Seriously, I forgot what I titled this poem. Memory pending. Edit: "My Position."

What is repetition if not

an unnecessary submission

to rhyming by attrition?

Attrition if not just

a lack of ambition?

Ambition if not the

lack of tradition?

Tradition is then but

the repetition of a lack

of one’s own volition.

Adjusting the Primal

I came into pain. I did not remember how, nor did I recall, much less understand, why. Even after sorting out my thoughts and analyzing them immediately after, no explanation came. My memory of the event, on the other hand, was changed as a result of that analysis.

I, a needle stuck in my right arm, felt the first effects of unconsciousness pulling at the edges of clarity in the doctor’s office. This was momentarily after assuring the nurse I felt fine and moments before updating my answer to a significantly less reassuring “okay, now I don’t.” My next memory was unlike any other I’ve ever experienced in my life. I did not understand who or where I was, satisfying the most basic levels of awareness only through the acknowledgement of pain. To all intents and purposes, I was not thinking. I did not process information, no immediate conclusions or logical streams of thought carried themselves through my mind. I was aware of only, and awareness in fact was, an uncompromising pain that spread through every particle of my body, pain receptor-free brain excluded. My brain was instead plagued with the fear of incomprehensible information, a pain all its own.

The pain varied in intensity but did not subside, waxing without the relief of waning, every additional increment building upon what was already there. It increased, pushing past what my brain assumed was the maximum, until it crashed down, allowing room for self-awareness, the realization of what had happened and my usual method of dealing with misfortune: cynicism; “Oh, I fainted.” It was the first thing I said, hopefully as nonchalantly as I intended to, though I had more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.

Immediately, I sought to figure out what had happened. Since I still remembered the pain, sharp though dulling in my memory as the seconds clicked by, I assumed it was in my short-term memory, generally spanning over a length of 20-30 seconds. This knowledge was, at that point, essentially useless, a mere attempt to control something utterly beyond my control. While I remembered the pain itself, I had no way of describing it. Metaphor after metaphor spilled into my mind, followed shortly by past experiences, each inadequate in its own way, each a failure in my attempts to describe my experience to myself. Salt spilled into an open wound, literary, but not a personal experience, it’d have to make room for something more relevant; hitting a nerve against a hard object, too numb, though it provides the necessary saturation of an area. A punch to the solar plexus replicates the feeling of helplessness and defeat, but doesn’t carry with it the literally mind-numbing pain. Walking on a leg that decided to fall asleep due to poor circulation has the same numbness and unavoidable pain, though blown away in magnitude the way a candle would be by the sun’s wind. To this day, I have no comparable experience nor can I in full honesty claim that I understand what caused what I can only describe as an episode, or put more optimistically, a lesson in primal fear.

In hindsight, remembering a time when I wasn’t thinking is odd. I remember seeing my surroundings, the office, nurse and doctor, called in as soon as I blacked out, but not understanding any of them for what they were. I can’t remember any sounds, yet I assume the nurse and doctor were talking to me. I remember the wave of awareness that cleared away the incomprehensible mess of information that I was unable to process, yet not the state, or lack thereof, of awareness that preceded it. It is in essence a memory dominated so thoroughly by one characteristic, pain, that it is a memory of pain, with everything else, including memory itself, giving way to allow more for nothing other than more pain.

At the same time, it is a memory I know I have modified. This occurred partially as a result of thoughtful contemplation, intended to clarify the record of events, as well as the natural processes that govern my mind’s workings, specifically my memory. The human memory works by association but I can not adequately imagine the level of pain I felt, or a comparable one. Instead, my mind defaults to the closest approximation I can conjure up, the result of several metaphors and other memories blending together to create as close a memory as I can, based upon what I remembered directly after my cynical statement and the inevitable mental review that followed.

