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- 15
- Years
- Seen today
Hi all, I didn't end up posting this last year but I've been encouraged to post it this year.
Spoiler:
"N-Name?"
"Ryan Harrison."
"D-d-date of birth?"
"April 4th, 1996."
"Mm'kay. N-now please s-s-s-sign h-here."
Ryan slowed down to consider what he was getting himself into as he extended his hand to grab the paper which detailed the terms and conditions. He was a timid yet perceptive individual and he needed to assess his current situation before making a decision. The interviewer, an almost expressionless middle-aged woman, seemed almost too eager for him for sign the contract. For a brief moment, her stuttering Brooklyn accent showed a hint of glee and urgency as she muttered those last words. But those thoughts faded from Ryan's mind, as he examined what he was truly getting himself into.
The contract was quite odd; there was no mention of a ninety-day probation period, the dress code, nor of some certain set of gibberish to protect the company in case of rare occurrences and catastrophes. Instead, a few number of "rules" were written in bold, black font:
1. You must stay on-site at the facility until further notice. A room will be provided for you and a cafeteria will be available for you to use.
2. You must perform 6 hours of standardized testing per day, including weekends. This will last for thirty days, after which your employment will be terminated.
3. You must follow all additional instructions that are sent to you. These instructions will be in the form of letters which will arrive under your door at 7am of any given morning.
4. You will receive $100,000 USD per day. A new bank account will be opened for you on the day of your departure containing the funds.
The last "rule" was what Ryan came here for. It was what was on the advertisement. Those three million dollars would help him pay off his student loans, his ailing mother's hospital bills, and set him up for a well-off life. Oh, how he yearned for him and his mother to finally break free from the life of poverty that they had been forced to live. Life had been unfair to him, but now he could finally catch a break; all of the jobs he had been rejected from, all the racism and prejudice he endured – it would all be worth it now, in a way.
After considering the other requirements of the contract, Ryan reached for the crimson pen that had been provided for him to sign. Thirty days was quite a short amount of time, even if it meant that he was to stay at this facility for the entire duration. Now that he thought about it, the building was actually quite tidy and modern inside, contrasting with its depressing and dilapidated outside. Quite a contrast, indeed.
The six-hours-per-day testing was of little concern to him; he was quite capable both mentally and physically and he was not worried at all about his ability to perform on either metric. He also wondered what kind of additional instructions he could be made to follow. Perhaps more hours of testing? Or some other tasks that he had to perform? Whatever it was, he was sure that it would not be anything unethical.
As he etched in his name on the contract, he could feel like he heard smiles in different directions around him. Wasn't this a good decision? Then why did he feel uneasy?
So perfectly timed that it seemed mechanical, two men opened the glass doors behind the interviewer. The men were tall and well-built, wearing identical suits, identical shades, and identical earpieces – almost like how secret service agents were portrayed on television.
"Please come with me, Mr. Harrison," said one of them, robotically. "I will show you to your room."
Before Ryan could even get up, the man grabbed his arm and started dragging him toward the door. Ryan stumbled initially but eventually caught his footing and paced toward the door as well. They walked down a long hallway for what felt like half an eternity until they finally arrived at a door. Before going inside, a scream was sounded in the direction of the hallway that they were just in. Ryan looked at the man with a disturbed look in his face, though he might as well have been looking at a wall.
After the man left and Ryan had entered his room, he pondered the situation he had just gotten himself into. Among other things, he felt scared and confused. Even though he was getting paid to be here, it felt like a prison. The scream wasn't particularly calming either; though it was from far away, Ryan could hear the pain in the high-pitched voice. At this point, he was only calmed by the promise of money, the hope of leaving in thirty days, and the strange yet calming quietness of his new room.
The room looked and smelled quaint; there was a large bed in the corner, some couches in the middle of the room, a study desk in another corner, a chair, and a clock on the wall to tell time. The walls were drywood, contrasting with the glass that was present in the interview room and the hallway he had just walked down. All outside sound seemed to have been drowned out the moment he stepped inside, giving him peace and respite.
On the desk were stacks of blank paper and some writing utensils. There were two doors on the opposite side of the bed. One door led to the bathroom, which contained a jacuzzi of all things, along with the standard bathroom apparatus as well as a laundry machine. The other door was a sliding door for a closet that contained changes of clothes for him. The shirts and pants in the closet came in a variety of sizes, but he found a few that fit him. Feeling tired and oddly comfortable, he decided to call it a night.
