One last Cig

Opening the door, reality hits him in the face. The fantasy of reuniting with his wife and son to move into the unknown died the moment his eyes met the street. Pulling up were 3 purification patrols. There was no use in hoping they were looking for someone else. There was no hope of talking his way out of it. An empty house, a packed bag, and dressed like a Glitch. He was fucked and he knew it.

Stepping back into the house, he sets the bag down and locks the door. Casually walking to the kitchen he reaches above the stove to grab his "emergency cigarette". Delia had allowed him one, provided she was the one to hide it. He knew all along where it was, and now, it wasn’t like he could ask her.

"See love. I told you. One day I am going to need a cig." he giggles to himself. Reaching down, he lights the stove and takes out her letter. He kisses it, as if to kiss her goodbye. "I'm sorry. You were right about everything last night. And I should have left an hour ago. I'm sorry." he says quietly.

He rolls up the letter and sticks it into the flame and then uses it to light his cigarette. "If they can't prove I know, they don’t know I know. I have to survive the hour. That’s all. Then they are free."

Walking to the couch he plops down in his corner, thinking of the nights when she would across his lap while Leif played on the floor.

The officers don't knock, the crashing from the door doesn't startle him in any way. He knows what is next. They come bursting in, screaming for him to keep his hands up. He just sits there.

"Hi, guys. Gimme a minute while I finish this last cig. She never let me smoke in the house."

Hamlet sat on his knees with his arms tied loosely behind his back. It was time for another "conversation". This had been the situation for an unknown number of days, could have been weeks. He didn’t really know. What he did know was that he was grateful that the guard was lazy that morning with Hamlet's restraints and he could still feel his hands.

"Was he being lazy, or is this another trick? Are they going to lighten up on me and then drop the hammer again? Can I enjoy this pathetic reprieve from the ongoing agonies or should I just wait for it to get worse? This is why they do this. They know my thoughts are not my own anymore. I'm talking to myself in cycles about the tightness of my restraints. Why won't they kill me? I understand now how someone could wish to die. I never understood before...But I understand now."

His thoughts are chaotic and paranoid, but they are concise. This tirade played over and over in his mind with slight variations, always ending in his desire for death. Despite his belief to the contrary, Hamlet was still in astounding control of his faculties. The overwhelming fear had subsided some time ago, all that remained now was hatred and longing for death.

This room had become his home. A cold, well-lit white room with nothing to indicate its location or the time of day. A single white futon mattress about 1-inch thick laid in the middle of the back wall along with a white bucket. Everything in the room was stark white. Even his clothes, they reminded him of the Gee he wore to karate class as a child. The food was white, always potatoes with salt. Served on white plates with white plastic spoons. The fluorescent glow engulfed the room. So much so that there was no shadow, even the corners of the room seemed to be an optical illusion. As if they were not actually there and the walls didn’t actually exist. The white, the blinding white seemed to go on forever. At times, he felt that he had been left alone in oblivion. 24 hours a day, the light never ceased. Sleep only came after what seemed like hours or days of paranoia and hate-fueled pacing and rambling.

The height of the ceiling itself left one to wonder about the building's location. It would be hard to build a room this tall underground, but, in all this time he had not felt even the slightest vibrations. Which... Really didn’t mean much. He had not heard any sounds either. The only exception to this consistent environmental ignorance would be the brief moments when his handlers would enter. In those split seconds he could hear screaming. Horrible screaming.

As much as he longed for any human contact, hearing that door open brought no comfort.

The guards or "handlers" as they are called wore no watches, they didn’t change their haircuts and were always perfectly trimmed and shaved. Randomly at intervals that seemed impossible to gauge they would enter his room and shave his face. Quite often they would do this when there was no need. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since the previous shave, but they would do it anyway. Sometimes they would let him go a day, maybe two, never long enough for him to be able to gauge time. It was impossible for him to know if he had been there for a few weeks or a year.

Once, he thought if he stopped chewing his nails it would give him an idea of time. After what appeared to be three or four days they trimmed his nails for him.

Being tied with his hands behind his back meant it was time to speak to Mr. Russell. Mr. Russel, the interrogator, preferred that his subject be bound during their conversations. These "sessions" are random…or not. They could be on a schedule, It would have been impossible to know.

An incredibly cold man, Mr. Russel never seemed to enjoy or dislike his work. He showed no emotion either way. There was no 'good cop/bad cop', there was just Mr. Russell with a cold monotone and empty stare. If you're screaming in agony or seemingly catatonic, the look you received from him was exactly the same.

