The Cell

In a dimly lit room, a man sits with his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. His eyes dart around, tracing the cracks in the peeling paint as though they hold secret information he needs to know.  He is convinced he is in a prison cell, a place of confinement.  Overhead, the flickering fluorescent light feels like a spotlight, intensifying his paranoia. They leave no shadows in which to hide.  He clutches the thin, scratchy blanket tightly around his shoulders, wrapping himself in an imaginary sanctuary of protection.  Straining to hear voices in the hall, he hears only the humming of the air conditioner drowning everything out.

Crawling out of the corner to the locked window, he looks outside and only sees another brick wall across the way—no glimpse of the outside world, no familiar faces passing by.  Just another wall to reinforce his belief that he is being held as a prisoner.

Thomas has been in this “cell” for what feels like an eternity.   He can’t remember how he got here or the memories of his life before.  Everything has blurred into a confusing jumble.  His mind races, searching for answers that remain stubbornly out of his reach.  If he does recall something, it jumps away like a fleeing grasshopper that can’t be recaptured.

As the days melt together, Thomas’s paranoia deepens.  Every creak of the floorboards, every cough from the room next door, sends shivers down his spine.  He is sure they are watching him, studying his every move, waiting for him to slip up.  Thomas paces the small room, sometimes tracing invisible patterns on the floor.  He’ll talk to himself in whispers in case they have listening devices hidden in the walls.

A man posing as a doctor talks with him three times a week.  His name tag reads  J B Comey.  That name sounds familiar to Thomas, though he can’t say why.  He always asks unintrusive questions like “How are you feeling today?” or “Do you know where you are?” But Thomas knows what he really wants, so he says nothing.  Also, he calls Thomas “John” for some reason.  Perhaps to make him tell him his name is Thomas, but he refuses to fall into this trap.

There is another man dressed in green scrubs with the name tag Carlson RN.  He’s big and muscular, but Thomas doesn’t believe he is a nurse for one minute.  Carlson is pleasant, takes his blood pressure, and brings him food.  Thomas doesn’t trust the food because they’ve put something in it to make him talk.  He knows they have because he can smell it.  Thomas only eats when he can’t stand being hungry anymore.  Even then, he’ll eat just enough to quench his appetite.

                                                                    …

I’ve found what appears to be a bit of white chalk, and by moving my bed to one side, I’ve begun drawing an escape plan on the floor.  When I hear the key unlocking the door, I quickly push my bed back into place and sit on it.  I smile because they don’t know my secret.

Doctor Comey enters the room, followed by Carlson.  “Well, John, you look rather bright today.  Can you tell me what it is you’re smiling about?  No?  Still keeping your secrets, hey?”

With eyes wide and nostrils flaring, Thomas freezes in place.  “No!  They know about my plan, my escape route under the bed!  They must have a camera hidden somewhere!”   His eyes scan wildly about the room until they land on a painting of the ocean hanging on the wall.  “That must be where it is!  A pinhole camera hidden in the sea foam.  Watching me, always watching me.  But why?  I can’t remember doing anything.  What do they want with me?”   The doctor’s name flashes in Thomas’s mind, and he now knows who the doctor truly is.  Thomas raises a shaking hand to his forehead.  “Comey!  R B Comey, the head of the FBI!”   His eyes search out Carlson’s name tag.  RN stands for the Republican Nation!  Good God, has the government collapsed?  Is democracy dead?

 A calm and familiar voice speaks to him from the end of the bed.  “That’s right, Thomas.  Just like we talked about all those years ago in the frat house.  Remember?” Tears threaten to spill from the corners of his eyes.  Thomas turns, stricken with fear, for his old college roommate Earl Prentice sits, not looking one day older than he did then.  All the while, Dr Comey has been speaking to Thomas.  “What is it, John?  Have I said something to upset you?  Please won’t you tell me what’s happening?  I’m only trying to help you!  I want to help make you better, John.  Don’t you want to be better?” 

Thomas has turned his face to the wall, quivering from head to toe, his hands balled up beneath his chin.  Dr. Comey falls back into his chair and sighs.  “I’d like to know what is going on in that head of his.  From the dark circles under his eyes, I’d say he’s not sleeping.  Please give him some Doxepin with his meal.  A good rest may help him to relax.”

Standing, Dr.Comey reaches out his hand and touches John on his shoulder.  Thomas flinches and pulls away.  “It’s all right, John.  Please try to get some rest, and I’ll see you again on Thursday, okay?” Turning to Carlson, he instructs, “Make sure he eats.  I don’t want him to lose any more weight.  He’s already lost twenty pounds.”

Carlson brings in Thomas’s food tray and places it on the side table. “John, it’s imperative that you eat your food. I have a pill that will help you rest, but it must be taken with food. Do you understand? If you don’t eat, I can’t give you the pill, and if I can’t give you the pill, I’ll be in big trouble. You don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?” Carlson cuts the sandwich in half with a plastic knife, places it on the tray, and then takes out the pill. “John, if you eat half of the sandwich, I’ll give you the pill, and you can have the two cookies.  You wouldn’t have to eat any more than that, okay?”

Thomas grabs the sandwich and takes two large bites. He then sticks out his hand for the pill. When Carlson gives it to him, Thomas stuffs it into his mouth with the rest of the sandwich.

“Way to go, John! I’ll leave the tray for now and pick it up later. Have a good rest, my friend.”

When Thomas hears the door click, he spits out the pill and hides it under his pillow.  Hearing someone snickering, he slowly turns his head and peaks over his right shoulder.  “Earl?  H-How did you manage to get in here?  They’re always watching me.  How come they didn’t see you?”

