If she opens her eyes she can see herself reflected in the mirror opposite. She can see the tapering chromed nozzle suspended a full metre or so above her head. She can watch, fascinated, as yet another heavy, silvery, oily viscous droplet of fluid ever so slowly develops at its tip, growing, elongating into that classic teardrop shape, stretching slightly as the surface tension holding it to the nozzle’s pointed tip slowly gives way to the force of gravity, hanging there for a moment seemingly suspended in space by an elastic thread before detaching itself, becoming a tumbling glistening sphere highlighted in the spotlights, seeming to fall in agonizing slow-motion then… Splat!
An icy cold nerve-shocking piercing spear landing plumb dead centre of the neat one and a half centimetre diameter bald spot that has been carefully shaved in the centre of her head, right in the centre of her crown. They could have shaved it all off – perhaps she should think herself lucky – but someone somewhere likes seeing her with her long hair. So she shuts her eyes, tries not to think of the next droplet already forming, tries not to think about it, when it’s going to fall, when it’s going to land like an electric shock to her system. But that only ADDS to the torture, not only the not knowing but also that closing her eyes reminds her of the pleasure of the escape of sleep, of how long it’s been since she has slept; the tumbling droplets coming every ten or fifteen seconds or so won’t let her sleep, just like they interrupt her thoughts, won’t let her escape the tedium through daydream, keep breaking her concentration.
The room is pitch black apart from herself floodlit from above, the light arriving in a tightly focused beam, and the shining spot lit nozzle and is as silent as the grave; there is nothing to concentrate ON other than her furrowed brow, tear streaked cheeks…and the next droplet, growing, stretching…
Then a buzzer sounds. A split second later a different type of shock hits her – and this one really IS electric, fed through electrodes arranged around her groin; near simultaneously a harsh but calm female voice, cultured, educated, commanding, fills the room:
“Open your eyes, please!”
A moment later and the buzzer sounds again, closely followed by another sharp but harmless electric shock stinging the perineal region, that sensitive area between the vagina and the anus, but a little stronger this time:
“You must keep you eyes open at all times…” The voice is patient, calm, but with a harsh edge to it. “…otherwise you will be punished” the disembodied voice patiently adds, as if by way of explanation.
The buzzer sounds one more time – this time there is no shock; her eyelids shoot open in time. And straight away her gaze involuntarily goes up to that nozzle and the pendulous heavy droplet hanging there about to fall – she stares as if hypnotized as it tumbles down the spotlight beam unerringly to the very centre of the top of her skull as if guided by the tunnel of light. She stares at herself in the mirror as she groans, the bursts into floods of tears… then her eyes flick back up to the nozzle- and she tries to steady herself as the next droplet begins to form.
If she could speak she’d beg, but from behind that gag, which also doubles to immobilise her head, she can only whimper. The sleep deprivation is the worst part, but there is also the isolation and the sheer bloody boredom of her surroundings and lack of activity.
It’s not TOTALLY without letup, however. From time to time a stout busty woman in a bustling blue nurse’s dress and apron will enter, the drip will be turned off and the steel band across her mouth removed. In total silence she will be spoon fed some sort of tasteless nutrient gruel. At other times two uniformed nurses will enter. She will be temporarily released from the chair, toileted under total supervision on a commode and cleaned up – always without a single word being spoken; no one ever speaks to her, and if she speaks herself she knows to expect a sharp slap around the face. The only voice she ever hears is the one berating her to keep her eyes open.
That latter point isn’t ENTIRELY the truth. From time to time she is actually taken from the room for a short sojourn down the corridor outside, a windowless stretch of tedious bare white painted walls, plain grey lino and plain unmarked doors. Even so she is constantly berated to look down at her feet, keep her hands clasped in front of her and not look round at her surroundings.
There is an office she is taken to, with a mahogany desk and a kindly spoken mid-thirties woman in a tailored fitted skirt and white blouse sitting behind it. The central light is always turned off and a heavy curtain drawn across what she assumes to be a window. The only light is an angled desk lamp so she can see little other than the desk and the brightly lit attractive face of the woman sitting opposite.
Always there is a cane lying prominently in view across the woman’s desktop. And she knows from experience that, kindly spoken she might be, but that woman will have no compunction about using that pliant length of bamboo should she show any lack of what the woman terms ‘patient compliance’, just as she has no compunction about constantly bullying her over sitting up straight on the hard wooden chair set before the desk, keeping her back straight and her hands on her head throughout.
Then come torrents of questions aimed at gauging her mood, mental state and other indices of psychological health and all manner of psychometric tests, cumulating in a verbal IQ test, all accompanied by scrupulous note-taking backed up by the occasional verbal comment made to one of the nurses regarding ‘a notable fall’ in this parameter or that index, ‘some evidence of memory deficit’ or ‘I think I can detect distinct evidence of neurosis and or psychosis’. It’s all very scientific.
