Incarceration

Incarceration

Chapter 1: False Positive

My finger poked at the spectrum of pharmaceutical beads collected in the palm of my hand. The collection of gaudy mood-altering pills instilled me with the usual sense of trepidation. Were these the same as yesterday? I was sure the green one looked new, and the pink ones seemed different somehow. More oval than before. I contemplated tossing them, hiding them in a convenient orifice until I could find a moment alone. The memory of the cold gurney, the leather straps, the hard-faced orderlies pinning me, crushing me. The prick of the needle. The days of hazy nothingness. All these things forced my hand to my mouth, as they had so many times before. The bland, chalky flavour filled me for a moment before being washed away by cool, chlorinated water.

From time to time the doctors told me they were trying a new medication, but the pills seemed to change far more often than that. At first I had refused, brought them to task on their deceptions, but I soon learned that this was a foolish course of action. Worse horrors than these mysterious little pills awaited behind that door.

These people had a plan for me. A destination in mind. That much I was certain of. No matter how I resisted, how I fought, they would find a way to corral me. I was hemmed in. A lab-rat running blindly through an intricate maze, no inkling of my purpose, no idea where they wanted me to be. Give up and be guided. That, I had come to accept, was the only option. The final solution.

It took me a while to reach that realisation. I suppose I was trained to fight that sort of thing, as a child. Be yourself, they would say. Don’t let other people tell you how to think. You are your own person. To an extent, I suppose, it was true. But what they didn’t do was explain the rules.

There are boundaries, invisible lines you cannot step outside. Which one I had crossed to get myself entangled in this place I could no longer remember, but I was sure it must have been an important one.

That seemed to be the point of all these pills, all these evaluations, all these strange people surrounding me. They were trying to teach me the rules. I knew they couldn’t just come right out and say it. That, I had realised, was one of the rules. Clues, that was all they could give me. Subtle hints, little sensations of significance. To give me any more would have been cheating, and could have endangered the whole plan. I had to figure it out myself. That was the only way I could really understand, the only escape route.

They told me that the pills themselves contained the answer, but I knew that couldn't be true. The pills just dulled my mind, ruined my focus. Perhaps it was something in the pattern of their colours, or the shapes. I kept a list of descriptions of the medication I was given, including sketches of the more unusual ones. The pattern was elusive. Sometimes I thought I could see something forming, some semblance of meaning beginning to emerge. Then they would throw in a new permutation, a previously unseen shape, or a new hue; and once more I would be lost, fumbling aimlessly, revising and revisiting.

The pills were only a part of this grand plan, that much I could see. The people around me, the other patients, were all there for their own reasons. They had all strayed across one of the lines, and were being herded back into position. At the same time, we had all been collected into one place to help each other. By looking at each other’s failings, we could better see how to avoid falling into those traps. It was all very, very clever.

I looked to my right, where a disheveled shell of a man sat. His bony fingers played an incessant beat on the underside of his plastic chair, and his head alternated between nodding and shaking in time to his staccato rhythm.

“Any new ones today Roger?” Although I was fairly sure Roger’s pill pattern wouldn’t be of any relevance to me, it seemed important to keep myself informed. You could never tell where the next clue would come from.

The man’s eyes snapped towards me, a wary suspicion borne of years of incarceration burning in the background.

Then, a flash of recognition.

“Nothing of interest today Sir,” he quipped, stiffening and tapping a crisp salute on his forehead.

Roger was a military man, born and bred. He had never managed to readjust to civilian life after returning from his final stint touring the bloodied battlefields of the world. Eventually this refusal to be assimilated had led him to find peace in the only place he could still control, his own mind. He lived out his days awaiting his return to the battlefield, sure that one day they would realise he was not supposed to be there and let him return to the war.

“What about your end, Sarge? Any news from the front? I heard the lads are getting ready for a big push.” Roger stared eagerly at me, his glistening eyes begging me to supply a piece of his puzzle. I had nothing for him, and provided my usual evasive, non-committal answer.

In Roger’s altered reality I had taken on the role of his immediate superior. Occasionally he would forfeit his usual “Sir” for “Sarge”, generally during his more conspiratorial moments. Roger had quickly realised that I was a low-level lackey, yet had for some reason decided I ranked higher than himself. Perhaps I portrayed some level of confidence that I did not feel, or I reminded him of an officer from his younger days. Or perhaps I was simply a good fit for this area of his delusion, filling a space he needed to occupy to remain at least partially functional.

