John

Chapter 1 - The basic routine

"Am I going to die in here, Herbert?"

"Yes, John. You're going to die in here."

"Why, though?"

"Go back to sleep, John."

The loudspeaker made the usual crackling noise before the room fell into a deathly silence. John shivered under the thin blankets provided for him. He was dying. It had been ninety days since he had eaten regular food, six since he was given a pill, and one-hundred and sixteen since he last saw a human being. The world felt lonely.

John tried to force his body to sleep, but the hunger won out. He rose from the bed and paced around the tiny twelve-foot cube. He reached one side of the room, checked the tiny drop box, found nothing, and turned around.

When reaching other side, he would pause and look outside the window, where he could observe the wall of dirt seemingly inches away. It wasn't spectacular by any means, but John found when he got desperate enough, he could see anything he wanted.

Lush, tropical rain forests, busy, vibrant street corners...even his own house. In the end, though, it was just dirt. Realising that, he felt that he might as well be dead already.

Squeaking noises filled the tiny cube as John paced back and forth for what must have been a hour. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he started to feel tired again and his stomach no longer hurt. It just felt like a void, like something was missing inside of him.

He returned to his small bed, where he tossed and turned until falling into an uneasy sleep. There was no such thing as a good sleep here.

Every now and then, John would hear noises. There was a little rattle here, maybe the clanking of metal there. In the first few weeks, these noises kept John awake at night in terror. Now, they offered the only sign of life other than the voice from the loudspeaker.

The voice, called Herbert, was there from the beginning. Herbert brought John into this new world and Herbert would be the one to usher him out. Ever since John woke that first day, dry heaving in a cold sweat, he felt drawn to the voice over the intercom.

"Hello, John. Try not to overexert yourself. We wouldn't want you to hurt yourself so soon."

Though the words were cold, John had an almost child-like attachment to them...or at least whoever was speaking them. At the time, it might have been because he thought it was what was going to lead him to freedom.

Now, it was because it was the only thing he had to remind him he wasn't dreaming. This wasn't Hell. This was real and he was alive for every minute of it.

"How was your sleep, John?"

"Good."

"Good? Care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Very monosyllabic today, aren't we?"

"Shut up."

John was upset. He hadn't received his little pill in the drop box. He always found one in the metallic compartment after he slept. It was routine and, now that the routine had been broken, panic had been washing over John all morning.

"What is it, John?"

"I said shut up."

"Is it your ration, John?"

"Where is it?"

"I asked, is it your ration, John?"

"Yes. Where the fuck is it?"

John was on the edge of breaking down. His whole existence was based around this simple routine: sleep, eat, pace, sleep, eat, pace, sleep. Now, it was gone, leaving John with nothing.