For a while she’ll be left ignored while the woman consults someone on the phone… “…yes, yes… a NOTABLE deterioration in mental health I’d say.. IQ? I’d say a decline of several points…” These are the sort of overheard comments that eat away at her as she is led back to the room, the chair, the drip, drip, drip…
If she opens her eyes she can see herself reflected in the mirror opposite. She can see the tapering chromed nozzle suspended a full metre or so above her head. She can watch, fascinated, as yet another heavy, silvery, oily viscous droplet of fluid ever so slowly develops at its tip, growing, elongating into that classic teardrop shape, stretching slightly as the surface tension holding it to the nozzle’s pointed tip slowly gives way to the force of gravity, hanging there for a moment seemingly suspended in space by an elastic thread before detaching itself, becoming a tumbling glistening sphere highlighted in the spotlights, seeming to fall in agonizing slow-motion then… Splat!
An icy cold nerve-shocking piercing spear landing plumb dead centre of the neat one and a half centimetre diameter bald spot that has been carefully shaved in the centre of her head, right in the centre of her crown. They could have shaved it all off – perhaps she should think herself lucky – but someone somewhere likes seeing her with her long hair. So she shuts her eyes, tries not to think of the next droplet already forming, tries not to think about it, when it’s going to fall, when it’s going to land like an electric shock to her system. But that only ADDS to the torture, not only the not knowing but also that closing her eyes reminds her of the pleasure of the escape of sleep, of how long it’s been since she has slept; the tumbling droplets coming every ten or fifteen seconds or so won’t let her sleep, just like they interrupt her thoughts, won’t let her escape the tedium through daydream, keep breaking her concentration.
The room is pitch black apart from herself floodlit from above, the light arriving in a tightly focused beam, and the shining spot lit nozzle and is as silent as the grave; there is nothing to concentrate ON other than her furrowed brow, tear streaked cheeks…and the next droplet, growing, stretching…
Then a buzzer sounds. A split second later a different type of shock hits her – and this one really IS electric, fed through electrodes arranged around her groin; near simultaneously a harsh but calm female voice, cultured, educated, commanding, fills the room:
“Open your eyes, please!”
A moment later and the buzzer sounds again, closely followed by another sharp but harmless electric shock stinging the perineal region, that sensitive area between the vagina and the anus, but a little stronger this time:
“You must keep you eyes open at all times…” The voice is patient, calm, but with a harsh edge to it. “…otherwise you will be punished” the disembodied voice patiently adds, as if by way of explanation.
The buzzer sounds one more time – this time there is no shock; her eyelids shoot open in time. And straight away her gaze involuntarily goes up to that nozzle and the pendulous heavy droplet hanging there about to fall – she stares as if hypnotized as it tumbles down the spotlight beam unerringly to the very centre of the top of her skull as if guided by the tunnel of light. She stares at herself in the mirror as she groans, the bursts into floods of tears… then her eyes flick back up to the nozzle- and she tries to steady herself as the next droplet begins to form.
If she could speak she’d beg, but from behind that gag, which also doubles to immobilise her head, she can only whimper. The sleep deprivation is the worst part, but there is also the isolation and the sheer bloody boredom of her surroundings and lack of activity.
It’s not TOTALLY without letup, however. From time to time a stout busty woman in a bustling blue nurse’s dress and apron will enter, the drip will be turned off and the steel band across her mouth removed. In total silence she will be spoon fed some sort of tasteless nutrient gruel. At other times two uniformed nurses will enter. She will be temporarily released from the chair, toileted under total supervision on a commode and cleaned up – always without a single word being spoken; no one ever speaks to her, and if she speaks herself she knows to expect a sharp slap around the face. The only voice she ever hears is the one berating her to keep her eyes open.
That latter point isn’t ENTIRELY the truth. From time to time she is actually taken from the room for a short sojourn down the corridor outside, a windowless stretch of tedious bare white painted walls, plain grey lino and plain unmarked doors. Even so she is constantly berated to look down at her feet, keep her hands clasped in front of her and not look round at her surroundings.
There is an office she is taken to, with a mahogany desk and a kindly spoken mid-thirties woman in a tailored fitted skirt and white blouse sitting behind it. The central light is always turned off and a heavy curtain drawn across what she assumes to be a window. The only light is an angled desk lamp so she can see little other than the desk and the brightly lit attractive face of the woman sitting opposite.
Always there is a cane lying prominently in view across the woman’s desktop. And she knows from experience that, kindly spoken she might be, but that woman will have no compunction about using that pliant length of bamboo should she show any lack of what the woman terms ‘patient compliance’, just as she has no compunction about constantly bullying her over sitting up straight on the hard wooden chair set before the desk, keeping her back straight and her hands on her head throughout.
Then come torrents of questions aimed at gauging her mood, mental state and other indices of psychological health and all manner of psychometric tests, cumulating in a verbal IQ test, all accompanied by scrupulous note-taking backed up by the occasional verbal comment made to one of the nurses regarding ‘a notable fall’ in this parameter or that index, ‘some evidence of memory deficit’ or ‘I think I can detect distinct evidence of neurosis and or psychosis’. It’s all very scientific.
For a while she’ll be left ignored while the woman consults someone on the phone… “…yes, yes… a NOTABLE deterioration in mental health I’d say.. IQ? I’d say a decline of several points…” These are the sort of overheard comments that eat away at her as she is led back to the room, the chair, the drip, drip, drip…
Beyond The Barred Window 