The Screen

The Screen

By Blake Sheridan, 2018

Are you willing to die for your country?

Yes.

Are you willing to kill for your country?

Yes.

And if provided an opportunity to escape, will you remain loyal to your country?

Yes.  

Very good.  We will return tomorrow.

A thin line dashes across the screen, then I stare at myself in the murky reflection.  A lean face that has not consumed a decent meal in days stares back. Normally I answer the questions and I get food.  That is how the system works. But for the past thirteen visits, they have given me not even a scrap of tomato. Hopefully they will give me something tomorrow, when the screen rejuvenates itself and the thin line races across once again.  I have memorized all the patterns of that line. It always enters from the left and exits to the right. Sometimes it will dart straight across. Sometimes it will move up and down and up and down the whole way across. Occasionally it will jump across the screen as if there was an invisible floor.  He is my favorite one of them all. He is always the nicest to me. 

My right knee is sore from kneeling, so I unlace my fingers and go to read.  There is a new book on the shelf called “The History of Your Country: Volume 243.”  I flip rapidly through the pages, looking for something that looks interesting. I stop at page 654, where I see scribbles on the bottom of the page.  The passage above the scratch read,

“Your country has done many great things.  They give you food. They give you books.  

They give you leisure and safety.  You must repay your country by fighting.  Fighting is the only way you can show that you truly appreciate what has been handed to you like a carrot given to a swine.  You are a swine. But you do not have to be. You can prove yourself. You can fight. Fight!”

I would keep on reading, but I already know the rest of it.  This passage appears in every seven books, on every twenty-fifth page.  Everything repeats itself. There is not one page in volume 243 that does not appear in Volume 2.  What interests me is the black ink on the bottom of page 654, a handwriting that appears in every 27th volume.  This time it says, “We are coming. Soon. Just keep saying yes, and we'll be coming soon.”

I never know who leaves these messages.  I tend to believe that it is Squiggle. Whenever she appears on the screen, a similar message always glitches onto the screen immediately after I answer the questions.  Squiggle comes every seven visits, so she should be coming tomorrow. Her questions are the same as every other question, but she replaces the phrase “your country” with “the rebellion.”  Her voice is more urgent and less uniform than the others. The urgency often disrupts the natural rhythm of the screen. I normally answer her questions as quickly as I can, but she asks more questions than everyone else.  She asks five while the rest ask three. But when she ends and one of her messages glitch on to the screen, I feel much calmer and more peaceful.

I close the book and look for some food.  They still have not provided me with anything since the last time I answered the questions.  I begin to search the room. Maybe they hid the food; they have done so in the past. They once hid the food in the holes in the wall.  I like to use my imagination to decipher what could be behind them, maybe a rat or a pencil. Or maybe, this would be exciting, a candy wrapper.

I avert my gaze from the two holes to the wall with a desk and a chair. Under the desk lies the candy wrappers that I always keep for myself.  The patterns on them are fascinating. The colors are always so vibrant, which provides a pleasurable contrast to the murky grey of the rest of the room.  Whenever I struggle to fall asleep, I simply look at the crumpled wrappers hidden under the desk and feel a surge of hope. Not for anything specific. Just a general, optimistic hope for tomorrow.  Good things will come to me as long as I gaze into the intricate stencils on the wrappers hidden under my desk. 

I leave the wrappers where they rest and open the drawers on the desk.  The first drawer is the picture drawer. I dig through the meaningless shades of reds, whites, and blues to find no food.  But I do find a new picture. That must mean that free time will be coming tomorrow. In the picture is a head that looks almost identical to mine, except it is covered in red. The red is splattered all over my face, complementing the chilling blue eyes that plead for help, shining brightly with whitish light emitted from the ceiling panel.  Normally the pictures are not as unsettling as this. It must be one of Squiggles. In the background of the picture is a room identical to mine, except it is overrun with broken furniture and books everywhere. Off my right shoulder is the screen. In the reflection of the screen, there is a body hung on the wall, with his stomach ripped open.  His hanging head looks down at the remains of his intestines spilt all over the floor. He is wearing a hat that bears a striking resemblance to the hat that appears in every 42nd volume of the book. The caption under the black and white picture is always, 

“Fight for your country.  This hat is a symbol of the enemy. “

The following page is always instructions on how to hang and preserve fresh meat, but the directions are all crossed out and written over.