Roger’s tendency to try to force answers out of me confused me somewhat. He had been there far longer than I, yet seemed to have made very little progress. It had become apparent to me within a few weeks of arriving that the pattern could not be forced. Answers came when they wished, emerging without warning from the environment. Often at the most inopportune moments, right as I was in an evaluation, or during bath time. I had lost many vital clues while entrapped by the routine rigours of this place, but I assumed that was a part of the plan. Whether I was supposed to find ways to inscribe these errant clues regardless of my situation at the time; or whether these were red-herrings, designed to throw me off the track, I had not deduced.

It was odd, the way it worked. You would see something, or overhear a snippet of conversation. It would seem completely ordinary, like any other word, or other picture. But you would know. A feeling would rise in your gut, a rushing insistence. That was how you spotted the clues. Sometimes they would fit right away, completing a part of the puzzle you had been working on already. Other times it would be a piece out alone, with nothing to tie it to, no hint as to its rightful place.

Those little wayward pieces worried me, at times. Some would find a fit later, meshing into some freshly-pupated butterfly of inspiration. Others would sit motionless, sparkling like jewels fallen from an unseen necklace, taunting me with my ignorance. At times I wondered if perhaps I had intercepted a message meant for another, the vital key to their puzzle, and they held mine. I fantasised about a chance meeting, a slip of the tongue that would betray us to each other and set us free. I had tried to aid those who aided me, throwing the lost pieces I had in their direction, but none ever showed any sign of comprehension. Whether they were simply very adept at concealing their knowledge, or if this pretense was one of the rules I had yet to understand I did not know.

“Sarge, Sarge!” Roger's rattling voice was preceded by a hacking cough. “When do you think these bloody Nazis will let us get back to business? They can use every man they've got out there.” Roger's resentment of the doctors was the first vital clue I got from him. To feel anger towards them only served to wear you down. You had to just relax and be carried in order to keep your goal in sight.

“I'm not sure Roger. When I figure out the answer you'll the first to to know.”

“I don't understand these people. They talk utter nonsense, surround us with idiots and feed us these bloody pills. Its like they're trying to break our will. It's almost like,” Roger's tone quietened to a whisper, “do you think think this could be a deep cover training exercise, Sarge?” Roger eyed me, hopefully.

“I think you may not be far from the truth there.” I replied, knowing that to give him my full version of events would be fruitless. Everyone had their own perspective, their own pattern to follow in that place. All you could do was try to fit into their world, and hope they offered some useful piece of information in return.

Roger scratched his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. It seemed he had found something important, although any significance was lost on me.

“What do you think we should do then, Sir?”

“Well, Roger, I would suggest we remain vigilant, and keep an eye open for clues. Be sure to report anything of relevance back to me.”

Roger snapped a quick salute, rose shakily to his feet and made off, a new purpose in his stride.

I sat for a while, feeling the medication beginning to wash the world away. My eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, the drugs erasing my ability to focus. My glazed vision took in the sorry collection of tatty, yellowed furniture and withered people. The rockers, the shakers, the tappers. The mumblers, the moaners, the screamers. Some of the more focused made feeble moves on chess boards, or sat silently absorbed by the small flickering screen suspended just below ceiling level. Living personifications of twisted individuality, every one an island of internal consistency in a baffling world.

A dull tone cut through the stale air, signaling a new arrival. I fought to shift my vision to the large steel door and its wired-glass porthole, senses dulled and head heavy.

A crimson beacon sat resolute beside the door, holding back the mystery beyond. A ragged face emerged behind the thick glass of the window, concealed behind a shock of rust brown hair. I felt the familiar sensation rising from my stomach. This was going to be important. The red light shifted to green, and as the door swung aside the bearded face was joined by remainder of its wiry figure. Two wardens flanked him, disinterested but casually alert.

The bearded man strode through the room with a confidence that didn't fit with the surroundings. There was an unnatural purpose to every facet of him, his stride, the steely grey eyes behind hooded, dark eyelids, the proud posture framing a weary form. The sensation grew stronger as he passed, insistently nudging me along my path. I was too hazy to act, but I knew this man would provide something vital. I filed my hopes away for another day, and watched the new man and his entourage move away.

That was my first glimpse of Oswald Moore. The man with the answers, the light at the end of the tunnel. A sheep in wolf's clothing. The man who would tear it all down.