various small rooms, where I see dark forms sleeping on blankets and mattresses and mats. Everywhere, I’m stepping over paint brushes, pencils, paper, guitars, flutes, drums, clay-shaped everything you could imagine, and some things you probably couldn’t.
During the day, these sleeping Gardeners are singing and dancing and drawing and painting and writing.
Every once in a while, I see them huddled together with serious faces, plotting. What, I don’t know.
But most of the time, they play. And they’re not ashamed.
Not like me. I’ve always felt guilty taking part in culture. Watching television. Listening to music. Even reading books, I only let myself enjoy it so much because it’s part of my job description. Because I’m dissecting the words. Because a story alone is worthless.
I only deserve to enjoy art because I work so hard. And yet, these people, they act as if these forms of expression are what it means to be a human. They act as if these things don’t need to be justified.
And maybe, just maybe, they’re not acting.
I head out of a large opening from the garden area, and travel a winding path that gets smaller and smaller, until there’s only a foot of space between me and that which encircles me. Finally, I reach what looks like the entrance of a bank vault. I press a big red button, and the exit opens, and I step out, and I close the door behind me.
With heaven, it’s a lot easier to leave than it is to get there.
I’m back in the forest, without my backpack, without the tubes, in complete control of my body, and I’m already lost.
Before taking a step, I consider turning around and knocking my way back to safety.
So this is him.
The weak little shit I really am.
And then I hear a scream. A female scream. The noise draws me forward into the wild. Maybe I want to make up for the imaginary Krow I left to die. Maybe I’m just afraid to be alone out here.
Whatever the reason, I find the girl, a teenager, and she’s caught in a bear trap, her hands clamped on the metal jaws, unable to pry them open.
Without thinking, I’m there, kneeling, playing the hero I know I’m not.
The first thing I notice is that there isn’t any blood.
The second thing, her ankle’s made of wood.
Third, the wood’s riddled with holes.
Even where the jaws didn’t bite her.
A hard something hits the back of my head, and I don’t have time to notice anything else.
The walls flap. My wrists burn and my feet don’t touch the floor. I’m hanging from my tied hands, my back against a tilted sheet of wood. The man in front of me is dressed in camouflage, but he’s all I can see now. Him and his long dark hair, almost down to his waist. Him and his gun.
“I took the liberty of searching your wallet,” he says. “It’s only fair that you learn my name as well. I’m Sergeant Weis. This is the Torture Room. But don’t let the name fool you. This is a tent, not a room.”
My body writhes, but it’s a fruitless effort. My hands aren’t the only part of me tied down. “Let me go.”
“The use of torture has been justified in countless ways,” he says. “They say, we must torture the criminal in order to discourage others from committing crimes. But crime has never and will never be prevented in this way. They say, we must torture the accused so that they’ll confess their crimes. But anyone would confess to anything under those circumstances. The sick truth is, torture exists because there are those of us who enjoy causing people pain. Fortunately, I’m not one of those people. My childhood was quite peaceful, and every time I’m forced to torture someone, I feel bad about it. The day I stop feeling bad about it, I’ll take my own life.” He punches me in the face.
“Stop!” I say.
“Scream,” he says. “The louder you scream, the softer the subsequent blow will be.”
Mom, dad, I’ll save you from the details of the next few minutes.
After those minutes, he says, “Let’s get
During the day, these sleeping Gardeners are singing and dancing and drawing and painting and writing.
Every once in a while, I see them huddled together with serious faces, plotting. What, I don’t know.
But most of the time, they play. And they’re not ashamed.
Not like me. I’ve always felt guilty taking part in culture. Watching television. Listening to music. Even reading books, I only let myself enjoy it so much because it’s part of my job description. Because I’m dissecting the words. Because a story alone is worthless.
I only deserve to enjoy art because I work so hard. And yet, these people, they act as if these forms of expression are what it means to be a human. They act as if these things don’t need to be justified.
And maybe, just maybe, they’re not acting.
I head out of a large opening from the garden area, and travel a winding path that gets smaller and smaller, until there’s only a foot of space between me and that which encircles me. Finally, I reach what looks like the entrance of a bank vault. I press a big red button, and the exit opens, and I step out, and I close the door behind me.
With heaven, it’s a lot easier to leave than it is to get there.
I’m back in the forest, without my backpack, without the tubes, in complete control of my body, and I’m already lost.
Before taking a step, I consider turning around and knocking my way back to safety.
So this is him.
The weak little shit I really am.
And then I hear a scream. A female scream. The noise draws me forward into the wild. Maybe I want to make up for the imaginary Krow I left to die. Maybe I’m just afraid to be alone out here.
Whatever the reason, I find the girl, a teenager, and she’s caught in a bear trap, her hands clamped on the metal jaws, unable to pry them open.
Without thinking, I’m there, kneeling, playing the hero I know I’m not.
The first thing I notice is that there isn’t any blood.
The second thing, her ankle’s made of wood.
Third, the wood’s riddled with holes.
Even where the jaws didn’t bite her.
A hard something hits the back of my head, and I don’t have time to notice anything else.
The walls flap. My wrists burn and my feet don’t touch the floor. I’m hanging from my tied hands, my back against a tilted sheet of wood. The man in front of me is dressed in camouflage, but he’s all I can see now. Him and his long dark hair, almost down to his waist. Him and his gun.
“I took the liberty of searching your wallet,” he says. “It’s only fair that you learn my name as well. I’m Sergeant Weis. This is the Torture Room. But don’t let the name fool you. This is a tent, not a room.”
My body writhes, but it’s a fruitless effort. My hands aren’t the only part of me tied down. “Let me go.”
“The use of torture has been justified in countless ways,” he says. “They say, we must torture the criminal in order to discourage others from committing crimes. But crime has never and will never be prevented in this way. They say, we must torture the accused so that they’ll confess their crimes. But anyone would confess to anything under those circumstances. The sick truth is, torture exists because there are those of us who enjoy causing people pain. Fortunately, I’m not one of those people. My childhood was quite peaceful, and every time I’m forced to torture someone, I feel bad about it. The day I stop feeling bad about it, I’ll take my own life.” He punches me in the face.
“Stop!” I say.
“Scream,” he says. “The louder you scream, the softer the subsequent blow will be.”
Mom, dad, I’ll save you from the details of the next few minutes.
After those minutes, he says, “Let’s get
Similar Books
