a
I am in a room.
It’s not my room.
I know this.
Its walls are white. Greyish white. In each of the four corners there are little cracks.
Cracks.
They are too small to see through. Even if I strained. Lifted my head.
No matter.
Only the spiders could crawl through those little cracks.
But they do not. They do not want to. Or they cannot.
No matter.
I cannot go out anyway. Outside, I mean. For the door is locked and it has no handle.
It is a black door.
It is made of iron I think. But I could be wrong. It could be made of wood.
Let me go and see.
Yes.
I checked it.
I was right.
It is made of iron.
It was cold when I put my hand to it. When I touched it. So cold. It reminded me of something. Something else. But I could not think what.
Cold.
Does that mean the outside is cold? Is this what it means?
I don’t know.
I am not sure.
Perhaps it warm outside. And only the door is cold. I doubt that. It does not make sense. But things in this part of country surprise me. If the door is cold, the outside might not be.
Questions.
—Can I stay here?
Answers.
—Maybe.
If I can’t get out, surely I can stay here?
—Yes.
That would make the most sense.
—You would imagine that.
You lock a man in a room and take the handle away so as to make sure he will not get out. So as to make sure he does not escape.
I assume this is right.
All these inane questions. You must surely think me mad.
Mad!
No matter.
I remember before I came here sitting with my father. We read stories. Short ones. I sat on his knees. His hands held the book. I looked over his left arm to see the words. They were big.
Big words. Little pictures. Drawn with little hands.
Was that a long time ago?
I don’t know.
It seems so.
When I awoke I found myself here. I was dressed all in white. I had no possessions. This pen and paper lay on the bed locker beside me. My legs were bound.
Write they said.
I do not mean my legs were bound in the traditional sense of the word, in the traditional manner. I mean rather that they covered in soft white bandages.
They were very nicely wrapped. As if a nurse had managed to do it. She may have.
It seems you must have fallen, from a great height perhaps. For the still sore to touch.
Perhaps someone entered in the dead of the night and broke both my legs with the soft side of a small hatchet.
Maybe.
The must want me to detail all of this. That is my understanding of the situation. Put it all down in writing. So they will have it in words. Use the pen and paper. Write it down. Put it in your own words.
Words.
Their words.
My words.
Perhaps.
Unless the pen and paper are a fleeting reference to my late father. Maybe they want me to say nothing. To write nothing down.
That would not surprise.
Perhaps it is my late father who put me here so as to mock me. To make feel his guilt for bringing me into this dreadful world.
But I doubt that.
