. The books covered a number of fields—fiction, history, science, philosophy, politics—some to his liking and some not. He selected a political treatise and put it on the small table next to the easy chair. He did not open it immediately. He washed up and then went to the bureau, where he found a green plaid robe and a pair of light yellow pajamas. As he lifted out the pajamas, he noticed a small, black, rectangular box and opened it.
Inside was a revolver. A quick examination showed that it was loaded and operative. Quickly he shut the box, trembling. He was on one knee in front of the open drawer. His first thought was that a former inmate had left the gun to help him. He was sure that his body was blocking the contents of the drawer from the view of any observation devices in the room. He must not give away the secret. He forced himself to close the drawer casually, rise, and walk to the easy chair.
Then the absurdity of his hypothesis struck him. How could any prisoner have gotten such a thing past the tight security of this place? And what good would such a weapon do him in a room to which no one came? No, the gun must be there because the authorities wanted it there. But why? Could it be they wanted to hide his death under the pretense of an attempted escape? Or could it be that they were trying to push him to suicide by isolating him? But again, what was the point of it? He realized that his fingerprints were on the gun. Did they want to use that as some kind of evidence against him? He went to the bureau again, ostensibly to switch pajamas, and, during the switch, opened the box and quickly wiped his prints off the gun. As casually as he could, he returned to the chair.
He passed the evening in considerable agitation. He tried to read but could not. He exercised again, but it did not calm him. He tried to analyze his situation, but his thoughts were an incoherent jumble. Much later, he lay down on the bed, first pushing the easy chair against the door of the room. He recognized the absurdity of erecting this fragile barrier, but the noise of their pushing it away would give him some warning. For a while, he forced his eyes open each time he began to doze, but eventually he fell asleep.
In the morning, he found everything unchanged, the chair still in place at the door. Nothing but the breakfast tray had intruded. After he had exercised, breakfasted, bathed, and found himself still unmolested, he began to feel more calm. He read half the book he had selected the night before, lunched, and then dozed in his chair.
When he awoke, his eyes scanned the room and came to rest on one of the bookshelves filled with a series of black, leatherbound volumes of uniform size, marked only by number. He had noticed them before but had paid little attention, thinking they were an encyclopedia. Now he noticed what a preposterous number of volumes there were, perhaps two hundred in all, filling not only one bookcase from floor to ceiling but filling parts of others as well. His curiosity piqued, he pulled down Volume LXIV, and opened it at random to page 494.
The page was filled with very small print, with a section at the bottom in even smaller print that appeared to be footnotes. The heading of the page was large enough to be read at a glance. “RE: PRISONER 7439762 (referred to herein as ‘Q’).” He read on: “3/07/26. 14:03. Q entered room on 3/06/26 at 14:52. Surprised at pleasantness of room. Glanced at furniture, then bookcase, then ceiling. Noted metal tray and second door, puzzled by both. Entered bathroom, noting toilet articles. Lifted shaver and touched cologne.” He skipped down the page: “Selected brown slacks, rust sweater, and tan shoes. Felt normal clothing made him more equal to his situation.”
It seemed that they were keeping some sort of record of his activities here. But what was the purpose of having the record here for him to read? And how had they gotten it in here? It was easy to figure out how they knew of his activities: they were watching him, just as he had suspected. They must have printed this page during the night and placed it here as he slept. Perhaps his food had been drugged to guarantee that he wouldn’t awake.
He glanced toward the door of his cell and remembered the chair he had placed against it. In a drugged sleep, he wouldn’t have heard them enter. They could have pulled the chair back as they left. But all the way? Presumably there was some hidden panel in the door. Once the door was shut, they had merely to open the panel and pull the chair the last few inches.
Suddenly he remembered the matter of the gun. He glanced down the page and there it was, a description of how he had handled the gun twice. There was no warning given nor any hint of an explanation as to why the gun was there. There was just the clipped, neutral-toned description of his actions and impressions. It described his hope that the gun might have been left by another prisoner, his rejection of that supposition, his fear that the gun might be used against him in some way, his desire to remove the fingerprints. But how on earth could they have known what he was feeling and thinking? He decided that he had acted and reacted as any normal person would have done, and they had simply drawn the obvious conclusions from his actions and facial expressions.
He glanced further down the page and read: “On 3/07/26, Q awoke at 8:33.” And further “… selected The Future of Socialism by Felix Berofsky …” And further: “… bent the corner of page 206 to mark his place and put the book …” All his activities of that morning had already been printed in the report!
