5. Lessons begin

Marcus

The remote still in my left hand, I now have a small transparent plastic bottle of water in my right. You don't know that, but it's been over ten hours now since you last drank, and the thirst, despite the enemas kind of hydrating you, should be getting pretty serious now.

"So, what are the three basic rules of your life now? We'll call it your mantra. When I tell you to give me your mantra, or to repeat your mantra, those will be the words you say," I explain calmly. I nod at you, ready to listen as I unscrew the lid of the bottle. It's unlabeled and has not been sealed, so it's likely a refill, tap water, most likely. It's also only 330 mils, the size of a small Coke can.

I notice that you were crying, or perhaps I knew all along; there's certainly no surprise or any significant acknowledgement of it in my expression, and I watch you, quietly waiting for a response.

Laura

I still am seated on the floor, on my bottom, clutching my knees -- very tight now, as I look up at you. My eyes flit to the bottle. I am thirsty, and I had noticed it, but somehow the presence of the bottle makes it more intense. I really feel it, the dryness in my throat, the craving in my tummy. ("Man-ra, those three things are called a man-ra," I think to myself. "But what are they? I can't remember them!") I look up at you, my face worried. You can tell I want to get the man-ra right. All three man-ras. You can read it in my face.

I don't even notice the remote in your left hand. I don't know how you made my jaw hurt before. At this point, scared, disoriented, and only 11, I believe in magic. The magic of pain in places it can't be. I watch as you unscrew the lid, staring thirstily. I look up at you, hesitating. My voice, when I speak, is soft, scared, warbling, and nervous. "Is it . . . I'm th-the only one h-here? And . . . this is the only p-place? And you're . . . (I look so nervous and scared) you're the only other person here?" I ask, stammering, looking very frightened. I've never felt so scared. Something about your bearing, your size, your expression -- terrifies me.

Marcus

I listen intently but even as you start, well before you stammer through your attempt, you can see me frowning and at the end, I shake my head. "Not correct," I say, not sounding angry at all, just a little . . . disappointed perhaps. "That's bad. There will be no water. No food. No light until you give me the mantra right," I say, looking at you almost with pity. I look at you, as if pondering something. "How about this. I'll teach you the mantra. I'll teach you well. But the price will be your clothes. Not just taking them off -- for your mantra to count, you have to be undressed anyway -- but for teaching you the mantra, I want you to give me your clothes. Meaning I'll walk away with them, and you'll never see them, ever again," I explain.

I toy with the bottle of water, knowing full well how badly you want it. There's one difference about me. One you may have, or may have not, noticed. Same loose pants. Same t-shirt. Same dark hair, same blue eyes. But before, I wore shiny leather shoes. Now I'm barefoot.

Laura

As you speak I look up from my position on the floor -- so tiny, clutching my knees, making myself as small as possible. I am shivering, visibly shaking as you speak. I got the man-ra wrong. I can tell as you frown, and it's definite when you shake your head. ("It's mantra, Laura -- he said it with a T in it. There, he just said it again. See? It's manTra for all three things.") I look dejected as you mention there will be no water, food, or light for me. I keep listening as you make your offer. I’ll need to hear the mantra again to be able to repeat it, but the clothes thing bothers me. Being naked. In front of you. That’s bad enough. But giving you my clothes forever? I can't. I just can't. I won't have anything to wear when I leave.

Scared, terrified at your reaction, I nevertheless shake my head no -- three quick little head shakes. I can't give you my clothes. I hope you'll understand. I look at the bottle, and my throat feels dry. I notice, absently, that you are barefoot now. But I don't care. I feel miserable. Scared, lonely, thirsty, and miserable.

Marcus

I smile. Perhaps understanding. Perhaps just not caring. I turn and leave, taking the water with me. The door "magically" slides open. Slides closed. Lights go out. When I'm in the cell the walls, ceiling, and floor glow slightly -- that's the source of the warm soft light. That's the way this cell works. When I leave, lights go out. Temperature drops, not dangerously or unhealthily, but not pleasantly.

And there is, once more, silence. Once more, darkness. And this time also acute, awful thirst. Enough to make your throat ache. In fact, this time, likely, you notice the temperature rising minutes before I come, so once I step back in, another hour later, the room is nice and cozy again, and lights up softly as I enter, still barefoot. Still with the bottle in my hand. The unseen little remote in the other.

"Give me your mantra," I say firmly, insistently, but with soft eyes, as if I really wanted you to get it right this time right.

Laura

I don't really notice the temperature drop -- not consciously, anyway. Not with awareness. I notice it physically -- my shaking is worse, my shivering more profound. As you leave me in the darkness, the deafening solitude, I begin to cry again, heaving little 11-year-old sobs. I cry and cry -- my tears dehydrating me even more. I groan as I shift on my bottom -- my butt cheeks numb, as I lie back on the smooth, strange floor.

I roll over on my tummy -- shivering, my eyes wet with tears in the pitch blackness. I try to remember the mantra. There were three things. What were they? I try desperately to remember. But you said them so long ago. I remember one for sure: "This is the only place." I remember that because it seemed so strange. Of course this isn't the only place. What could the man mean? "This is the only place," I repeat to myself, pondering the idea.