I close the first drawer and open the other drawer connected to the metal desk.  This one has a single blade lying elegantly in front of a “Do Not Touch” sign, with a roll of duct tape in the corner.  Of all the shelves and drawers in this room, this is the only one that has remained stagnant since my arrival. There have been no new blades, and the shiny blade has never been moved or touched.  I have never touched the blade, because they do not like it when I break their rules.  

Around the time of Volume 121, a similar shortage of food occurred, afflicting me with the same hunger that I feel today.  Then I was curious, and I had not learned everything, so I went to the mysterious door in the corner of the room that was the routinely source of food (except when little candies are hidden around the room).  The door had a “Do Not Open” sign that was never there on a feeding day. Despite the sign’s instructions, I opened the door, and I walked inside the very tiny room. The screen turned on and the ceiling panels emitted a red light that filled the room with a chilling aura.  

“He’s obviously not ready,” said a very deep, straight-toned voice.  It was probably Straight’s voice.

“Shut it down,” said a bouncy, unpredictable voice.  In those three words, it expressed three different volumes, tones, expressions.  It bounced over every vocal variety that existed. It was Zig-Zag’s voice. 

“Please stand here,” said a higher voice that was softer but more demanding.  I had never heard this one before. It sounded artificial, produced by something that wasn’t human.  As it repeated that phrase, a white circle burned with such passion on the floor that begged me to stand in the middle of it. The longer I strayed from the circle, the louder the demanding voice grew, and the circle shone brighter and brighter, until I couldn’t bear it any longer.  I stood on the circle and faced the screen, where a tube crawled out of the hole in the wall. In only a second, an unidentifiable blur shot closer and closer to my face, and the next thing I saw was the pale white ceiling panel as I lie on my bed, neatly tucked under the blankets. 

I decided that from that moment on I would never disobey the signs again.  They decreased my food rations for ten tomorrows, and because of my defiance, they never gave me Volume 25.  

I replay this scene in my head a few more times.  I shut the second drawer and I lie on my bed as I feel scratching in my stomach, as if the hunger bared its claws and began digging its pointiest nail into the smooth, fleshy material of my stomach.  They will give me food. They must. Those are the rules. I don’t break the rules, and they wouldn’t either. Now I’m confused. Why haven’t they sent any food? I feel the incisions ingrained into the lining of my stomach change as I am filled with an intense burning.  Why haven’t they sent any food? 

This burning quickly switches from pain to something new.  I listen to this new feeling, this new voice inside my head.  I spring off the bed and walk strongly over to the desk chair.  My muscles tense. My heart pounds so forcefully, sending pure fuel throughout my arms.  I grab the chair and throw it into the bookshelf, sending 242 books to the floor. I grab books from the floor and hurl them at the screen.

“WHERE IS MY FOOD?”

I drop the books, and run towards the screen, slamming my clenched fists into the surface.  Blood covers my knuckles and rolls down my forearm, but this only gives me more fuel. I hit the screen again.  Again. Again. Again. Hairs on my arm stand rigid in the pool of blood that is spreading over my bare skin. The screen is unharmed, as perfect as it always looks.

I need something to break.  I want something to break. 

“I think he is ready,” says a voice from the screen.

“He seems strong,” says another.  

Words appear on the screen.  

“You know what you must do. Fight for your country.”

The door opens.  A man stands in the combined space.  I ask him if he has any food.

“No,” the man says.  My body twitches with pain.  The man hides in the corner of the space with his back turned towards me.  His voice is cowardly and scared. “But please don’t hurt me, I am here to help you.”  I relaxed my muscles slightly, and my breathing slowed. He raises his back and turns his head very slightly, so that I cannot see his face.  “They are lying to you.” He stands taller, and his voice sounds more confident and composed. “I am going to turn around now. Do not freak out.  They put it on me.” He slowly turns his body. On his head is the hat of the enemy.   

My body becomes stiff once again.  The man freezes. “They lied to you.”  He says in a smooth, calming voice that quells my anger.

“It is true what he says,” says another soothing voice that comes from the screen.  It has a rhythm to it. Its melody floats into my ears. It is Squiggle. 

“He is telling you the complete truth.  We have not been very truthful with you, #7039.  But we have not been very truthful with you either, @BUPO.”