He began turning the book around in his hands and pulled it away from the shelf. Was this thing wired in some way? Could they print their reports onto these pages in minutes without removing the books from the shelves? Perhaps they had some new process whereby they could imprint specially sensitized pages by electronic signal.
Then he remembered that he had just awakened from a nap, and he slammed the volume shut in disgust. Of course: They had entered the room again during his nap. He placed the volume back on the shelf and started for his chair. How could they expect him to be taken in by such blatant trickery? But then a thought occurred to him: He had picked out a volume and page at random. Why had the description of yesterday and this morning been on that particular page? Were all the pages the same? He returned to the shelf and picked up the same volume, this time opening it to page 531. The heading was the same. He looked down the page: “Q began to return to his chair but became puzzled as to why the initial description of his activities should have appeared on page 494 of this volume.” He threw the book to the floor and grabbed another, Volume LX, opening it to page 103: “… became more confused by the correct sequential description on page 531, Volume LXIV.”
“What are you trying to do to me!” he screamed, dropping the second book.
Immediately he was ashamed at his lack of self-control.
“What an absurd joke,” he said loudly to whatever listening devices there might be.
He picked up the two volumes he had dropped and put them back in place on the bookshelf. He walked across the room and sat in the chair. He tried to keep his expression neutral while he thought.
There was no possibility that observations were being made and immediately transmitted to the books by some electronic process. It all happened too fast. Perhaps it was being done through some kind of mind control. Yet he was certain that no devices of any kind had been implanted in his brain. That would have involved anesthetizing him, operating, leaving him unconscious until all scars had healed, and then reviving him with no sense of time lost. No doubt they had ability, but not that much. It could be something as simple as hypnosis, of course. This would require merely writing the books, then commanding him to perform certain acts in a certain order, including the opening of the books. Yet that would be such a simple, familiar experiment that it would hardly seem worth doing. And it would hardly require the extensive testing procedures that he had undergone before being placed in this room.
He glanced at the books again, and his eye fell on Volume I. If there was an explanation anywhere in this room, it would be there, he thought. The page would probably say only, “Q hoped for an explanation,” and in that case he would have to do without one. But it was worth taking a look.
He took Volume I from the shelf, opened it to the first page, and glanced at the first paragraph: “Q hoped to find an explanation.” He started to laugh, but stopped abruptly. The explanation seemed to be there after all. He read on: “Experiment in the Prediction of Human Behavior within a Controlled Environment, No. 465, Variant No. 8, Case 2: Subject Aware of Behavior Prediction.”
He read through the brief “explanation” several times. (Of course, this in itself might be trickery.) Obviously, these unknown experimenters considered all human behavior to be theoretically predictable. They first studied a subject for a number of weeks and then attempted to predict how that subject would behave within a limited, controlled environment. In his case, they were attempting to predict, in addition to all else, his reactions to the “fact” that his behavior was predictable and being predicted. They had placed those volumes here as proof to him that each prior series of acts had been successfully predicted.
He didn’t believe they could do it; he didn’t want to believe it. Of course, much of what occurred in the universe, including much of human behavior, was predictable in theory. The world wasn’t totally chaotic, after all, and science had had its successes in foreseeing certain events. But he refused to believe that there was no element of chance in the world, that every event happened just as it did out of necessity. He had some freedom, some causal autonomy, some power to initiate the new. He was not merely a puppet of universal laws. Each of his choices was not simply a mathematical function of those laws together with the state of himself and the external world at the moment just prior to the choice. He would not believe that.
Nothing was written on page 1 to indicate how the other experiments had turned out, not that he would have believed such a report anyway. No doubt the indication that his experience was a more complex “variant” of the experiment was meant to imply that the preceding experiments had been successful. But there had to have been mistakes, even if they claimed that the errors could eventually be overcome. As long as there were mistakes, one could continue to believe in human freedom. He did believe in human freedom.
His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer. His dinner emerged from the wall. He looked at it with anger, remembering how the first page to which he had turned had listed, perhaps even predicted, exactly what foods he would eat. But he didn’t reject the meal. He needed his wits about him, and for that he needed strength. He must try to get his mind off all this for tonight, at least. He would eat, read, and then sleep.
For several hours, he was fairly successful in diverting his attention from the books. Then, in bed with the lights out, he recalled the phrase “Variant No. 8, Case 2.” That made him feel more hopeful. This was only the second time that this particular version of the experiment was being tried. Surely, the likelihood of error was great.