Ryan woke up the next morning to find a letter that was slipped under his door. Opening it contained the following message:
5. You must not speak to anyone else in the facility. Doing so will result in punishment.
As he read the strange message, he began to panic again. Ryan's mind quickly raced back to the comforting thoughts about the money that would be waiting for him once he left this wretched place. Determined to help himself ease his mind, he started to keep track of the number of days elapsed since his arrival.
Feeling hungry, Ryan stepped outside his room and made his way toward the smell of food. As he was walking, he noticed that the hallway he had walked on the day prior was blocked off. After arriving in the cafeteria, he noticed many other people sitting down and eating, most of them sharing the same complexion as himself. No one was talking to each other and most wore blank expressions on their face. Trying to lighten up the sombre attitude, Ryan smiled and waved toward some of the people that were walking into the cafeteria at the time, but to no response. No one even looked at him, perhaps out of fear – but fear of what? Though he was slightly startled, he picked up his food and sat down by himself to eat. Ryan made his way toward the examination rooms shortly after, as did all the other people in the cafeteria.
---
The testing was easy for the most part for Ryan. It was basic high school knowledge, as well as some physical exercises such as standing long jumps and push-ups. He figured that this new job, if you could call it that, was some sort of government experiment. Though it paid a bit too much and the restrictions – even just the air – it didn't feel normal. It didn't feel right.
---
Day eighteen. Ryan did his usual morning routine of ticking a line on his "day tracker" paper, showering, brushing his teeth, and going to the cafeteria. A week prior, someone new came to the facility and they had been communicating non-verbally with Ryan during breakfast in the form of waving and smiling. This form of communication was enough to keep Ryan's need for human interaction satisfied. After all, he was an introvert.
Ryan had also been paying attention to the other people that he saw in the cafeteria. Over these two weeks, he noticed more and more people starting to wear blank expressions – the very same people who were full of emotion in the weeks prior.
"I can't take it anymore! Let me out of here!" A man yelled.
Almost immediately, two "secret service agent" people entered and dragged the man away. Another set of suited men came in as well and dragged someone else away. It was someone whose jaw had dropped in awe of the first man who had vented his desperation. A few minutes later, two screams could be heard far down the hall.
Ryan was surprised but he was trying to keep himself from expressing any emotion, something that he found that he had to learn to do in the days to follow. The man who initially screamed was fairly expressive and jovial in the prior days with no issue; what had caused him to so suddenly break the rules?
Though no one else in the cafeteria showed any emotion, the air was tense enough for anyone to feel what any other person was thinking. All they could do was continue on with their daily routine. For Ryan himself, he thought less about the questions involving the word "why" and focused more on how much time he still had to spend in this damned facility.
---
Day thirty-one.
Dread.
Exhaustion.
Frustration.
All of these words described what Ryan had been feeling for the past day, yet he could not express any of it. Just a day ago, Ryan had received a letter:
6. Rule 2 is now null. Your stay is permanent until your test results meet the required metrics, after which you must pass an interview. You will not receive payment beyond this point in time. Attempts to escape are prohibited and will result in punishment.
Furthermore, you are not allowed to express emotion of any sort. Failure to comply will result in punishment.
Just what had he gotten himself into? His current situation was akin to something out of a make-belief story or some sort of conspiracy theory. Ryan's mind jumped to the Stanford Prison Experiment that he had read about before. Perhaps his fate was similar to the "convicts" and his life had truly become a living hell.
What was the purpose of all of this testing that he was doing? Perhaps it was some gross psychological study to study humans under extreme duress. Or maybe it was a governmental method to get rid of low-income dreamers in order to free up welfare money? Anything, even a ridiculous psychopathic person with a lot of influence, was possible given how impossible his situation seemed already. He had wanted to vomit, but something inside him helped him keep calm.
Through a whole day's worth of contemplating his entire existence and digesting the truth about his current situation, Ryan had now come to understand the full workings of this facility. If everyone had undergone the same treatment as he did, then the behaviour of everyone in the cafeteria made sense. Many people had no expression because they were not allowed to. They avoided eye contact because they wanted to avoid any possibility of reacting to another person's actions. Few people were able to express themselves because they, like himself, had not passed the thirty-day mark yet.
However, not all was hopeless. Ryan thought back to the interviewer that he had met on the first day. She was probably someone who was in his exact situation as well; she had met whatever predetermined metrics were set for her and continued to the "interview" stage. Unfortunately for her, she got ahead of herself and slipped up before he could sign his life away.