Earl sits crossed-legged on the end of the bed, leaning back against the wall. He smiles his famous roguish grin. “Because I’m too clever for those bastards, that’s how!” Clapping his hands, Thomas can hardly contain his excitement. Rocking back and forth, giggling, “That’s right! You are too clever for those bastards! Too, too clever. That’s you, Earl, too clever for those bastards.”

Earl knits his eyebrows together. “Geez, Thomas, you look awful. What have they been doing to you?”

“They haven’t done anything to me. They just watch, spy on me, and eavesdrop to try and hear if I say something they can use against me! They are probably listening to us right now!” As Thomas’s anxiety grows, his voice starts to crack, and sweat rolls down his face, mixing with his tears. “They insinuate that I’ve done something wrong, yet they won’t tell me! They want me to tell them, but I can’t because I don’t know what it is! I can’t remember anything.  I don’t even know how I got here in this cell!” Thomas drops his head into his hands and weeps loudly.

“Hey, hey, pull yourself together, old boy! You’re here because of that night at the frat house when we were all drinking and came up with the idea of overthrowing the government and making life better for the common man, remember? I think there must have been a spy among us.” 

Eyes darting left and right, Thomas whispers, “A spy? Who?”

“I’m not certain, but I’d say it was John Webb.” Gasping, Thomas’s hands fly to his chest.

“They keep calling me John! Do you think that they think I’m this John Web fellow? Thomas tries to figure this out while mopping the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve. “I bet that’s it.  They’re rounding up everyone from that night and are using me to tell the names of everyone there! But don’t worry, Earl, I still won’t talk, not a word, I promise.”

 Moving closer, Earl reassures Thomas that they don’t think he’s Web.

“How do you know?”

“I know because John’s dead.” Earl stares at his fingernail before returning his attention to Thomas. Panic grips Thomas. “How did he die? When did he die? Did they kill John? Did they think John was me? If they killed John thinking it was me, will they kill me next because they think I’m John?”

Earl falls back onto the bed and rocks side to side, laughing hysterically. “Stop, Thomas, please stop! I think I’m going to wet myself! Look, all that doesn’t matter. It’s your food tray that matters. Look what the fat idiot of a guard did. See? Under your napkin.” With a sinister smile, Earl raises one eyebrow and leans closer, “It’s a real treasure.”

Eyes wide with wonder, Thomas looks and sees the tip of the plastic knife sticking out from under the napkin. Grinning widely, Earl taunts Thomas. “ What do you say to that, Thomas? It’s a real game changer, uh? Crap, you’re almost home free! All you have to do is wait for the right moment!”

Clutching the knife tightly in both hands for fear it might disappear, Thomas bites his bottom lip. With eyebrows raised high and eyes ablaze, Thomas looks at Earl and starts laughing maniacally. His laughter is cut short when he hears the door lock click. Thomas thrusts the knife under his pillow and faces the opening door. He couldn’t look more guilty if he tried. His eyes are dilated and strained, his complexion white and pasty, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, and he’s shaking from head to toe. Just by looking at him, Carlson is immediately alert as he enters the room.

Carlson walks over to the tray. “Sorry to disturb you, John, but I may have forgotten something when I left. You haven’t seen a plastic knife by any chance, have you? Don’t worry, John, you won’t be in trouble if you have.  I’m the one in trouble for forgetting it.” Looking at John’s hand under the pillow, Carlson points, “ Is that it there? May I have it, please?’

Suddenly, Thomas’s face contorts into a twisted fit of rage as he leaps forth, his hand held high to attack. Carlson easily overpowers Thomas and takes away the knife. Placing the knife safely in the pocket of his scrubs, he gently returns Thomas to his bed.

He sees the pill under the pillow and gives it to Thomas with a glass of water. “Sorry to have been so rough with you, John. Now let’s take this pill so you can relax, okay?”

Thomas falls back onto his pillow, whimpering the first words Carlson has ever heard him speak. 

“I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die.” Then, from sheer exhaustion, Thomas falls asleep.

                                                                        …

The next day, we find Mrs. Webb sitting in Dr. Comey’s office, wringing her handkerchief.

“I’m sorry to call you in so early, Mrs.Webb, but your husband attacked his male nurse last night with a plastic knife.” Mrs.Webb’s hand flies to her mouth. “Not to worry, Mrs.Webb, Carlson is fine. The thing is that John wouldn’t talk to us, so we have no idea as to what he is thinking. His facial expressions and body language tell us he understands what we are saying but refuses to respond. From the tapes, we see him pacing his room and talking to an imaginary friend named Earl. He tells Earl that he is confused about why we call him John when his name is Thomas.”

Raising her hand slightly, Mrs.Webb explains.  “Thomas Paige was John’s friend since grade school. He was the one who died that night of the car accident.”

Nodding his head and raising his eyebrows, Dr. Comey ponders the situation. “Ahh. So John was probably fearing for his friend’s life as well as his own just before they impacted the tree. By switching personalities, John can keep his friend alive. 

Mrs Webb, your husband is suffering from a blunt force impact to his right temple area, causing much damage to his brain. It has left him with delusions that are causing confusion and anxiety.   I’m sorry I can’t give you a better prognosis; all we can do now is pray.”

Daubbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief that won’t absorb one more tear, she thanks the doctor and leaves.

                                                                       …

Wincing at the dull pain in his head, Thomas slowly opens his eyes. He doesn’t know where he is or how he’s gotten here. As the neon light flickers overheard, he studies the peeling paint for a clue. He sits up and leans his back against the cold, damp wall. Pulling the scratchy blanket tighter around his shoulders, he feels that he might be in a cell, a prison cell.