Bounded in a Nutshell



  Bounded in a Nutshell

  by William Haloupek

  Copyright 2011 William Haloupek

  or any of the major ebook sellers. Questions and comments are welcome at

  https://haloupek.com

  This is a short story, in the science fiction/horror genre. It is told in the first person. The narrator is in a kind of prison for the criminally insane. He is highly intelligent, but an extreme sociopath.

  ~~~~

  I guess I’m not a people person. People are bastards. Well, most of them, anyway. Which is why it’s probably a good thing I’m in here all by myself.

  My prison cell is completely dark. After a few days I almost forgot I had hands and feet. I have to keep reminding myself. I’m completely naked in here. I have no idea why they didn’t at least let me keep my clothes. I guess it doesn’t matter.

  There is no gravity in my cell. I just float around until I hit the wall, then I bounce off and float some more. My cell seems to be roughly spherical, with a diameter of about 80 meters or so. I could be way off. I can only imagine what it looks like from the outside. In fact, I can only imagine what it looks like from the inside!

  The only sound in my cell comes from me. The walls must absorb sound, so I don’t hear any echo. After a while I stopped talking to myself. But then I think I started talking to myself again. Not really sure.

  There is no air current as far as I can tell. The temperature is just right. They have done everything possible to deprive me of every sensation, like in one of those isolation chambers. One thing they couldn’t take away entirely is smell. The smell of my own body, my own excrement. But the smell is always the same, and after a while I didn’t notice it much.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. They wouldn’t tell me how long my sentence was. Maybe it’s a life sentence, who knows. Maybe I get out after they think I’m rehabilitated. For a long time I wondered what they wanted from me. Now I don’t care. Who gives a flying fuck. Not me!

  It is really annoying when you run into a wall and you’re not expecting it. I found out that getting mad and kicking or punching the wall is not such a good idea. It just sends you spinning out of control, and you hit the wall again even sooner and harder. When I started to explore my surroundings, I tried to hit the wall as gently as possible, so I could run my hand along it, and check for any seams, handles or anything. I never found anything except smooth, hard plastic. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to stay in contact with the wall for more than few seconds. I tried using my palms as suction cups, but that didn’t work. Whoever designed this cell knew exactly what they were doing. The bastards.

  I had a real problem at first, not knowing how to find the bathroom. Finally, I just had to let it fly like the birds do. I guess that’s what I’m expected to do. I’m telling you, it is demoralizing to get hit in the face with your own droppings. I’m sure the demoralization is all part of the plan, too.

  There is just one other thing in here besides me and my own shit. It’s a plastic bottle, about two liters, filled with some kind of tasteless gruel. It must have some nutrients in it, because I seem to be staying alive. The first time I found it, I wanted to hang onto it, but with nothing to attach it to, I had to hold it by hand. After a day or two, it was empty and I reluctantly let it go. Maybe they would refill it for me and I would bump into it again. Since then I have found it, or maybe other ones just like it, a total of three hundred and seventeen times. This is how I count days in here. I think these days are much longer than twenty-four hours, because I get pretty hungry between bottles.

  Catching the bottle is a pretty good trick. You have to be ready for it. Lots of times it hits me in the back and I’m not quick enough or hungry enough to grab it. I’ve tried throwing it, but I never hear it hit anything.

  They must have some kind of waste disposal system. Otherwise the amount of shit in here would be increasing, and I don’t think it is. I seem to be the only thing that doesn’t get flushed out of this giant toilet. What a life. This is what the human condition amounts to, when all the fluff is cleared away. Basic human needs become more important than noble sentiments.

  Hours and hours go by sometimes with no wall, no bottle, nothing but me and my useless body parts flopping around. There is nothing to do except exist. I used to do isometric exercises, to stay in shape. I tried swimming in air, but I don’t think it gets me anywhere. Who cares? There’s no place to go.

  It seems obvious to me now what Berkeley meant about perceptions being more real than matter. Nothing is real unless I can feel it or hear it or perceive it in some way. The part of the universe outside this cell fades into a dream. It’s ironic that this thought would force itself upon me only after the bastards have done their best to deprive me of every sensation. Those same bastards who still live, my rational mind still tells me, in the world outside.

  I quit trying to hang onto the bottle or looking for stuff on the wall. That’s probably what they want me to do, and I won’t give them the satisfaction. If I don’t push off, I can stay away from the wall for an hour or two, I think.

  Sometimes I think maybe there is something else in here, too. Like when I was a kid and I thought there were alligators under my bed. I spend a lot of time just listening. Being very quiet. Always listening, never hearing anything. Always looking, never seeing. I have to fight to stay rational.

  If they just wanted to put me through some changes, then they have succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. But they might be surprised at what they have changed me into. I think I’ve been completely insane at least once. I’ve been broken down and built back up again in different ways. I could have been the next Napoleon or the next Gandhi. How I would be if I were set free probably depends on what state I was in at the time. They probably know that. The bastards.

  Maybe they don’t care if I’m rehabilitated or not. This is just their humane way of putting me out to pasture. Like they have to protect society from me! I talk to them without knowing if they are paying attention. It’s a lot like praying. Except I know I’m not talking to any Supreme Being.