I remember seeing the nurse but not comprehending her image, assigning her, as a concept, to her image in my memory, retrospectively. The blurry memory of the room allowed me to figure out my body’s position and my head’s angle as slouching to the left and looking down, again, purely in retrospective analysis. Judging from the self-preservative tendency to test one’s body by moving, I can guess that the waves of pain were caused by attempts to move, with each successive wave inciting further movement, a painful feedback loop.

I can not help but wonder if my mind could have handled the situation in a different way. Did searching in vain for the source of pain delay my eventual awareness, and with it, the pain’s alleviation? If I was less inquisitive naturally, would I have been spared some fraction of pain? By even entertaining the idea, I’ve accepted a grain of blame, yet another part of the memory that I know, for a fact, I added. These modifications were made immediately, as I reviewed my short-term memory and processed it. Later, as well as in the course of this documentation, these modifications were reinforced, cemented in their truth by repetition and acknowledgement.

What my memory boils down to is the unexplained removal of the very nature of my being from my conscious awareness. Essentially an inhuman memory shaped by human thought.

Extrapolations from Zinn’s A People’s History Regarding the Origins of Colonial Racism as a Method of and for Class Warfare

Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States[1] spends a substantial amount of time analyzing the use of racism as a system of control over both the enslaved population and the poor white lower class, essentially manifesting itself as a conscious effort on the part of the rich white upper class to use class warfare in order to maintain stability and to quell uprisings. To begin, Zinn introduces the origins of America's system of black slavery: necessity. In 1619, Virginians were hungry, unable to grow enough food but made aware of tobacco's value on the other side of the Atlantic, unable to enslave the Native Americans, unable to force white servants to work the necessary amounts and unwilling to work themselves. Thus they resorted to slave labor, in the form of blacks shipped in from Africa, prior to any attempts at a justification from the argument of inferiority that the ideology of racism presents.

Zinn is careful to make clear that slaves were imported for inhumane treatment before the racist justification sprung up, noting that, by 1619, a million blacks had already been brought to South and Central America to work as slaves.[2] The counterpoint to this is that whites were also “imported” as indentured servants and abused, so the malignant treatment of blacks was a general one and had little to do with their skin color and/or origin. The reason for the black people's selection for chattel slavery over Native Americans and whites is further expounded upon; they are entirely out of their element with no structure to support them. Slavery thus begins in colonial America simply as a matter of convenience and the quest for profit. This, however, is not how it ends.

This brief summary of black slavery aside, the plight of white indentured servants should be discussed on nearly equal grounds, both for moral reasons and those of context. Masters were allowed to beat, whip and rape their servants, pack them like sardines into ships on their voyage to America, restrict their marriages, and generally treat them as if they were slaves.[3] Black slaves and white servants would spend their free time together, whether it for recreational (drinking, coitus, etc) purposes or for attempts at escape. This growing unity between the enslaved blacks and indentured whites led to fears among the upper class, who were dangerously outnumbered by the lower class and eventually, in steadily more regions, by both the white servants and black slaves individually. Clearly, this represented a significant chunk of the population with nearly identical goals and, essentially, nothing to lose and thus revolts did occur, the upper class was scared and measures had to be taken.

It is this similarity to slaves that necessitated the creation of a division between the two groups, both submerged in poverty. One of the most blatant examples of manipulation is the employment of poor whites to handle blacks, such as in the case of Virginia's slave patrols in the 1720's.[4] Not to be excluded, the Native American people were used against the black population as well, as the Creeks and Cherokees earlier had "harbored runaway slaves by the hundreds," [5] which was, obviously, impermissible. Instead, a "combination of harsh slave codes and bribes" helped avert that potentially disastrous union.