Mr. Russell had one rule: "No questions". Hamlet learned to respect this rule the hard way. During his first interrogation, he asked the simple question; "What do you mean?"

Without a word, Russell nodded to the large man in the corner who proceeded to stab Hamlet in the back with a series of needles. Ten to be exact, about 2 inches long, each placed along the spine. While Hamlet howled in pain, Russell sat there, completely unconcerned. "I told you no questions. If you need clarification. Say that. Do not ask questions."

As the last needle went into his back Hamlet stared at Russell with what can only be described as intense hatred. The pleas had gone, the screaming had stopped, the pain had dulled… Hamlet was in shock. He no longer knew where he was, or even who he was. All he knew was that he hated the man in front of him.

Their first encounter set the stage for the meetings to follow. Hamlet only made that mistake one other time. When asked how he was he replied: "I'm ok and you?" It was the simplest of pleasantries, but It didn’t matter. By the time the needles were removed, the only thing Hamlet could think was "Why her?"

In moments of pain or exhaustion, his thoughts always went to her and this question. "Why did I have to have her? Why her? Why did I do this? Because. She's her. I miss…her."

The image of her face lying next to his in their bed is what sent him to sleep. Watching the locket he had given her on their first date rise and fall with her breaths as she slept. It was what kept him sane. Despite the agony, knowing that she was the cause… he still loved her.

"Mr. Hamlet, how are you this morning?"

Mr. Russell, despite his cold demeanor, was always cordial. What his face lacked in emotion, his voice compensated for with personality. It wouldn’t have surprised Hamlet if he had been a teacher or something academic outside of these walls.

"I'm fine sir" Mumbles Hamlet.

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. Well, Mr. Hamlet, I think you have been here quite long enough, don’t you?"

Hamlet dares to hope… maybe…maybe this is over?

"I need clarification Mr. Russell," He says carefully so as not to break the cardinal rule.

"Of course, you do. Why wouldn’t you? You see my dear boy. You have been here for quite some time." Mr. Russell lets the end of his sentence trail off as if to entice Hamlet into asking how long. But Hamlet simply agrees. "Yes Sir, I believe I have."

"Of course you do. It's been 3 months. Well, a little less, you are on day eighty-nine and we have a ninety-day rule. If a subject won't comply within that period, we have no choice but to eliminate him. We can't keep feeding and clothing you forever, now can we?"

Hamlet just stares at him. "I asked you a question, boy. Do you expect us to feed and clothe you forever?"

In awe of the question, Hamlet stammers "No..."

"Good, I'm glad you understand. Now, We can end this amicably, you can answer my questions and we can have you moved to another room with a bed and a light switch for debriefing. Or…I can leave you in here with this clock and let you watch as your final hour's pass. The choice is yours."

The clock he presented was a digital display with the date, time, and weather. Staring at it, Hamlet was less concerned with the numbers on the display, more with the casing of the device itself. It was encased in metal and glass, impossible to break. He found himself wondering how many had gone insane in this room before him. How many had tried to break that infernal contraption? All he wanted to do was ask Mr. Russell to take the clock and beat him over the head with it. That was what he wanted more than anything.

"Mr. Russell, I know I cannot ask any questions. So I will make no attempts to appeal to you. I have told you everything I know. She left. She asked me to go. Told me that if I loved her, I would go with them. That’s all she said. I didn’t go. I was afraid. I was a coward. I should have left. Now, here in this room with you, the only thing left to say is to TELL you (now, glaring Russell in the eyes) to beat me over the head with that fucking clock. Do not leave me here with it. Kill me now. Take that fucking clock and bash in my skull. Save yourself 24 hours."

For the first time since they met, Mr. Russell and Hamlet exchange a smile of sorts.

"Well Mr. Hamlet, I must say. This room has cured your cowardice. That was an impressive statement." He then gives the large man a nod and a white sack is placed over his head. Like everything else, the sack is stark white. The light bleeding in through the dense fabric is blinding. As they march him down the hallway he can hear the awful screaming. The horrible pleas for mercy and all I can think is "Finally, finally, this is over."

As they walk, In his mind he is taken back to where this started, to where this all began and again I ask himself "Was she worth it? Standing in the park that morning, If I had known what was to come…would I have come to the same conclusion? Was she perfect? Yes…"