  At times I blame myself for this waste of my life. I should have been more forgiving, more understanding. I guess it’s too late to worry about it. Still, I can’t help going over and over it. What I could have done differently. I could have used a few more lucky breaks, that’s for sure.

  Since I have absolutely nothing to do, I keep going over and over my memory. Sorting, remembering, resorting. It’s incredible what I can remember. Old phone numbers. People I met long ago. Books and TV shows. It occurs to me that forgetting is kind of a blessing. What a burden it would be to have a perfect memory! You could never forgive if you couldn’t forget.

  Of course, I might be inventing false memories. The subconscious has a way of giving you what it thinks you need. But I have no way to test whether the memories are true. The only test is internal consistency, and even that may be a chimera. Who knows.

  Maybe I’m not too important in the grand scheme, and it doesn’t matter much what happens to me. I don’t have a value system that puts me at the top of the food chain. Still, there must be something positive that I can do. There has to be more to life than just floating around like a worthless piece of human garbage.

  The worst part is that I can’t even kill myself. The most basic human right is the right to cash it all in when there’s nothing left worth living for. I would do it in a heartbeat, if I could. But, of course, I would prefer to have the opportunity to take out some richly deserving bastard first. I could name a few candidates.

  Sometimes I think the only thing in the universe is ME. That makes me God and the Devil and everything else. I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if the whole stupid huma
n race was wiped out. What it comes down to is that there is this primitive part of the brain, the part we have in common with lizards and rodents, and it only knows one word: “Me!” There are times when that’s all I have left.

  Every emotion seems to be magnified in here. Which is really ironic because there is nothing I can do, so it doesn’t matter if I feel love or anger or whatever. Maybe I feel remorse, maybe I don’t. It doesn’t matter. The rest of the universe is connected by cause and effect, but I have been disconnected from it. Nothing I think or say or do in here will have any effect outside. Nothing outside seems to have any effect on me. I have my own little universe, where nothing ever happens.

  I think that I must have injured my eyes somehow. I can’t tell for sure, since I can’t see anything anyway. It really hurts bad sometimes.

  They have no right keeping me here. I think they’re using me for some kind of experiment. The bastards!

  I never was much for companionship, but I think it would make a big difference if I could just have someone to talk to. I don’t even care if it’s a friend or foe. They don’t have to like me. I just need some human interaction. I never thought I would say that!

  A few years ago I had a factory job. Pretty good pay, but I was doing a lot more than my share of the work. Still, it’s nice to be respected for doing your job well. I’m sure they still remember me.

  There was a girl--I forget her name. Does it matter? She was sweet, and we had a lot in common. It seems like centuries ago. I should have married her. I knew she wanted to get married. We would probably already have three or four kids by now. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be where I am now.

  Things could have been a lot different. I am a victim of society. All those slobs out there, with their houses in the suburbs and their fancy cars and their spoiled kids and their swimming pools and their organic gardens. Those rich, lazy bastards.

  If I ever get out of here, I’ll put on a convincing act. For as long as it takes. I have learned to be patient. Then I will find them, the ones who put me here, and I will blow them all to hell. There won’t be enough of them left to scrape off the pavement. I’ve got plenty of time to plan how to do it. I keep going over and over it in my mind. Before they die, I want them to know that they made a big mistake by not letting me out when I was ready to be a model citizen.

  I wanted to write down my plans, so I won’t forget, but I don’t have anything to write on. Something as important as this should be written down. Otherwise I might forget. So I decided to scratch a message on my skin. I think I’m bleeding now, but I’m not sure. A few scratches don’t make much difference. Of course I realize the need for secrecy. I invented my own secret code. It is hard keeping track of what I have written on which parts of my body.

  I can’t get any sleep, because I know they are watching. They think they are so superior because they can see me but I can’t see them. They will find out who is superior. But first I have to convince them to let me out of here. I have to be a lot smarter than them. I have to think my way out of here.

  I had a dog, once. His name was Duke. That was a very long time ago. Duke was loyal and good, and he never questioned anything. Dogs always take the world just as it is. They never try to rearrange the furniture. That’s another irony I can’t stop thinking about: Duke never wants to change anything, but he could, whereas I would like to change everything, but can’t. My dog and myself get mixed up in my mind.

  At times I think I must have always been here. There is no such thing as outside. Outside is just a dream.

  Row, row, row your boat.

  Now something is happening! I hear something ... it sounds like a metal door closing! My arms and legs are thrashing wildly. I must look pretty ridiculous to them, but I don’t care. At first I frantically try to swim toward the sound, then stop and listen. I have to be cautious. Being silent, I have the advantage.

  Maybe they are letting me out!? I’ll have another chance at life! I won’t screw this one up, if they will just give me a chance....

  No, I think someone is coming in. A guard? Another prisoner? I had better keep quiet until I find out who he is and what he is doing here. I can’t trust him. I’ll probably wake up some time with a wire around my neck. I can’t afford to let him know where I am. That way I have the advantage.

  “No, don’t leave me here! I’m innocent!” It is a woman’s voice.