Story: What Do You Think of This Picture?
Dec. 31st, 2009 02:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wolven7He held up the next card, for her. The question was the same. "And this one?"
She looked at the card, for a while, and said, "My first cat, Charlie. He was hit by a bus, or something, one day, while I was at school. My mom told me that he 'ran away.' Like that was better."
"Very good," he said, and he made some more notes on the clipboarded paper. "And this one?" Holding up another card.
"The one time I tried to cross the desert, on my own. Damn near died, in that sun. Look, Dr. Sanderson, didn't we do this, yesterday? Do we really need to go through all of this again?"
"Hm. Did we? Well, maybe you're right. It's a wonderfully bright day, out; maybe we should get out into the fresh air for a bit. Clear our heads. Besides, it'll give you a chance to sneak a cigarette."
"Yes! Thank you." She began gathering her things, and buttoning her coat. "But, just so you know, I don't smoke."
He was writing a few last notes on the paper, before putting the clipboard away, and picking up a small combination pocket notebook and billfold. He looked up from his chair. "No?" She shook her head. "Oh. My mistake. Well. Let's get moving." And they walked in silence, for a little while, out onto the grounds, and then out into the wider city. They came to a front filled with restaurants and shops, and Dr Sanderson said, "So, how about a hot dog?"
"Okay. I'm not too hungry, yet, but I should probably eat something." They went into a tiny walk-up, and she stared at the menu, while they stood in line. They shouted that it was her turn to order, and she said, "Let me get a veggie dog, no onions, add chili, kraut, mustard and tomatoes, in that order."
Dr. Sanderson looked at her, strangely, then placed his order. As they sat down he said, "For someone who isn't hungry, you sure know what you want to eat."
She took off her coat and shoved it into the booth, beside her, and said, "Yeah, I guess so... From what they had, up there, it just seemed like the best thing."
"Good, good. Well, it sounds delicious, and I hope you like it." And he smiled at her, then; it was a genuine, pleasant smile lighting up his dark grey eyes, and she actually liked him, for a second, rather than just tolerating his presence, and his questions, and his gentle insistence.
Then he said, "So what do you think of this place?"
Her smile faded, a bit, and she said, "It's pretty cool. I've always really liked the decor, in here, and the people are friendly, but don't take crap."
He raised his right eyebrow. "Really? You've been here, before? When was that?"
"Oh it must have been years and years ago, really. Back before I knew what 'veggie' even meant."
He laughed. "Yes, I was going to ask about that: Chili on a vegetarian hotdog? Isn't that a bit... counterproductive?"
She smirked at him, and said, "Look, Doc, I don't eat it 'cause I feel bad for the poor little animals. I just think they taste better, that way."
She winked at him, and they both laughed.
Their food came, and they sat, in silence, for a while, as they ate it, looking at each other and around the room. She could tell that he was looking away at the exact moment she was looking at him-- smoothly, calmly, but with a definite timing-- and she didn't quite know what to make of that. She took those times to study the lines of his face, to ask herself what would drive someone like him to want to help people like her, to wonder if he had enjoyed his school career. She asked none of these, out loud, and instead asked, "So what's the point of all of these tests? I mean, I've been certified physically stable, re-insertion ready, equilibrium-sound. What's the problem? When can I get myself back into the Orientation Chamber?"
He put on his serious face. "Soon," he said, a meaningless, everyday-empty promise about no-time-in-specific. "But first let me ask you this--"
"No, no, no, sir. I've about had it. This was supposed to be time away from the questions. Not just a different forum for you to poke and prod and associatively stimulate the integrated overlap and relay of my motor functions and neural cortex, seeking to isolate and isomorph specific patterns of remembrance, experience, cognition, and probabilities of future pattern develop...ment..."
She sat there, staring just past his left ear, watching the clock tick off the years onto the wall above the open doorway to the back room. She closed her mouth, slowly, and as her head and eyes tracked down to her food, she spoke very softly. "Why are we doing this?"
"Didn't you just say--"
"No, not that. Why are you doing this, for me, to me? I mean... I thought I was fine... I got a little lost, a little confused, and some things got a little fuzzy, but... I'm fine, right?"
He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. Any trace of the seeming camaraderie they'd shared was gone, now, and the look he gave her was simply that of a man who had a very important job to do, and who intended to do it, very well. He said, "Yes, you did get a little confused. We all get a little confused, every day, don't we? We lose a little of ourselves, in everything we do, as we gain new parts of ourselves. It's called living. Being alive. Growing and changing and adapting, day to day. We all get confused. But you got 'a little confused,' in the Orientation Chamber. You got disoriented in the Orientation Chamber. And, as such, you are a threat to yourself, and everyone near you. That threat must either be controlled, or eliminated."
