“My hair has started falling out. I feel dizzy most of the time. I have a constant metallic taste in my mouth. And I can’t drink enough to satiate my thirst.”
I know I shouldn’t complain, but I’m so exhausted that even breathing has become an effort.
The man sits opposite me, watching me as I speak. I still don’t know his name. But he’s the only other human being I’ve seen since I arrived three weeks ago.
When I finish speaking he nods his head. I get the feeling that he’s acknowledging my outburst, but that he considers my list of feeble complaints as nothing unusual.
He stands up without a word and slings his bag over his shoulder.
The man comes to collect me every morning. This morning I was slow to haul my exhausted body into the shower. He had to wait, but he didn’t say a word, just sat there on the sofa.
We leave the cabin.
We walk through the woods as we do every day. I walk five yards behind him. I don’t know how he finds his way because there’s no track and all the trees look the same. But every day we find the laboratory.
It isn’t a large building. The walls are flat and made of concrete. There are no windows and, as far as I can make out, only one door. It’s a heavy door made of steel.
Once we’re through the door we always turn left, walk about twenty yards, and enter the first room on our right, the same room every day for the last three weeks.
The room reminds me of a dentist’s. And that’s mainly because of the chair, the only significant piece of furniture in the room. The chair is the length of my body and I’m allowed to tilt each part until I’m as comfortable as possible.
The man will then hand me a headset that fits snugly. It incorporates two screens that slide down over my eyes, so close they press gently against my eyeballs. Pads cover my ears.
When I give the thumbs up to the man he triggers the light and sound show.
It’s not like watching a movie. There are no people, no landscapes, no scenes, no settings. The show is a succession of colourful shapes. The shapes vary and sometimes there’s a mixture of different colours. The sounds are peculiar too. They’re like nothing I’ve ever heard. It’s noise, but a tuneful noise.
This strange show shouldn’t have any affect on me. It’s just light and noise. But it does. It invokes all kinds of emotions.
Sometimes I feel tears coursing down my cheeks. My stomach has that empty feeling. The same feeling you get when the bottom falls out of your world — when a partner ends a relationship, or somebody you know dies.
On one occasion the tears seemed to jog a memory in me, a memory of the time I lost my sight for a month. I was five years old when that happened.
I have no idea why I thought of this. I haven’t thought about it for years.
Before the sadness flooded my mind, there were flashes of red and black. And I remember that sequence being followed by an extended section of violet, accompanied by a whistling sound.
In another session I began laughing for no reason whatsoever. It was a helpless, near hysterical laugh. I couldn’t stop myself. I hadn’t been fed a joke through the headset. It was just another sequence of colours and sounds.
But not today. Today’s session is restful.
“You can take it off now,” I hear the man say.
It’s also a short session, I think. It’s difficult to gauge. When the headset is on time seems to disappear. It doesn’t seem to drag, it doesn’t seem to fly by, it just seems to disappear.
“That was the last of your tuning sessions,” he says.
It’s the first time he’s used the word “tuning”. I now have something in common with a piano. I’ve been “tuned”.
“Come with me,” he says.
We leave the room and walk further along the dark corridor, but only until we reach the next door on the right.
I don’t know why we’ve changed rooms. This one is equally featureless. There’s not even that Ferrari of all chairs in the middle of the room.
There’s only a desk and two standard chairs.
“Sit down,” he says. So I do. “Your health will improve. Your hair will stop falling out. The worst is over with.”
This is good to hear.
“Do you know why you were chosen for this project?”
“Why?”
“You have very little imagination. That particular part of your brain is underdeveloped.”
I should be offended, but he says it as if it’s a compliment.
“Imagination can get in the way of this new skill you’re about to learn.”
He pauses, his stare deepening.
“We understand the brain better than we used to. We understand how to make the most of it. In layman’s terms, in the past we’ve tried to train sprinters with the techniques you would use to train a marathon runner. Not anymore. Our mapping of the brain is more complete. There are areas that need different kinds of stimulation to function, that can be triggered. That’s what we’ve been doing with you these last few weeks. It’s been painful for you, but it can’t be done any other way. Now, you’re ready to learn this new skill. A skill that makes use of the area of your brain we’ve stimulated.”
His expression never wanders far from serious. But now it can only be described as downright grave.
“Know this, your life is about to change. Mostly for the better. But there will be downsides. You must find a way to handle the downsides.”
I nod at him, trying to convey that I’m ready for whatever he wants to throw at me. But inside, my stomach is convulsing.
“If you abuse this skill, if you don’t follow orders, or if you tell anybody about it, there will be terrible consequences for you and the people you love. Do you understand?”
I do my best not to go slack jawed.
He reaches down into his bag and pulls out two paper pads and two pens. He hands me one of each.
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m not trying to crush your spirit. This is just the way it is. You have a very lengthy and fulfilling career ahead of you. I have little doubt about that.”
He leans forward in his seat. His eyes lock onto mine.
“But this skill you’re about to learn is like nothing else developed in the history of humanity. That’s the truth. I’m not being melodramatic. Now relax.”
After the threats comes the humour. It must be humour. But his face doesn’t give any indication that he’s trying to be funny.
How can I relax after the warnings he’s issued? My own face feels paralysed, confused by my emotions. Excitement, anticipation and fear sit together uneasily on my features, numbing them.
He starts writing on his pad. “We begin with a few numbers.”