Interracial marriages and pregnancies were common and, therefore, a problem. Had there “been the natural racial repugnance that some theorists have assumed, control would have been easier.” Since it wasn’t quite so easy, a grand jury, in 1743, “denounced ‘The Too Common Practice of Criminal Conversation with Negro and other Slave Wenches in this Province,’” As a result of this and other rulings, interracial marriages were prohibited and the offspring was deemed illegitimate. This resulted in the mixed race offspring being “stuck” with the colored label and the white parent remaining purely white, promoting the perceived purity of the white race. [6]

As evidence of Zinn's agreement with the notion of racism being used as a method of control over the lower classes, both those innocently perpetuating it and those suffering at its hands, he agreeably quotes Edmund Morgan who "sees racism not as 'natural' to black-white difference,” because of the earlier evidence of their fellowship, “but something coming out of class scorn, a realistic device for control." In addition, Morgan's own words are included; "If freemen with disappointed hopes should make common cause with slaves of desperate hope, the results might be worse than anything Bacon['s rebellion] had done. The answer to the problem, obvious if unspoken and only gradually recognized, was racism, to separate dangerous free whites from dangerous black slaves by a screen of racial contempt." [7][8] Bacon’s rebellion met its end with surrender, having a total roster of “‘four hundred English and Negroes in Armes’ at one garrison, and three hundred ‘freemen and African and English bond-servants” at another garrison,” positive proof of rebellion cooperation between indentured whites and enslaved blacks, with disastrous consequences. [9] Years later, further proof came about; naval impressments sparked a riot in Boston, described by a merchant’s group as a “Riotous Tumultuous Assembly of Foreign Seamen, Servants, Negroes, and other Person’s of mean and Vile Condition.” [10]

This proof, the immediate danger that presented itself so clearly to the upper class, forced the implementation of racist ideology as a method of oppression and division, occupying the minds and efforts of the poor whites rather than allowing them the possibility of successful revolt. Zinn covers the subject and inclusion of racist ideology into colonial America’s class warfare as part of his greater discussion focusing on the upper class’ efforts against the lower class, whites, blacks and every shade in between included. Our own course included Barbara Fields’ argument for racism as an ideology, focusing strongly on its present form and the practical aspects of it being an ideology, while Zinn’s additions provide the background info for its inception and the circumstances surrounding it, the perfect supplement.

---

[1] Howard Zinn. A People's History of the United States: 1492 - Present. New York City: HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 1995.

[2] Zinn, 25

[3] Zinn, 43-44

[4] Zinn, 56

[5] Zinn, 55

[6] Zinn, 55

[7] Zinn, 56 Note: Zinn quotes Edmund Morgan

[8] Edward S Morgan. American Slavery, American Freedom: The Ordeal of Colonial Virginia. New York: W. W. Norton, 1975 (Taken from Zinn’s bibliography)

[9] Zinn, 55

[10] Zinn, 51

The Inconspicuous Ideological State Apparatus in Hughes' On The Road

Sargeant, the main character of Langston Hughes' On The Road encounters classical examples of both an ideological state apparatus (hereafter referred to as the ISA), in the form of religion and apparent culturally grounded widespread racism, and the repressive state apparatus (RSA), represented by the police. Under those circumstances where labor perpetuation, as necessitated by the state apparatuses, is impossible, they revert instead to simple control, in this case doing it so thoroughly that Sargeant does not simply consume it innocently but is instead entirely unaware of its existence. In this instance, the RSA serves to reinforce and protect the ISA's efforts. To this end, when Sargeant accidentally breaks though the metaphorical ISA, the RSA are immediately on the scene to prevent any further damage to the figurative structure of the ISA.

The ISA, as defined by Louis Althusser in his Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses, is one of the varied "realities that present themselves to the immediate observer in the form of distinct and specialized institutions" (Althusser, 1489). Including, but not limited to, the religious, legal and cultural systems in play within a society, the ISAs present Sargeant with his first obstacle, the Reverend. However, the Reverend is presented with a conundrum: while the inherent goal of the ISA and RSA is "reproduce the conditions of its production at the same time as it produces," (Althusser, 1484) this is not possible "one early evening during the depression" (Hughes). The Reverend is, as a result, not generous, for his generosity would bear religion as an ISA no positive benefit.