She could feel the tears coming, at hearing the truth. She could remember all of it, now, and see the angles and conceptual parallax points, and the shifting clarity as the Is was sorted from the May Be and the Should Be and the Never Was. She could feel herself, immersed in the Chamber, realigning, adjusting, correcting everything and everyone in the whole world. And she remembered herself shifting. Her sense of centre, of stillness slipping away from her, in tortuously slow ratcheting degrees, and she shaped the world, and then she was shaped by it, and she experienced a catastrophic change in perspective. The alarms went off, and she was ripped from the system, some other, less wobbling pillar being immediately ready to take her place, and everything kept turning.
She kept looking at the veggie dog, covered in its absurd chili, and realised that she both craved a cigarette and despised the smell of cigarette smoke. She thought she might vomit. "I think I'd like to go back to the Institute, now. Right now."
Dr. Sanderson didn't say anything, but took out his little notebook/billfold, again, and paid the check. They returned to the grounds, in silence, and he led her to her room, and they parted ways, for the day. He had wanted to tell her that it wouldn't always be like this, that every day she would get a little bit better at remembering what was hers and what was the world; she would know where she stopped and everything else began. He'd wanted to tell her that she could leave, when she checked her associations, every day, on her own, without prompts. He'd wanted her to know that it could still be okay. But he saw her face, her eyes, even as she tried to hide them from him...
The next day he gave his report to the Board, detailing the previous week's interaction and observation, recounting that final day's notes, from memory. Finally, she added, "It seems that, ultimately, the patient's progress is accelerated, but fractured, splintered into several branches of aptitude and potential. In all, it is possible to retain cohesion, but only with great effort."
"Yes," said a member of the Board. "We know all this, we have the report, right here."
"My report...?" He began. "But I haven't completed--"
"The report is very clear, Doctor. You've done an excellent job with what was thought to be a lost cause. We are all very proud that the work you are doing is being done, here. Thank you."
"Of course. If I can be of any more use, please, don't hesitate to ask as soon as possible." Dr. Sanderson began to leave the cold, painfully bright board room, and head back to the main office, when a voice said
"Oh, Doctor? One more thing."
He turned. "Yes?"
"What do you think of this picture?"
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.
She looked at the card, for a while, and said, "My first cat, Charlie. He was hit by a bus, or something, one day, while I was at school. My mom told me that he 'ran away.' Like that was better."
"Very good," he said, and he made some more notes on the clipboarded paper. "And this one?" Holding up another card.
"The one time I tried to cross the desert, on my own. Damn near died, in that sun. Look, Dr. Sanderson, didn't we do this, yesterday? Do we really need to go through all of this again?"
"Hm. Did we? Well, maybe you're right. It's a wonderfully bright day, out; maybe we should get out into the fresh air for a bit. Clear our heads. Besides, it'll give you a chance to sneak a cigarette."
"Yes! Thank you." She began gathering her things, and buttoning her coat. "But, just so you know, I don't smoke."
He was writing a few last notes on the paper, before putting the clipboard away, and picking up a small combination pocket notebook and billfold. He looked up from his chair. "No?" She shook her head. "Oh. My mistake. Well. Let's get moving." And they walked in silence, for a little while, out onto the grounds, and then out into the wider city. They came to a front filled with restaurants and shops, and Dr Sanderson said, "So, how about a hot dog?"
"Okay. I'm not too hungry, yet, but I should probably eat something." They went into a tiny walk-up, and she stared at the menu, while they stood in line. They shouted that it was her turn to order, and she said, "Let me get a veggie dog, no onions, add chili, kraut, mustard and tomatoes, in that order."
Dr. Sanderson looked at her, strangely, then placed his order. As they sat down he said, "For someone who isn't hungry, you sure know what you want to eat."
She took off her coat and shoved it into the booth, beside her, and said, "Yeah, I guess so... From what they had, up there, it just seemed like the best thing."
"Good, good. Well, it sounds delicious, and I hope you like it." And he smiled at her, then; it was a genuine, pleasant smile lighting up his dark grey eyes, and she actually liked him, for a second, rather than just tolerating his presence, and his questions, and his gentle insistence.
Then he said, "So what do you think of this place?"
Her smile faded, a bit, and she said, "It's pretty cool. I've always really liked the decor, in here, and the people are friendly, but don't take crap."
He raised his right eyebrow. "Really? You've been here, before? When was that?"
"Oh it must have been years and years ago, really. Back before I knew what 'veggie' even meant."
He laughed. "Yes, I was going to ask about that: Chili on a vegetarian hotdog? Isn't that a bit... counterproductive?"
She smirked at him, and said, "Look, Doc, I don't eat it 'cause I feel bad for the poor little animals. I just think they taste better, that way."
She winked at him, and they both laughed.