He found himself thinking about Case 1. What kind of man had he been, and how had he fared? Had he worn green pajamas one day when the book said “yellow,” or remained contemptuous when the book said “hysterical,” and then laughed in their faces as they led him from the room? That would have been a triumph.
Suddenly, he thought of the gun and had an image of a man, seated on the edge of the bed, looking at those volumes on the wall, slowly raising the gun to his head. “… To predict … his reactions to the fact that his behavior was predictable and being predicted.” God, was that the purpose of the gun? Had it been put there as one of his options? Had that been the ignominious ending of Case 1, and not the departure in triumph he had pictured a moment ago? He had a vision of himself lying dead on the floor and men in white robes grinning as they opened a volume to a page that described his death. Would he hold out, or would he die? The answer was somewhere in those thousands of pages—if he could only find it.
He realized that he was playing into their hands by supposing that they could do what he knew they could not. Anyway, even if one assumed that they could accurately predict his future, they were not forcing him to do anything. There were no mind-controlling devices; he wasn’t being programmed by them. If they were to predict correctly, they must predict what he wanted to do. And he didn’t want to die.
In spite of these reflections, he remained agitated. When he finally slept, he slept fitfully. He dreamed that he was a minuscule figure trapped in a maze on the scale of a dollhouse. He watched himself from a distance and watched the lifesized doctors who peered over the top of the maze. There were two exits from the maze, one to freedom and one to a black pit that he knew to be death. “Death,” the doctors kept saying to one another, and he watched his steady progression in the maze toward death. He kept shouting instructions to himself “No, not that way! Go to the left there!” But the doomed figure couldn’t hear him.
When he awoke in the morning, he felt feverish and touched only the fruit and coffee on his breakfast tray. He lay on the bed for much of the morning, his thoughts obsessed with the black volumes on the wall. He knew that he must try to foil the predictions, but he feared failure. I am too upset and weak, he thought. I must ignore the books until I am better. I must turn my mind to other things.
But as he tried to divert himself, he became aware of an agonizing echo in his head. He would turn in bed and think: “Q turns onto left side.” Or scratch: “Q scratches left thigh.” Or mutter “damn them”: “Q mutters, ‘damn them.’” Finally, he could stand it no longer and stumbled to one of the bookshelves. He pulled two volumes from the shelves, juggled them in his hands, dropped one, then flipped the pages several times before picking a page.
“3/08/26. 11:43. At 15:29 on 3/07/26, Q opened Volume I to page 1 and read explanation of experiment.”
He slammed down the book.
“Damn you,” he said aloud. “I’m a man, not a machine. I’ll show you. I’ll show you.”
He took another volume and held it in his hand. “Two and two are five,” he thought. “When I was six, I lived in China with the Duke of Savoy. The earth is flat.” He opened the book.
“Q wants to confuse prediction. Thinks: Two and two are five …”
He looked around the room as he tried to devise some other line of attack. He noticed the clock and the calendar. Each page of the book gave the date and time at which each page opened, the date and time of each event. He rushed to the desk, flipped the pages of the calendar, and turned the knob that adjusted the hands on the clock. He opened another book and read: “3/08/26. 12:03.” He yelled out:
“See? You’re wrong. The calendar says June, and the time is 8:04. That’s my date and my time. Predict what you think if you want. This is what I think. And I think you’re wrong.”
He had another idea. The first page he had looked at had been page 494, Volume LXIV. He would open that volume to the same page. Either it must say the same thing or it must be new. Either way they would have failed, for a new entry would show them to be tricksters. He grabbed the volume and found the page. “3/07/06. 14:03. Q entered room on 3/06/06 at 4:52.” Once again, he spoke aloud:
“Of course, but that’s old news. I don’t see anything here about my turning to the page a second time. My, we do seem to be having our problems, don’t we?”
He laughed in triumph and was about to shut the book when he saw the fine print at the bottom. He licked his lips and stared at the print for a long time before he pulled down another volume and turned to the page that had been indicated in the footnote: “… then Q reopened Volume LXIV, page 494, hoping …”
He ripped out the page, then another, and another. His determination gave way to a fury, and he tore apart one book, then another, until twelve of them lay in tatters on the floor. He had to stop because of dizziness and exhaustion.
“I’m a man,” he muttered, “not a machine.”
He started for his bed, ignoring the buzzer announcing the tray of food. He made it only as far as the easy chair. He sank into it, and his eyelids seemed to close of their own weight.
“I’m a …”
Asleep, he dreamed again. He was running through the streets of a medieval town, trying desperately to escape from a grotesque, devil-like creature. “At midnight you die,” it said. No matter where he ran, the devil kept reappearing in front of him. “It doesn’t matter where you go. I will be there at midnight.” Then a loud bell began to sound twelve chimes slowly. He found himself in a huge library, swinging an ax at the shelves, which crumbled under his blows. He felt great elation until he saw that everything he had destroyed had been reassembled behind him. He dropped the ax and began to scream.