Managing to convince himself of some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, Ryan lugged his heavy body out the door toward the cafeteria. This tormenting pain and mental duress would reside with him for many, many days to come. Yet he was determined, as if fueled by his frustration and the hopelessness of the situation.
---
Day sixteen-thousand four-hundred eighty-nine. The scraggly, bearded man picked up a letter under his door. This was the first time he had received a letter since a long, long time ago.
7. Come to the interview room. If you pass, your stay at the facility will be terminated. Failure to do so will result in punishment.
Emotion and rationality were near removed from the man's mind; he was now a husk of his former self. The three million dollars promised to him at the beginning of his stay had been long forgotten; his soul was solely focused on breaking free from the invisible chains that had bound him. He expressionlessly carried himself outside his room, where he was then escorted by two suited men toward the interview room.
As he arrived, he saw a young woman, bright and cheery; she looked not a day over twenty and had the aura of someone who had their entire future ahead of themself. The sight of her brought back memories, both sweet and bitter, from long ago.
He remembered his childhood, how he used to play at the playground. Oh, how his mother pushed him as he swung back and forth on the swing set.
He remembered his romance, the first time a woman smiled at him and told him that she loved him.
He remembered his divorce, the turning to alcohol, the addiction, the bankruptcy, and the frustration. His desperation led him here, where he took his first step into hell on earth.
But when he looked back at the girl sitting in front of him, he remembered hope. There was still hope for him! Hope of getting out, hope of reuniting with his loved ones, hope of… Hope of what? And at what cost? Would he steal this person's entire future for his own uncertain remaining time? He was already nearing fifty – what could even be waiting for him outside? Did he truly have any hope? As these thoughts circled around in his brain, he decided to take a leap forward.
"Get-ge-get-get out!" This was the first time he had spoken in nearly ten years. "Yo-you d-d-don't know w-what you're get-getting y-you-yourself into!"
---
"How disappointing," the Director said, looking down at the scene from his office with apathy. "Carl Jamison showed promise. He slipped up at the last moment."
"Only few pass the test, after all," said the Director's aide, who was standing next to him. "After all, there aren't that many positions in this branch of the CIA."
"Why yes, you're absolutely correct. It should not be that easy," the Director replied. "Now fire up the incinerator. That's one more body than we were expecting," he said emotionlessly, something he had been an expert at for what seemed like forever.
"Of course, Mr. Harrison."
"Ryan Harrison."
"D-d-date of birth?"
"April 4th, 1996."
"Mm'kay. N-now please s-s-s-sign h-here."
Ryan slowed down to consider what he was getting himself into as he extended his hand to grab the paper which detailed the terms and conditions. He was a timid yet perceptive individual and he needed to assess his current situation before making a decision. The interviewer, an almost expressionless middle-aged woman, seemed almost too eager for him for sign the contract. For a brief moment, her stuttering Brooklyn accent showed a hint of glee and urgency as she muttered those last words. But those thoughts faded from Ryan's mind, as he examined what he was truly getting himself into.
The contract was quite odd; there was no mention of a ninety-day probation period, the dress code, nor of some certain set of gibberish to protect the company in case of rare occurrences and catastrophes. Instead, a few number of "rules" were written in bold, black font:
1. You must stay on-site at the facility until further notice. A room will be provided for you and a cafeteria will be available for you to use.
2. You must perform 6 hours of standardized testing per day, including weekends. This will last for thirty days, after which your employment will be terminated.
3. You must follow all additional instructions that are sent to you. These instructions will be in the form of letters which will arrive under your door at 7am of any given morning.
4. You will receive $100,000 USD per day. A new bank account will be opened for you on the day of your departure containing the funds.
The last "rule" was what Ryan came here for. It was what was on the advertisement. Those three million dollars would help him pay off his student loans, his ailing mother's hospital bills, and set him up for a well-off life. Oh, how he yearned for him and his mother to finally break free from the life of poverty that they had been forced to live. Life had been unfair to him, but now he could finally catch a break; all of the jobs he had been rejected from, all the racism and prejudice he endured – it would all be worth it now, in a way.
After considering the other requirements of the contract, Ryan reached for the crimson pen that had been provided for him to sign. Thirty days was quite a short amount of time, even if it meant that he was to stay at this facility for the entire duration. Now that he thought about it, the building was actually quite tidy and modern inside, contrasting with its depressing and dilapidated outside. Quite a contrast, indeed.