Along with the Reverend, Hughes brings the metaphor of the white snow into play while keeping Sargeant entirely unaware and "not interested in [it]." The snow covers everything, a perfect ISA, at once hindering Sargeant's progress by "seeping down his neck, cold, wet, [and] sopping in his shoes" (Hughes) and serving as a visual cue for the Reverend Mr. Dorset, who, upon opening the door, immediately notices the snow on Sargeant's face, it indicates that Sargeant has spent enough time outdoors (presumably not willingly) and, following the metaphorical concept of the snow, is under the influence or control of a state apparatus. In fact, Hughes' entire first paragraph focuses on how Sargeant does not acknowledge the presence of the snow. Seven paragraphs later, the first time Sargeant sees the snow, it invasively falls directly "into his eyes" (Hughes).

The issue of Sargeant's race is a counterintuitive one. Sargeant claims that his constant rejections were because "the beds were always gone and supper was over, the place was full, and," he adds as an afterthought, "they drew the color line anyhow" (Hughes). Given that the setting is the great depression, his race not being a major issue in this case is, at the very least, plausible. Instead of looking at Sargeant as being black, he can also be approached as simply not being part of those under the control of the ISA/RSA. This contrast is brought up several times; first when the Reverend notices the stark difference between Sargeant's black face and the white snow, and later again when everybody he meets, and is in conflict with, is white. The only instance of his race actually mattering is when Sargeant himself mentions it, acknowledging that he "knows it's a white folks' church" (Hughes). To fit in with the overall Marxist theme, Sargeant's blackness can be interpreted as his being of a different class than all the other characters, except color-coded for the reader's benefit.

Religion as an ISA plays a major role in On The Road. Upon seeing the snow, a metaphorical moment of awakening for Sargeant, he begins to push against the door, eventually breaking it down, allowing himself unsanctioned entry. In doing so, he does the opposite of what's expected of him as a good subject, "submission to the rules of the established order" (Althusser, 1485), going so far as literally smashing down the figurative representation of the ISA. The walk with Christ that follows his resulting sample of police brutality is likewise filled with metaphors. The first words to come out of Sargeant's delusion of Christ are "you had to pull the church down to get me off the cross," (Hughes) indicating that religion is itself a subject to those controlling it as an ISA.

The police, a perfect example of the RSA, focused on repressive means more than its ideological ISA counterpart, arrived "just when the [church] door gave way" (Hughes), coming to the rescue of failing ISA. Skipping past Sargeant's delusional walk with Jesus, we find him in a jail noticing that while his clubbed fingers are bruised, the club itself, representing the violent nature of the RSA, is not. In this way, the ISA is "behind a 'shield' provided by the RSA" (Althusser, 1492). The police officer who beats Sargeant while he's in his cell is implied to be enjoying it; there is no reason for him to insult Sargeant ("You crazy coon!") or to keep assaulting him other than to inflict pain. This parallels reality of the situation, where an RSA needs to exceed the necessary amount of force in order to uphold a certain level of intimidation.

Sargeant is an oblivious subject. This is blatantly visible from his initial inability to perceive the snow. His religious delusion is equally the work of an ISA. Even after the church has turned him down, he still turns to what it offers, religion and, by extension, Jesus, in a moment of need. His delusion also serves the double purpose of obscuring his removal from the church; we see his abuse at the church and at the jail, but we do not see the RSA physically ridding the ISA of the intruder. In this situation, the ISA is not able to do what it's primary goal intends for Sargeant. Instead, religion (as an ISA) offers what is seemingly an escape from his plight but is in actuality a gentle transition to the grasp of the RSA. Though Sargeant breaks through the ISA, he is not aware of it, which is perhaps the greatest accomplishment of the ISA: nullifying its own downfall. Sargeant does consumes the ideology not innocently, but without even knowing it exists; he stumbles through two ISAs, the cultural and the religious, and into the RSA without realizing it.