Their food came, and they sat, in silence, for a while, as they ate it, looking at each other and around the room. She could tell that he was looking away at the exact moment she was looking at him-- smoothly, calmly, but with a definite timing-- and she didn't quite know what to make of that. She took those times to study the lines of his face, to ask herself what would drive someone like him to want to help people like her, to wonder if he had enjoyed his school career. She asked none of these, out loud, and instead asked, "So what's the point of all of these tests? I mean, I've been certified physically stable, re-insertion ready, equilibrium-sound. What's the problem? When can I get myself back into the Orientation Chamber?"
He put on his serious face. "Soon," he said, a meaningless, everyday-empty promise about no-time-in-specific. "But first let me ask you this--"
"No, no, no, sir. I've about had it. This was supposed to be time away from the questions. Not just a different forum for you to poke and prod and associatively stimulate the integrated overlap and relay of my motor functions and neural cortex, seeking to isolate and isomorph specific patterns of remembrance, experience, cognition, and probabilities of future pattern develop...ment..."
She sat there, staring just past his left ear, watching the clock tick off the years onto the wall above the open doorway to the back room. She closed her mouth, slowly, and as her head and eyes tracked down to her food, she spoke very softly. "Why are we doing this?"
"Didn't you just say--"
"No, not that. Why are you doing this, for me, to me? I mean... I thought I was fine... I got a little lost, a little confused, and some things got a little fuzzy, but... I'm fine, right?"
He took a deep breath and looked her in the eye. Any trace of the seeming camaraderie they'd shared was gone, now, and the look he gave her was simply that of a man who had a very important job to do, and who intended to do it, very well. He said, "Yes, you did get a little confused. We all get a little confused, every day, don't we? We lose a little of ourselves, in everything we do, as we gain new parts of ourselves. It's called living. Being alive. Growing and changing and adapting, day to day. We all get confused. But you got 'a little confused,' in the Orientation Chamber. You got disoriented in the Orientation Chamber. And, as such, you are a threat to yourself, and everyone near you. That threat must either be controlled, or eliminated."
She could feel the tears coming, at hearing the truth. She could remember all of it, now, and see the angles and conceptual parallax points, and the shifting clarity as the Is was sorted from the May Be and the Should Be and the Never Was. She could feel herself, immersed in the Chamber, realigning, adjusting, correcting everything and everyone in the whole world. And she remembered herself shifting. Her sense of centre, of stillness slipping away from her, in tortuously slow ratcheting degrees, and she shaped the world, and then she was shaped by it, and she experienced a catastrophic change in perspective. The alarms went off, and she was ripped from the system, some other, less wobbling pillar being immediately ready to take her place, and everything kept turning.
She kept looking at the veggie dog, covered in its absurd chili, and realised that she both craved a cigarette and despised the smell of cigarette smoke. She thought she might vomit. "I think I'd like to go back to the Institute, now. Right now."
Dr. Sanderson didn't say anything, but took out his little notebook/billfold, again, and paid the check. They returned to the grounds, in silence, and he led her to her room, and they parted ways, for the day. He had wanted to tell her that it wouldn't always be like this, that every day she would get a little bit better at remembering what was hers and what was the world; she would know where she stopped and everything else began. He'd wanted to tell her that she could leave, when she checked her associations, every day, on her own, without prompts. He'd wanted her to know that it could still be okay. But he saw her face, her eyes, even as she tried to hide them from him...
The next day he gave his report to the Board, detailing the previous week's interaction and observation, recounting that final day's notes, from memory. Finally, she added, "It seems that, ultimately, the patient's progress is accelerated, but fractured, splintered into several branches of aptitude and potential. In all, it is possible to retain cohesion, but only with great effort."
"Yes," said a member of the Board. "We know all this, we have the report, right here."
"My report...?" He began. "But I haven't completed--"
"The report is very clear, Doctor. You've done an excellent job with what was thought to be a lost cause. We are all very proud that the work you are doing is being done, here. Thank you."
"Of course. If I can be of any more use, please, don't hesitate to ask as soon as possible." Dr. Sanderson began to leave the cold, painfully bright board room, and head back to the main office, when a voice said
"Oh, Doctor? One more thing."
He turned. "Yes?"
"What do you think of this picture?"
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.
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no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 10:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 02:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 07:24 pm (UTC)I wish I could write better, creatively speaking. My research papers were always very good and polished, but my creative stuff always got bogged down in the tediousness I threw into my school papers. Maybe that's something I'll work on this year, I had a story I wrote in middle school and it's still unfinished. I think I'll work on it, to shape it, and make it what I intended it to be but didn't have to wherewithal to accomplish it.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-31 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-01 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-04 01:09 am (UTC)Liked the turnaround, if that's what it was. The whole thing is...more neatly tied together? than your writing tends to be.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-04 04:45 am (UTC)Maybe I did flesh out what the Orientation Chamber was, more than I do other details, though...