I shiver in the darkness, again not consciously noticing the gradually increasing temperature. And then, the lights suddenly come up. I sit up, nervous, as if I should not have been lying down in the first place. I sit again quickly in my knees-to-chest position. You enter the cell. I stare up at you apprehensively. I notice the bottle. You are barefoot. My throat feels so dry.

I open my mouth to give the mantra, and my voice is hoarse. "Th-there is no place b-but here. I am th-the only one h-here. And . . . (I look nervous, worried) and . . . ( I swallow drily) . . . I d-don't remember the last one?" I say, meekly, my voice rising at the end, as if asking a question.

Marcus

"Not correct. Unfortunately. You already know that there will be no water nor food or light until you give me the mantra properly," I say sadly, as if it was me who will be thirsty and hungry. "I can teach you the mantra. You know the price already. All of your clothes. Forever. Once you have given me the mantra, I'll give you a chance to drink some water. And we'll talk about food. You must be hungry, too," I say softly. Of course you are hungry, and hungrier even from having been flushed out so thoroughly. At least it means you haven't made a mess of this place you are so helplessly trapped in.

"We can go on, move on, get over this part. But I need to hear the mantra, first. And if you don't know it, you'll have to pay the price, and learn it," I explain patiently. It's easy to be patient when my world is up there, with TV, books, internet, a garden, food, and drinks, and a comfy household. It's a lot harder to be patient, or stubborn, for that matter, when all you have is six identical plastic walls, a tap, and a toilet made of cold, white ceramic, both locked and therefore useless.

Laura

I look very unhappy, very sad, as you confirm that I got the mantra wrong. ("It's so unfair!" I think to myself, as tears glimmer in my eyes yet again. "How am I 'sposed to say the mantra if you won't tell me what it is?" I lament to myself.) I look up at you, my expression manifesting my unhappiness, my anger growing at the unfairness of your demands. I look sullen, and pouty. I am hungry -- very, very hungry, the hunger gnawing at my tummy. And I'm thirsty. Super thirsty. I eye the bottle in your hand covetously.

I want to ask you why, why, why are you doing this to me? It's so unfair -- and at 11, like most children, "fairness" is a huge imperative and moral entitlement to me. Everything must be fair. And this isn't. It isn't fair at all. It is patently, objectively, and obviously unfair. I stare at you, sullen and angry. Your calm, patient, almost friendly demeanor makes me even more angry. I look away from you, turning my head dismissively. I'm not saying the mantras. And I'm not giving you my clothes. And that's final.

Marcus

This time, before I leave, I don't smile. I leave at quite a sharp pace, clearly displeased. The door slides closed. Light goes out. Temperature drops and this time, you'd have to be dumb not to notice the difference. It drops significantly, going from the temperature of a very warm room to that of an autumn day. There's also darkness, of course. That old, familiar, impenetrable darkness. And do I have to mention the silence? There's lots of that. Lots and lots.

Trouble is, even though time is hard to measure, hard to guess, this time I'm not back after the same amount of time. A strange thing happens; at around the time when you would perhaps expect me, an agonizing tooth ache shoots through your mouth. Briefly, but it's worse for the hunger and thirst and chill and all that. After another hour, or whatever the endless time unit of waiting for me is, there's another brief zap, another jolt of sudden, awful pain. And then, later, an hour or so later, one more.

It isn't till yet another hour later that I walk into the space. Same bottle of water. Same clothes. Same bare feet. All of it. The same. Your resistance makes your situation worse, as time passes. Clearly, nothing changes about me and what I come back with. I look at you. Not bothering to repeat what we both know I came for. There's a certain tentativeness to my presence, a feeling that I could leave again, at any moment, and who knows how long it would take me to come back if I do?

Laura

Tears spring to my eyes as I follow your massive form out the door, and the light fades to blackness. I sob for a couple of minutes, feeling terribly sorry for myself at the injustice. And then slowly, cautiously, I assume a hands-and-knees position, and tentatively begin crawling toward where the sink was, no longer visible now in the dark, feeling with my right hand. My progress is slow. I find the sink, and slowly stand, disoriented in the darkness. My thirst gnaws at me. I fumble for the faucet, for the spigot. I find it. I activate it -- or, I try to. Nothing happens. No water gushes. I jiggle it. I pull at it. I strain to see, but I can't. I begin to cry again. Soft, sniffling little sobs of a very unhappy little girl who has had a very long, very hard day.

I gather my arms around me as the room seems colder. Not seems. Is colder. I am small, and slight of build. The cold goes right through me. I follow along the wall, tracing slowly, searching for seams, for a door. I reach one corner. Then another. I can't see a thing. I can't hear a thing. And then -- the first excruciating twinge flairs in my molars, taking me to my knees, clenching my mouth shut. I moan in pain, clutching at my jaw with both hands, eyes watering reflexively. When it is over I work my jaw,sobbing and shivering. I am very, very uncomfortable. And very, very, very unhappy...

I recover after a few minutes, and my crying stops, I resume tracing the wall. I find the toilet -- I am so desperate for water, my thirst so acute -- I debate what I am about to do, and then lift the lid. Or try to. It won't lift. I tug at it. It won't budge. This brings me to tears again. I retreat to the corner, sitting there, back against it, sobbing, so sad.

I squeal at the second flair of pain in my molars. And again at the third. You find me, seated there, crying, exhausted, looking very bedraggled and sad, when you return.