The man’s face loses its stability and retreats to the original scared expression.

“You see, there is no point in explaining what we are doing to either of you.  I am certain those who are watching can discern the meaning of what is currently happening.  But you two have been conditioned. You both believe different things, and we will soon see how effective the conditioning was.  @BUPO, you decided to listen to me. To follow my every command, despite the set track laid out for you from the beginning. #7039, here, chose not to investigate.  You were very observant, noticing every pattern and every detail we set for you. Normally, that does not happen. Unfortunately, you were never advanced enough to turn your observations into inferences.  It truly is a shame. Deep down we were all cheering for you.”

The man shoots a glance at the door from where he entered, which is now closes and locks with such force to make the man’s body twitch.   A drawer on the desk opens, and the sign in front of the knife is now blank.

“You both thought that we were in control.  And we were, somewhat. We never forced you to participate in any activity, you just decided that aligning your needs with our unknown desires would produce the best outcome.  Truthfully, we never put forth an unwavering set of rules. You just perceived them that way. We never promised to send you food every day, but we did, so you interpreted our patterns as a rewards system.   Now we will see what happens when those ‘rules’ are stripped from you. What will happen when all stability is lost? Was the conditioning strong enough...”

The words from the screen get pushed to the back of my brain, as the intense hunger feasts on my insides and forces me to pick up the knife. 

“Do you even know what your country is?  You only agreed to our questions to satisfy your personal needs.  Your country was simply a system that allowed you to get what you needed.  We told you that the cap on @BUPO’s head signifies that he is the enemy, but you never stopped to think what exactly the enemy was.  The enemy never existed. We told you that there was an enemy, and you never questioned. You never questioned anything. Now, it just so happens that this fabricated enemy stands in the way of your food supply.  That’s right, #7039, now you can fulfill your hunger.”

“Please!” The man pleads. “I have food.  Back in my room. We just have to find a way out and we can go there.”

“Very tempting, I am sure it is.  But who do you believe, #7039? On one hand, you get a whole bunch of meat, and maybe even more.  The other option is you follow this mysterious stranger to a death trap. He is the enemy, right? Isn’t that what you were told?  How could you be safe if you follow this enemy to wherever he tries to take you?”

I am not listening to whatever sounds are coming from the screen.  They are not important to me. I stare at the cowardly face of the stranger, and I begin to see certain features.  The blue and purple veins traveling down his arms. The subtle pink blotches on his skin. The meat hiding under that soft, squirming flesh. 

I lunge at the stranger and drive the blade into his back on the side where his heart lies.  Just like the instructions in the book. He screams and pleads, but after a few seconds blood blocks his throat and mouth from forming comprehensible words.  Blood pours and squirts out the wound like fresh juice oozing out of an orange. I throw him on the bed, turning all white blankets and pillows to red.  

He reaches up with a shaking hand.  I catch it, and I thrust it onto the wall.  His body followed his arm like a limp ragdoll as I drag him to the side of the room. I could feel his life, his nutrients already filling every crevice in my stomach, chest, and veins.  I take a roll of Duct Tape and tape his hands and legs to the wall. He still breaths, I see it in his moving stomach, covered in an icing of white, sugary skin and frosted with little hairs and blotches. His body makes an X on the wall.  I raise my knife and drag it through every inch of skin on his torso. Guts, intestines, liver, all of it loses its structures and limply falls out of his body.

I’m covered in his blood.  I feel a drop of it fall from my chin onto a heap of nearby books on the floor.  I don’t care. You hear that? I DON’T CARE. Take my blood, all of it. That’s what you wanted this whole time, right? Take my blood, because I’m about to get a whole new refill.  Take your country and your history lessons and your white furniture and your rebellion and leave me alone with my meal. MY meal. Not the country’s, not Zigzag’s, not Squiggly’s, MINE.

It means no matter if they can hear my thoughts.  I feel invigorated and ready to feast. That is when the hole in the wall opened up.  A small barrel protruded from the bottom hole. My gaze shifts when the hole above opens up to reveal what seems to be a little black eye.  

Out of the corner of my eye I see the blood dripping down the corpse on the wall. I hear the voice from the screen say “You are swine, #7039.”

Then, in a softer voice that sounds muffled, as if she speaks to someone behind her I cannot see. “Well, guys, hope you enjoyed the show.”