The Experiment (short story)

The experiment

Prologue

"We're rolling."
"You're good to go."
"3, 2 ,1... and we're live."
"I thank you for joining me in this interview today; I know you've just barely recovered and the date is soon, but I am grateful you're here. Truly an honour to speak to you, Miss--"
Who are these people? I don't know them. Where did they come from? Never in my life have I seen this lady, hair matted and sprayed into a tight bun behind her small, stretched and screaming with fake desires, face; features plastered with a mask full of unappealing and unneeded make up—crimson lipstick, darkened eyebrows, chiselled cheeks—hiding yet another identity I'm trying to uncover; and body stiffened in a well-pressed and steamed uniform which clings to her figure as it stretches over her hips while one of her legs overlaps the other in a unwelcoming seating position. The people behind this mysterious women are blurs of black and grey as my mind continues to throb and beat within the stapled walls of my skull, making it hard to hear the chattering and comments made by the perverted gazes; making it hard to focus and to keep my fading vision from collapsing before I enter the painful embrace of darkness once again.
I shouldn't be here, but the sickness I feel in my head and stomach are like metal chains holding me to his 'healing' building. I can't even hold my own head still as it sways back and forth to the beating of my own blood. I need to get out. This isn't where I need nor want to be right now. I need to go back, as soon as humanly possible.
"Let's talk about what you are feeling right now, Miss— The trauma you have endured must have been horrible and excruciating. Could you tell us about that?"
"What d-did you just s-say?" I wheezed, as familiarity from the sound of stuttering came to mind, confused by the boldly assumed statement that left her idiotic mouth. It may be hard to hear, but I needed to know if what the lady said was 100% accurate. It sounded like complete nonsense; complete lies.
"I'm saying that the experiences you must have gone through must have been awful. You made it to the hospital bloodied and beaten after nearly five months of being pronounced missing. That has to have been a traumatic time for you, especially in the prime of your life. Could you add to that?"
I was barely able to scowl under the influence of whatever sickness he has given me, let alone think straight to answer the question, however a soft and delicate chuckle left my very cracked and dry lips, causing my abdomen to shrivel in sharp pains. Is it even worth answering the question in this condition? I can't even express true emotion without wanting to throw up the little amount I still have left in me. Is this conversation worth more then my health?
"W-well, I'm sorry, but that's where you're wrong."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My experience wasn't at all as awful a-as you make it out to be," I whispered, sounding like I was on my last breath, "It was actually quite the opposite."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sounds. The sounds. They are unusual. They make me think and wonder: what could have possible made them? What could have been the blood boiling reason for the wall-vibrating thumb? Or the fist clenching shatter of a new dish—or perhaps maybe a vase? Are they ok? Is whoever that is creating this startling vibration hurt? I would love to know, but, one thing for sure, I am grateful for these unknown sounds. Whether it is a deep, male or female, scream for help, the movement of ancient furniture, or the sound of a whimper which could only be made by a broken soul, I am truly grateful. They interrupt the conversation between two people; a conversation that could last a life time. One is harsh: they want escape; they want freedom; and they want to smell the sweet scent of fresh air they think they have smelt before. Whereas the another voice is timid: they behave; they question judgement; they know a way to live; and they don't want any trouble. They both have a weakness, however, and that's the mysterious sounds I have endured and enjoyed my whole life. Or, well, maybe the last couple of weeks, months—I've really lost track of time since I got here. How clumsy of me! It almost acts like a replant, frightening them away as they scurry back to their homes hidden within the depths of my empty mind. I can't control them, and to be honest, most of the time I don't understand their concept to the sentences they put in my head. Freedom? I'm not sure I understand the word freedom. Is it nice? I would love to try it sometime; it reminds me of the steal door placed in the centre of the opposite wall, standing their menacingly, and I don't know why. And trouble? I haven't really been objected to any trouble throughout the timespan in this room. If anything, my time here has been nothing but boring, however reflecting to say the least. They must be talking nonsense!