Mark's Pages

December 3, 2003:

Confinement.

Coffin-width. Clean white plastic, cold-looking, near against your nose. Thin fluorescent tubes, bright white, long as hands, a finger's length away. Rattle and hum while you hold stock-still, earplugs in both ears, heavy foam pads holding your neck in place. Try not to swallow.

Simple torture device: place the victim in a coffin-sized space and slowly remove the air. Short wait for them to beg.

"This first one will last one and a half minutes."

Eyes closed. Deep breaths, regular. As the jackhammer sounds rise in pitch your breathing becomes unsteady. Unexpected sensation of warmth on exposed skin; rising anxiety.

Childhood nightmare: enveloped by spider web, cold and white. Unable to move. Shout: no-one can hear.

Flight instinct.

"How was that? Not too bad?"

Long pause while you battle your fears. "A little claustrophobic. Can I come out for a minute?"

Deep breaths. The staff are patient: you're likely not the worst. Ready, OK. Now with a washcloth over both eyes suggesting the illusion of darkness.

"Three and a half minutes, this time."

Machine sounds. Pulses with high and low harmonics at the octaves. Deep, low resonances, like the sound electricity would make if it were talking. Rapid bursts, then a sustained roar, straining, like a spaceship engine complaining as it gains escape velocity.

Your lover's face. Soft hair, golden. Comfort.

A beach in Australia. The Sydney harbor bridge, on a footpath along the waterside. The sound of surf.

"Good. These are excellent scans. Just two more. Four and a half minutes this time."

She went through this herself. Picture her in pain, injured, lying enclosed like this. Sadness, empathy, concern.

Memory: her face bound in thick bandages, middle of night in the E.R., both corneas scratched by hard contact lenses. Affection, and compassion.

"Good. Last one. Five minutes."

Blue-gray eyes. Softness. The sound of her voice.

Deep breaths.

People can adapt to anything.

Earplugs into the wastebasket. Shoes on. Pick up your keys and credit cards from the locker.

Sunshine, traffic, people. City sounds. Life doesn't care about individuals, only its own continuance. There's something comforting in that.