Wednesday, March 20, 2002
In the Beginning...
She slowly opens the door. The room is dark, uninviting, and her small figure fills the shadow of the doorway. She gropes for the lightswitch...and can't seem to find it. But then she does. The light goes on and the simple and relatively ordinary objects in the room appear: a round wooden gate-leg table, a bookshelf with books and pictures and trinkets, a chair. This, they tell her, is her room. She must make do with what she has. She frowns, of course, because the room in her mind was better somehow...much more decoration perhaps, or the walls a different color than the austere white. She sighs; when does she get the good things, the nice things, the beautiful things? She does not know. They did promise those, but in good time. She wonders exactly how much time she has to wait...
They didn't say. They never do, she thinks. They never tell you how long you have to wait, how many days, weeks, years. The never tell you anything, that might build up hope. If they gave you a time limit, well, they would purposely fail to deliver, just for the satisfaction of watching your hope shatter into a thousand hopeless pieces. This is a test, she knows, because she has it figured out. She smirks then. The room isn't so bad after all; she is stubborn enough to figure out the games and the tests and stubborn enough to play them back threefold. She will be happy, she is determined to be that way. She will fool them; she will find out what makes them tick and use that against them, just like they think that they're going to do that to her. It's not the winning, it's the utter amusement and surprise of the enemy. Winning is easy; tourture is difficult. She smiles at that last thought. Ah, yes, tourture....
"Hey!"
She turns to the voice. Just another person. It was no one she recognized saying hello to another unknown person. She takes a sip of coffee and continues to write in her journal....
She slowly opens the door. The room is dark, uninviting, and her small figure fills the shadow of the doorway. She gropes for the lightswitch...and can't seem to find it. But then she does. The light goes on and the simple and relatively ordinary objects in the room appear: a round wooden gate-leg table, a bookshelf with books and pictures and trinkets, a chair. This, they tell her, is her room. She must make do with what she has. She frowns, of course, because the room in her mind was better somehow...much more decoration perhaps, or the walls a different color than the austere white. She sighs; when does she get the good things, the nice things, the beautiful things? She does not know. They did promise those, but in good time. She wonders exactly how much time she has to wait...
They didn't say. They never do, she thinks. They never tell you how long you have to wait, how many days, weeks, years. The never tell you anything, that might build up hope. If they gave you a time limit, well, they would purposely fail to deliver, just for the satisfaction of watching your hope shatter into a thousand hopeless pieces. This is a test, she knows, because she has it figured out. She smirks then. The room isn't so bad after all; she is stubborn enough to figure out the games and the tests and stubborn enough to play them back threefold. She will be happy, she is determined to be that way. She will fool them; she will find out what makes them tick and use that against them, just like they think that they're going to do that to her. It's not the winning, it's the utter amusement and surprise of the enemy. Winning is easy; tourture is difficult. She smiles at that last thought. Ah, yes, tourture....
"Hey!"
She turns to the voice. Just another person. It was no one she recognized saying hello to another unknown person. She takes a sip of coffee and continues to write in her journal....