When he awoke, he thought for a moment he was still dreaming. On the floor, he saw twelve volumes, all intact. Then he turned his head and saw the twelve torn volumes where he had left them. The new ones were on the floor near the metal tray. His lunch had been withdrawn, and the books had been pushed through the opening in the wall while he had slept.
He moved to the bed, where he slept fitfully through the evening and night, getting up only once to sip some tea from the dinner tray.
In the morning he remained in bed. He was no longer feverish, but he felt more exhausted than he could remember ever having been. The breakfast tray came and went untouched. He didn’t feel like eating. He didn’t feel like doing anything.
At about eleven o’clock, he got out of bed just long enough to find the gun; then he fingered it on his chest as he lay back, staring at the ceiling. There was no point in going on with it. They would have their laughs, of course. But they would have them in any case, since, no matter what he did, it would be in their books. And ultimately it wasn’t their victory at all, but the victory of the universal laws that had dictated every event in this puppet play of a world. A man of honor must refuse to play his part in it. He, certainly, refused.
And how could the experimenters delight in their achievement? They were not testing a theory about their prisoners but about all human beings, including themselves. Their success showed that they themselves had no control over their own destinies. What did it matter if his future was written in the books and their futures were not? There would always be the invisible books in the nature of things, books that contained the futures of everyone. Could they help seeing that? And when they saw that, if they too didn’t reach for guns, could they help feeling degraded to the core of their souls? No, they had not won. Everyone had lost.
Eventually he sat up on the bed. His hand shook, but he was not surprised. Whatever he might will, there would be that impulse for survival. He forced the hand up and put the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
The buzzer startled him, and the hand with the gun dropped to his side. The lunch tray appeared, and suddenly he was aware of being ravenously hungry. He laughed bitterly. Well, he wouldn’t be hungry for long. Still, wasn’t the condemned man entitled to a last meal? Surely honor did not forbid that. And the food looked delicious. He put the gun on his pillow and took the tray to his desk.
While he was savoring his mushroom omelet, he glanced at the political treatise that had remained half read by the easy chair for the last two days. God, had it been only two days? It was a shame that he would not be able to finish it; it was an interesting book. And there were other books on the shelves—not the black volumes, of course—that he had been meaning to read for some time and would have enjoyed.
As he sampled some artichokes, he glanced at the formidable black volumes on the shelves. Somewhere there was a page that read: “After completing lunch, Q put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” Of course, if he changed his mind and decided to finish reading the political treatise first, it would say that instead. Or if he waited a day more, it would register that fact. What were the possibilities? Could it ever say “reprieved”? He did not see how. They would never let him go free with the information he had about their experiments. Unless, of course, there was a change of regime. But that was the barest of possibilities. Could a page say that he had been returned to the regular cells? How he would like to talk to another human being. But that would pose the same problem for the experimenters as releasing him. Presumably, they would kill him eventually. Still, that was no worse than what he was about to do to himself. Perhaps they would continue the experiment a while longer. Meantime, he could live comfortably, eat well, read, exercise.
There were indeed possibilities other than immediate suicide, not all of them unpleasant. But could he countenance living any longer? Didn’t honor dictate defiance? Yet—defiance of whom? It wasn’t as if the laws of the world had a lawmaker in whose face he might shake his fist. He had never believed in a god; rather, it was as if he were trapped inside some creaky old machine, unstarted and uncontrolled, that had been puttering along a complex but predictable path forever. Kick a machine when you’re angry, and you only get a sore foot. Anyway, how could he have claimed credit for killing himself, since it would have been inevitable that he do so?
The black volumes stretched out like increments of time across the brown bookshelves. Somewhere in their pages was this moment, and the next, and perhaps a tomorrow, and another, perhaps even a next month or a next year. He would never be able to read those pages until it was already unnecessary, but there might be some good days there; in any case, it would be interesting to wait and see.
After lunch he sat at his desk for a long time. Eventually, he got up and replaced the gun in its case in the bureau drawer. He placed the lunch dishes back on the metal tray and, beside the dishes, heaped the covers and torn pages of the books he had destroyed. He then put the new volumes on the shelves. As he started back to the chair, his eye was caught by the things on the desk. He took a volume from the bookshelf, carried it to the desk, and opened it. He read only the heading at the top: “3/09/26. l3:53.” He adjusted the clock and the calendar accordingly. If he was going to live a while longer, he might as well know the correct day and time.

