The Last Conversation

026

There’s a long wooden table against the wall, beneath the screen. The four legs are not uniform. You surmise the legs are repurposed and have come from other tables. The table’s top is a door that is likely made from fiberglass. It has been painted white, which was not its original color, judging by red scratches and deeper gouges.

“I’ve set up some activities to help you regain your manual dexterity. I’m confident it will come back quickly given the number of years dedicated to a career spent working with your hands.”

You hold up and visually inspect your hands. You can’t help but feel detached from them, as if there has been some mistake and they don’t belong to you. It doesn’t seem possible that your hands have built and maintained all that Anne claims that they have.

“You will enjoy this, the tactile sensations of manipulating physical objects. It’ll be so much more fulfilling than the touch screen and VR activities of the previous week.”

You want to ask how she got the table in here by herself while you were asleep. You again wonder and worry about how much she controls your sleep. Have you been asleep for days instead of hours? Did she build the table inside the room instead of pushing it in here? It appears heavy and unwieldy. You resolve to stay awake, all night if necessary. You resolve to do this every night and fail.

On the door/desktop are four shallow plastic bins. The first bin is full of wooden blocks shaped like miniature logs, each with notches carved into their ends, and some have notches in their middles. Displayed on the screen is a schematic—images and numbers only—detailing how you are to proceeded in building a cabin.

“Aren’t these some kind of child’s toy?”

“The activities progress in difficulty.”

The second bin is full of colored squares of paper. The third bin holds an assortment of metal nuts, bolts, wheels, struts, gears, rubber belts, and rivets. The fourth bin is the largest and it overflows with oddly shaped pieces of wood and tools.

“With the third bin you’ll use a screwdriver. The fourth bin, you will use a drill, a hammer, and a handsaw. The tools are stowed beneath the table. Do you have any questions before you start with bin one?”

There is something about the makeshift collection-of-spare-parts table that troubles you. It hints at a larger problem or issue in regard to your situation, one that remains beyond your grasp.

“Someone made this table.”

“Well, yes. Someone made everything, ______.”

“That’s not what I mean—”

“You may now begin with the first bin.”

“Did you make this table?”

“No.”

“Did I make it before—before I woke up here?”

“You did not make it. But if you’d like, after some practice, you can make a better one.”

You rub your face with your hands. For some reason this answer, more than any of her other questions and answers and nonanswers, makes you boil over with frustration. “Hey, how do you know I won’t hurt myself with the tools?”

“You’ll have to be careful. I trust you’ll do fine.”

“No, I mean, how do you know I won’t hurt myself on purpose?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I am desperate. Because despite everything you say it is clear that I am a prisoner.”

“You will not hurt yourself, because you are not a prisoner. I can’t say that strenuously enough.”

You bend under the table and grab the screwdriver and handsaw. You stand and brandish them, shake them in the air. You feel powerful and weak at the same time. “I feel like a prisoner. I don’t feel like we’re in this, whatever this is, together.”

“We were partners before the Facility and we are partners now, ______. Please, I understand your frustrations. I do. I know it’s impossible to fully understand, but everything I’m doing is to help you fully regain yourself, but it has to be done piece by piece, bit by bit, and not all at once.”

“I demand that you show me and tell me more about me, about you, about us, about everything, or I will do something drastic—” You lean on the table with your left forearm facing up, exposed. You place the handsaw against your wrist. The teeth are sharp. You don’t know if you can or will drag the saw across your skin, but you want to.

“Please, ______, this is not necessary. I will start showing you more videos, I promise. I was planning to show you more about me and us anyway, because—and you have to believe me—you’re doing so well, and we’re getting so close to you walking through the door.”

“And where will I go after walking through the door?” You briefly add pressure to the saw before taking it away. The row of indents in your skin is perfectly formed.

“You and I will go to our house.”

“The old brown one?”

“Yes.”

You want to ask if you can go to the house now, but you don’t. You know Anne would say not yet. Then you would place the saw against your wrist again and before you could continue making threats and bargaining, Anne would say, “If you hurt yourself, you won’t go to the brown house. If you cut yourself with the saw, you’ll pass out from loss of blood. Maybe you’d wake up strapped to your bed and maybe you wouldn’t wake up at all.”