The six-hours-per-day testing was of little concern to him; he was quite capable both mentally and physically and he was not worried at all about his ability to perform on either metric. He also wondered what kind of additional instructions he could be made to follow. Perhaps more hours of testing? Or some other tasks that he had to perform? Whatever it was, he was sure that it would not be anything unethical.
As he etched in his name on the contract, he could feel like he heard smiles in different directions around him. Wasn't this a good decision? Then why did he feel uneasy?
So perfectly timed that it seemed mechanical, two men opened the glass doors behind the interviewer. The men were tall and well-built, wearing identical suits, identical shades, and identical earpieces – almost like how secret service agents were portrayed on television.
"Please come with me, Mr. Harrison," said one of them, robotically. "I will show you to your room."
Before Ryan could even get up, the man grabbed his arm and started dragging him toward the door. Ryan stumbled initially but eventually caught his footing and paced toward the door as well. They walked down a long hallway for what felt like half an eternity until they finally arrived at a door. Before going inside, a scream was sounded in the direction of the hallway that they were just in. Ryan looked at the man with a disturbed look in his face, though he might as well have been looking at a wall.
After the man left and Ryan had entered his room, he pondered the situation he had just gotten himself into. Among other things, he felt scared and confused. Even though he was getting paid to be here, it felt like a prison. The scream wasn't particularly calming either; though it was from far away, Ryan could hear the pain in the high-pitched voice. At this point, he was only calmed by the promise of money, the hope of leaving in thirty days, and the strange yet calming quietness of his new room.
The room looked and smelled quaint; there was a large bed in the corner, some couches in the middle of the room, a study desk in another corner, a chair, and a clock on the wall to tell time. The walls were drywood, contrasting with the glass that was present in the interview room and the hallway he had just walked down. All outside sound seemed to have been drowned out the moment he stepped inside, giving him peace and respite.
On the desk were stacks of blank paper and some writing utensils. There were two doors on the opposite side of the bed. One door led to the bathroom, which contained a jacuzzi of all things, along with the standard bathroom apparatus as well as a laundry machine. The other door was a sliding door for a closet that contained changes of clothes for him. The shirts and pants in the closet came in a variety of sizes, but he found a few that fit him. Feeling tired and oddly comfortable, he decided to call it a night.
Ryan woke up the next morning to find a letter that was slipped under his door. Opening it contained the following message:
5. You must not speak to anyone else in the facility. Doing so will result in punishment.
As he read the strange message, he began to panic again. Ryan's mind quickly raced back to the comforting thoughts about the money that would be waiting for him once he left this wretched place. Determined to help himself ease his mind, he started to keep track of the number of days elapsed since his arrival.
Feeling hungry, Ryan stepped outside his room and made his way toward the smell of food. As he was walking, he noticed that the hallway he had walked on the day prior was blocked off. After arriving in the cafeteria, he noticed many other people sitting down and eating, most of them sharing the same complexion as himself. No one was talking to each other and most wore blank expressions on their face. Trying to lighten up the sombre attitude, Ryan smiled and waved toward some of the people that were walking into the cafeteria at the time, but to no response. No one even looked at him, perhaps out of fear – but fear of what? Though he was slightly startled, he picked up his food and sat down by himself to eat. Ryan made his way toward the examination rooms shortly after, as did all the other people in the cafeteria.
---
The testing was easy for the most part for Ryan. It was basic high school knowledge, as well as some physical exercises such as standing long jumps and push-ups. He figured that this new job, if you could call it that, was some sort of government experiment. Though it paid a bit too much and the restrictions – even just the air – it didn't feel normal. It didn't feel right.
---
Day eighteen. Ryan did his usual morning routine of ticking a line on his "day tracker" paper, showering, brushing his teeth, and going to the cafeteria. A week prior, someone new came to the facility and they had been communicating non-verbally with Ryan during breakfast in the form of waving and smiling. This form of communication was enough to keep Ryan's need for human interaction satisfied. After all, he was an introvert.
Ryan had also been paying attention to the other people that he saw in the cafeteria. Over these two weeks, he noticed more and more people starting to wear blank expressions – the very same people who were full of emotion in the weeks prior.
"I can't take it anymore! Let me out of here!" A man yelled.
Almost immediately, two "secret service agent" people entered and dragged the man away. Another set of suited men came in as well and dragged someone else away. It was someone whose jaw had dropped in awe of the first man who had vented his desperation. A few minutes later, two screams could be heard far down the hall.
Ryan was surprised but he was trying to keep himself from expressing any emotion, something that he found that he had to learn to do in the days to follow. The man who initially screamed was fairly expressive and jovial in the prior days with no issue; what had caused him to so suddenly break the rules?