Racism's Perpetuation as a Result of Interest Convergence in the Post-Civil War American South

Barbara J. Fields argues that racism is an ideology that is perpetuated by the propagation of those who support it, consciously or innocently, and is therefore persistent and existent for as long as somebody advocates and believes in it. Given the penetration of racist thought through the American South prior to the conclusion of the Civil War, there remained many who believed in the concept of race, the justifying principles behind racism and the corrupted religious and pseudoscientific justifications that came bundled with it. As the Civil War was, in essence, fought by the South for the stability of their way of life, slavery included, and, by the end, was fought explicitly for the continuation of slavery, and thus racism, we can conclude that racist thoughts were not only present but actively defended and believed in, with many pouring significant amounts of resources into their, at the very least, extension.

Delving further into Fields' discussion on racism as an ideology, she claims that racism cannot exist by itself: it must be actively perpetuated by people. Because racism has no grounding in reality or rationality, racism will vanish as soon as nobody thinks of it and, conversely, will persist as long as somebody is thinking of it. Thus it becomes plain that those who racism benefits have it in their interest to make sure that as many people as possible believe in racism, so that their own power is strengthened and made increasingly stable.

What directly follows then, is evidence of interest convergence in the ruling class of the South; the upper class benefitted from racism and it was, as a result, the popular ideology of the time. This convergence is responsible for the deeply ingrained beliefs of even those who racism doesn't benefit and, as a result, for its continued existence. And that, in turn, is responsible for the racist attitudes that persisted after slavery itself was abolished.

Looking at the American South during and after Reconstruction, it is plain to see that although the North forced changes in society upon the South, it could not change society's perceptions. The resulting temporary failure of Reconstruction can then be attributed to the ongoing racist attitudes of the people within the changing society. Drawing material from examples given in class, the legal rights given to freed Blacks were hardly worth anything at all if they could not be exercised, such as, for example, when their lives were threatened at polling places. This also illustrates the sharp contrast between the laws in a land and the ideologies that the citizens within that land subscribe to. As long as those living in the South were racist, the ideology would persist no matter what laws or what military might the North tried to use.

Fields also points out a psychological aspect: the poor white farmers wanted to be superior to someone and so they readily accepted the racist propaganda brought forth by the rich. This desire made it easier to ignore the irrationality behind the entire matter and instead follow along, which, in the long run, helped sustain the heavily segregated and racist state of the South. In this situation, interest convergence is again the root cause for the perpetuation of racism even though the interests at play, a need to feel superior, are polar opposites from those of the rich, who actually are superior in respect to wealth and influence.

Fields' argument explains racism's lasting presence not only in the post-Reconstruction era American South but also in today's world. As a whole, racism is not something that the North could have eradicated as long as people believed in it, no matter what methods they tried. Time only lessened the extent of racism in the South yet it still has not been eradicated for the very same reasons as those at work during Reconstruction.

Sex Toy

There once was a maimed sheep.
Deep in the herd he stood.
There was a hungry wolf.
Deep in the woods he sat.
The two meandered, met.
There then was not much sheep.
There was a confused man.
"Aliens mutilate!"

Practicality

My sweet nothings, nothing could be as sweet,
or perhaps, if you wish, nothing so deep.
And then, if you desire, I'll devote
a metaphor or four, or maybe more,
to your description, the ascription of
lines of nothing but the most divine.
This is, of course, assuming that you can
reciprocate in kind with lines so as
to justify the hopefully worthwhile
hassle of writing down a ten line lie.

Candle

Candle, candle, burning bright,
on my desk, near Twilight.
May your flame, may it light, these thin pages,
through the night.

You distract from what I write,
and deny sleep at night.
All I pay attention to are sparks of
your red light.

You'll reflect upon the wall,
past my head, your light falls.
My sole source of nightly light, you go out,
I'll relight.