slightly pessimistic

I need to stay calm.
Stay sane; collected
My past choices reflected
This was far from expected
fighting through tears
overcoming my fears
the ghost inside has now been erected
From inside my soul, this demon awaits
Bringing me pain, and intolerable hate
What is to come?
Suppressed thoughts escape.
The feeling is sick
my hands start to shake
I don't want to believe I've succumbed to this fate.
my head is a mess, though so blankly, I stare
this weight on my shoulders is too much to bear
What if I told you people don't fucking care?
These issues I face are my own form of curse
only I can defeat it, though I'm making it worse.
Time will not heal if you don't treat the wound
I feel like I'll walk off the edge sometime soon.
Giving up sounds so easy, so peaceful and still
but life's about fighting and proving your will.

A dream

Imagine:

you open your eyes slowly.

You're chained. tied down inside of an elevator.

Wearing nothing but a long shirt and torn pants.

You're barefoot.

You feel heavy. You can hardly sit up straight and feel woozy from the ascent.

The doors open and you check your surroundings.

windows on all sides and it seems like you're near the stop of a very tall office building.

So many stories high, you pass the clouds on your way up. 

Your lover is there. He quickly unties you and holds you close. Whispering in your ear that everything's alright. a kiss to your forehead, then complete silence.Like all ambient noise has been eliminated.

Suddenly, a  window breaks. Another. Another. All around you, meanwhile you're trying to dodge the glass shattered all over the floor. 

Lights flicker above you and you feel the building shaking. Like it's about to collapse. 

Soon the far side of the office slowly breaks and falls back down to Earth.

The wind is extremely powerful. You can hardly hear anything and the cracks are getting closer to you.

A radio turns on. The volume is very loud and playing a classical melody. The music stops.

One last look from your love. a charming smile. Blue eyes that could kill.

He stands and walks towards the open area. You try screaming but he can't hear you.

He gracefully walks of the edge to his death.

The radio turns on again.

 Flipping through stations as a way of communication.
Through a combination of several songs and news casts, you hear  "Corinthians 11:14"
The devil has taken over. Everything goes dark