Though no one else in the cafeteria showed any emotion, the air was tense enough for anyone to feel what any other person was thinking. All they could do was continue on with their daily routine. For Ryan himself, he thought less about the questions involving the word "why" and focused more on how much time he still had to spend in this damned facility.
---
Day thirty-one.
Dread.
Exhaustion.
Frustration.
All of these words described what Ryan had been feeling for the past day, yet he could not express any of it. Just a day ago, Ryan had received a letter:
6. Rule 2 is now null. Your stay is permanent until your test results meet the required metrics, after which you must pass an interview. You will not receive payment beyond this point in time. Attempts to escape are prohibited and will result in punishment.
Furthermore, you are not allowed to express emotion of any sort. Failure to comply will result in punishment.
Just what had he gotten himself into? His current situation was akin to something out of a make-belief story or some sort of conspiracy theory. Ryan's mind jumped to the Stanford Prison Experiment that he had read about before. Perhaps his fate was similar to the "convicts" and his life had truly become a living hell.
What was the purpose of all of this testing that he was doing? Perhaps it was some gross psychological study to study humans under extreme duress. Or maybe it was a governmental method to get rid of low-income dreamers in order to free up welfare money? Anything, even a ridiculous psychopathic person with a lot of influence, was possible given how impossible his situation seemed already. He had wanted to vomit, but something inside him helped him keep calm.
Through a whole day's worth of contemplating his entire existence and digesting the truth about his current situation, Ryan had now come to understand the full workings of this facility. If everyone had undergone the same treatment as he did, then the behaviour of everyone in the cafeteria made sense. Many people had no expression because they were not allowed to. They avoided eye contact because they wanted to avoid any possibility of reacting to another person's actions. Few people were able to express themselves because they, like himself, had not passed the thirty-day mark yet.
However, not all was hopeless. Ryan thought back to the interviewer that he had met on the first day. She was probably someone who was in his exact situation as well; she had met whatever predetermined metrics were set for her and continued to the "interview" stage. Unfortunately for her, she got ahead of herself and slipped up before he could sign his life away.
Managing to convince himself of some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, Ryan lugged his heavy body out the door toward the cafeteria. This tormenting pain and mental duress would reside with him for many, many days to come. Yet he was determined, as if fueled by his frustration and the hopelessness of the situation.
---
Day sixteen-thousand four-hundred eighty-nine. The scraggly, bearded man picked up a letter under his door. This was the first time he had received a letter since a long, long time ago.
7. Come to the interview room. If you pass, your stay at the facility will be terminated. Failure to do so will result in punishment.
Emotion and rationality were near removed from the man's mind; he was now a husk of his former self. The three million dollars promised to him at the beginning of his stay had been long forgotten; his soul was solely focused on breaking free from the invisible chains that had bound him. He expressionlessly carried himself outside his room, where he was then escorted by two suited men toward the interview room.
As he arrived, he saw a young woman, bright and cheery; she looked not a day over twenty and had the aura of someone who had their entire future ahead of themself. The sight of her brought back memories, both sweet and bitter, from long ago.
He remembered his childhood, how he used to play at the playground. Oh, how his mother pushed him as he swung back and forth on the swing set.
He remembered his romance, the first time a woman smiled at him and told him that she loved him.
He remembered his divorce, the turning to alcohol, the addiction, the bankruptcy, and the frustration. His desperation led him here, where he took his first step into hell on earth.
But when he looked back at the girl sitting in front of him, he remembered hope. There was still hope for him! Hope of getting out, hope of reuniting with his loved ones, hope of… Hope of what? And at what cost? Would he steal this person's entire future for his own uncertain remaining time? He was already nearing fifty – what could even be waiting for him outside? Did he truly have any hope? As these thoughts circled around in his brain, he decided to take a leap forward.
"Get-ge-get-get out!" This was the first time he had spoken in nearly ten years. "Yo-you d-d-don't know w-what you're get-getting y-you-yourself into!"
---
"How disappointing," the Director said, looking down at the scene from his office with apathy. "Carl Jamison showed promise. He slipped up at the last moment."
"Only few pass the test, after all," said the Director's aide, who was standing next to him. "After all, there aren't that many positions in this branch of the CIA."
"Why yes, you're absolutely correct. It should not be that easy," the Director replied. "Now fire up the incinerator. That's one more body than we were expecting," he said emotionlessly, something he had been an expert at for what seemed like forever.
"Of course, Mr. Harrison."