Like a tiger, you'll flick red,
on a tray, 'side my bed.
You'll flick orange, you'll flick blue, put you out,
oh, I might.

Then I'll do the deed and play
with your wax, day by day,
you will sear my skin again, oh, what play,
what delight.

A Force of Change

"You expect me to let this go? Your transgressions against," and here he paused with disgust at the very thought of betrayal, "against our kind, against those who want to help you." He paused again. "And, more relevantly to our present situation, your transgression against me." He was losing control, anger seeping into his speech. His hand, formerly resting on the other side of the glass pane that sealed me into my half of our small windowed room, pressed against the glass until his fingers turned white. He noticed this and backed away from the glass, collecting himself and beginning anew.

"Though I will grant you style. That stunt in Houston, hovering over, what was it, HBU and convincing enough people that you're the second coming," he laughed, " and to write you in for the presidency? That was nice. Not clever, you're not the first to pretend to be divine, but well executed, I'll give you that." What was taking so long? I was running out of air in my transparent prison.

"But did you think that exposing yourself wouldn't have consequences? Of course you knew. You wanted it, the attention, the drama that ensued. You've never done anything in your life, of course you wanted this." He was right, I did. "But you didn't expect us, you didn't expect me." He took pleasure in this statement. "What now, Rachel? How'll you worm your way out of this one? I'm smarter than you. Faster, stronger, more in control. What could you possibly do this time?" My phone vibrated twice in my pocket during this latest bit of drivel. Judging from the continued verbal diarrhea that spewed forth from his lips, I assumed he didn't hear it. "What ridiculous stunt will you pull out of that ass this time?"

"You're right, you know. But all that silly stuff you mentioned..."

"Control? You still haven't learned."

"Right, so all that stuff you listed off, it's not important." But my phone was. "The major difference between us is..."

He interrupted me again: "That you're a silly girl. We've covered that delicious weakness already."

"...is that I," and I continued even as the bullet, followed shortly behind by the crimson wave that marked his cessation, took a detour through his skull on its way to its resting place in the wall to my left, "have a friend a block down the street with a rifle." A second bullet punched its way through the glass a foot away from the wall. With that structural weakness, the rest of the glass came down easily. I inhaled deeply, my diaphragm pushing down with sheer joy as fresh air streamed into my lungs.

Enough pleasure. I had to leave, all the beautiful stained glass strewn about the floor notwithstanding. That rifle wasn't silenced and the obvious chaos ensued: people were so wastefully screaming, using up precious oxygen as they pointlessly ran aimlessly with half depleted lungs, panting and confusing each other in ways I couldn't have hoped for. What better cover for my escape could there possibly be?

So how did I end up in this situation, so unnecessarily typing out "Nice shot," on my phone?

~

"Where am I?" I asked myself, glancing around.

"A hospital room," came the unexpected reply, originating from a man standing at the foot of my bed. He was taller than me, I think.

"What happened?"

"I think you know." He smirked slightly at my question, his voice betraying his certainty.

"I don't."

"You do," he fired back, starting before I'd even finished.

"Well, you obviously know. Tell me."

"You passed out," he said. He was leaner than me, with hair the same brown color, cut to chin length.

"I did," I said, in concession. I realized now that he was right. He wandered off, something I wished I could do, looking at the table at the opposite side of the room, obscured partially by a big, seemingly soft chair. He picked up a tray, whose corner I saw, raising it several inches above the table. I still could not see anything other than its pale green corner. "What do you see?"

"Nothing." I assumed he meant nothing important. Come to think of it, what could there be of importance on that tray?

"Who are..."

"How are you feeling, anything wrong?" came the interrupting query. It was a question I should have asked myself earlier.

"I'm fine. Nothing feels wrong. I don't even know what happened though." It was true, I was utterly confused. I'd no idea of how I wound up in the hospital, or even in that room, large and out of my budget as it was.

"Do you remember where you were before you fainted?" Again, he asked a question I should have already asked myself.

"I was in a mall, walking..." I drifted off, trying to recall as many details as I could. "With a bag!" Where was my bag? What was in the bag, for that matter? Oh, right, I had just bought a pair of jeans and two shirts, eating up the remainder of my paycheck. Where were they? "Do you know where my bag is?"

"No, unfortunately." He sounded disappointed. How odd. What reason did he have for disappointment?

"Who are you?" I asked again, turning his dismay into my opportunity. His presence was a more pressing issue.

He was silent, waiting for a few moments as if he had to think of an answer. "Richard."

"Hi Richard. I'm Rachel," I offered in reciprocation.

"I know." How did he know? Did I know him from before? No. But he seemed familiar, as if I'd seen him in a dream, or possibly on television. Certainly not in real life.

I resumed questioning, hoping that I would receive an answer that wasn't entirely devoid of utility. "How do you know my name?"

"It's right here, " he said, pointing to something stuck to the end of my bed. How useless.

"Have we met before?"

"No." So then, why was he in my room? I wondered if I could move freely. I'd already shifted slightly in my bed, an action that had resulted in no pain. I tried to sit up. It was easy. Why was I in the hospital to begin with? I felt fine.

"Why are you here, in my room, Richard?"

He hesitated. Then, sure of himself, spoke six words I will never forget. "Because you want me to be."

~

"Who is she talking to?" asked the only man in the room not yet bored enough to sit. His question was met with, in two cases, blank stares, and in the third, a snore. "Answer me," the tall man asked again."

"No clue."

"How useful! have you thought about maybe not working here anymore? You won't be paid much but the permanent vacation will more than make up for it? Should I place the call for whatever euphemism for being fired rolls off your tongue the best? Promotion. Yeah, that sounds nice. Should I make the call to expedite your promotion?"

"Look, we don't know. She's been talking to herself for a good ten minutes."

"And you didn't think to tell anybody, which is the entire point, no, it's the only point behind your ass being plastered to that chair for nine mind-numbing hours every day. You didn't think that if she's talking to herself, that it might just be relevant to my interests?" He added, as an afterthought, "And why is he still sleeping? I know I've been..." He paused, enjoying the process of choosing his next words, "exercising my vocal chords loudly enough. Or did you fail at the other part of your job and bring back decaf instead of regular coffee? Punch him in the face before I do it."

The confused guard did. The sleeping guard jerked awake, knocking his chair off balance. As it slid out from underneath him, he hit his head on the table right behind him with a satisfyingly dull thud. "Rewind the feed," ordered Brian.

"How far?"

"Until she's not yet talking to herself."

"She started as soon as she woke up. You want to watch her just lie there, unconscious? Alright man, whatever gets you off."

"First of all, why isn't the feed there yet? Second of all, that's not what gets me off."

"It's going slowly because I'm copying it onto a flash drive." He added a "Sir" to take advantage of the momentary lull in the string of insulting rants aimed at him for the last five minutes.

"What, competence? I can't believe it."

~

I awoke refreshed. And confused, still ignorant to where exactly I was. Furthermore, Richard wasn’t in the room, which disturbed me slightly. Why? Nothing else seemed to have changed since I’d fallen asleep. When did I fall asleep? It didn’t seem like too long ago. Probably only a few minutes, Richard must’ve stepped out for a drink or…

“Rachel?” came a voice from outside the door, accompanied by several soft thuds against the door. They weren’t quite knocks but they didn’t sound threatening or violent either. They just sounded a bit off. And the voice wasn’t Richard’s.

“Yes?”

“John," said the tall man as he opened the door, caring little for the state of my dress, whatever it might have been, “I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh, hi,” I paused; something about the way he said it struck me wrong. “What do you mean make sure I’m okay?”

“Make sure you’re alright, all of that.” His voice took on a slightly warmer tone, as if to compensate for earlier.

“Oh, but I feel fine. I don’t even know why I’m here. Why am I here?”

“Get up,” he said, with a little less warmness in his voice than could be expected from someone in the service industry.

“Wait, what?”

“Get up. I’ll show you why you’re here.”

“No. Where’s Richard? He was just here, tall guy, about your height, brown hair?”

“Richard, so that’s his name? I saw him walk out a half an hour ago.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Get up.”

“Why?” Truthfully, I didn’t want to stay here any more than he wanted me to stay put. I just needed a reason to trust him.

“Because you’re not leaving until I say so.” Reason found.

“Would you hand me my clothes then?” I hoped he would as I pointed at a chair across the room, my clothes stacked neatly on the cushion.

"Of course." He picked up my clothes, balanced them on his right palm, moved his hand up and a down a few inches, testing the weight, and proceeded to throw the entire stack directly at my face.

Reacting as any human would, I brought my hands up to cover my face as I turned my head away, the soft fabrics hitting me across my forearms. The jacket's zipper wasn't as gentle though, stinging me with what felt like a small cut on my right wrist. The clothes now lying on the bed, I turned my head to face John again, "What the hell was," I froze. My shirt was hovering in mid-air a foot away from my face, bobbing up and down, its center pulled back and the edges flapping about slightly. John hadn't moved, he still stood at the foot of my bed, his arm outstretched and his palm spread out, grinning. Deciding that sitting there frozen wasn't the best of all possible plans, I scampered back, treading bed sheets and pillows under my feet as I strived to get as far back away from the floating blue shirt as I could. Motion across the room caught my attention; John had suddenly broken out into a fit of laughter. He took his other hand out of his pocket, spreading it open with his palm facing up. A small ball bearing sat in the middle of his palm.

Now chuckling, he rolled his palm around, the shiny metal ball tracing a circle until it didn't, as if it were glued to his palm. His face hardened, smile and chuckle vanishing, as he raised his palm up, now facing me, ball bearing still stuck to the middle of his palm. The next thing I saw was a silvery streak in the vicinity of his palm, followed by my shirt flying at the wall to my left. It yanked itself back just short of the wall, falling down, now neglected.

The ball bearing, no longer in John's palm, was now embedded in the wall. From what I saw, I figured that the ball bearing had dragged the shirt to the wall. How, was another question entirely.

"Ready to find out why you're here?" John's grin returned.

"Yes."

"Good. Get dressed. I'm somewhat sorry about the hole in your shirt. And I'll be outside."

"Hole in my shi," I realized what he meant, "asshole."

"I said I was sorry, now...

"Somewhat sorry."

"...now get dressed and stop wasting time."

~

The little ball had torn a hole in my shirt, which amused me as I glimpsed my belly button through the opening before I zipped up my jacket to hide the damage. Amusement that quickly gave way to curiosity and confusion. I'd just seen somebody make a shirt, my now torn shirt, hover in mid-air and launch a little metal ball into a wall without moving their hands. How? And what did I have to do with it? Either way, it was clear that John had the upper hand here: that little ball bearing would have likely killed me if he'd aimed it at me. Obeying was the smart choice, so I, by routine, checked the room for anything I might've left and stepped out.

"Let's go. This way is the exit, marked clearly by the big red exit sign. We're into full disclosure. We're going the opposite way, call it a tour if you will. You're free to leave at any point, but we'll probably drag you back here to finish the tour."

"So I have to go."

"Oh no, of course not. That wouldn't be fair. We offer alternatives."

"Such as?"

"Well, let's just say you wouldn't like them, you'd go into withdrawal and convulse. It wouldn't be pretty."

"Wait, what, withdrawal, like addiction withdrawal? What are you talking about?"

"Yeah. Oxygen withdrawal. I heard it's pretty nasty. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

This took a turn for the worse. "I don't."

"I don't either." A turn for the better. "Let's go."

I went.