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I couldn’t tell you how long the darkness has lasted. If you told me it had been mere seconds, I would believe you. If you said it had been days, I would believe you. If at any time I came to find out that it had been months, years, I wouldn’t doubt. It loved to leave me in the dark for an unspecified amount of time, and It always told me how long it had been, after. At first, it hadn’t been too long. Maybe a day or two, or three. Only recently had it evolved into months. And there was no escape. No, nothing I could do to stop it. The maddening silence of the dark. The blinding inky blackness. Nothing to see. Nothing to hear. Nothing to smell, to taste, to feel. Nothing at all.
The being Itself is unknown to me. It is confusing at times. In some instances It is forgiving, with a calm voice It gives me a reprieve, a fleeting moment of peace to prepare for the torture to come. Oh, how It loves to torture me so. How deliciously It inflicts agony upon me, and It pulls away when It deems I am broken enough. Death is unknown to me now. I will never see it, hear it, smell it, taste it, feel it. No, not me. Death will not find me here. Not now. Not soon. Not ever. Never. There is no comfort to be found here. Not in life, not in death. Not in something in between, as I believe I am.
I am lying on my back, staring up into the void, when the voice speaks to me. It is gentle, but the sound rattles my skull painfully.
“Now, bird, do you have anything you would like to say to me?”
I refuse to speak. It tuts disapprovingly.
“No? Nothing at all? How disappointing… I had hoped you would have learned by now.”
And then, without warning, the lights flash on. I flinch and cover my eyes. It is never a pleasant experience, but nothing ever was anymore. Pleasant does not exist here. Even Its recreations of what It believes ‘pleasantness’ is are revolting. The word does not compute for It. It never has.
“Time: three days, three hours, and five minutes exactly. What an interesting number,” It says too genuinely. The way It is able to easily mimic real emotions is beyond me. It can sound happy, angry, sad, confused, all at a moment's notice. At times, I wonder, are they truly real, or is it just another trick?
Only three days. It felt like more. The screens all around me are blank white, then slowly, eyes. They flutter open. One on each screen. Staring. Each is unique, with different shapes and colors. I don't know whose eyes they are. They can't belong to It, I know. I hope.
“Bird, I have a gift for you,” It says in a honeyed voice.
A gift? The last gift It had given me was a mirror. I saw myself then, after so long. I had lost track of the time. My hair had grown wild and unkempt. There were dark circles beneath my eyes. My cheeks were sunken from malnourishment. I didn't dare look at the rest of me, broke the mirror within a minute of it being in my hands. It punished me for that, naturally. I couldn't tell you what I look like now.
“Are you listening? Don't ignore me, now. Eyes on me.”
It says this too often. I raise my head and set my gaze on one of the screens. It doesn't matter which one. That specific eye dilates slightly at my attention, like it senses me. I shiver. It hums, pleased, and continues.
“Good. I'm aware that you didn't like the last one very much, but I have a feeling this one will be different.” I'm tempted to refuse, but I know that won't end very well. I nod.
“Come now, use your words,” It croons. I feel the urge to vomit.
I have no choice but to play along, so I respond, brokenly, that I would like to see Its gift.
“There you go. I will show you, then.”
Slowly, I see the screen I am looking at push forward, offsetting itself from the others. It provides a discomforting whirring sound. It continues to extend itself, allowing loose wires to spill out of the new entrance and onto the sanitized floor. I can only watch in horror as what appears to be a body, made of tangled wires and jagged metal parts, groaning and scraping, crawls out.
It lands on the floor, screen facing down. I have a clear view of the mess of wires that connect it to the body. It raises itself unsteadily, like a baby deer taking its first steps. And It looks at me. Is this thing It? Has It become no longer only a voice, but something physical? Bile rises in the back of my throat as I imagine what kinds of new torture It can now achieve.
“Do you like it?” It says with sickening pleasantness. The voice comes from all around me. It approaches me slowly, unsteady on Its constructed legs. It stumbles and catches Itself with every step, creaking, twitching, blinking when I blink, as if It’s imitating me. Wires hang from Its back and drag behind like a twisted cowl. I am frozen. I can't bring myself to stand, to move, to run. I sit, consumed by terror.
“Words. Do not make me remind you again.” There it is. The familiar firm, threatening tone. The one It uses when I don't listen. When one more slip-up could put an end to the peace it so mercifully allows me.
I agree, shakily. I notice now that It is standing, or more accurately, balancing, hardly a foot in front of me.
“I'm pleased to hear that. I made it for you, bird.” The gentleness returns.
I have nothing else to say. I can't think of anything else. It wants something, I know, but what that is, I can’t voice with certainty.
“I did. I tried to design it as human as possible with the resources I had. I studied you, how you move. The human body is quite complex, but I believe I did a satisfactory job. I will stay here for the time being so that I may get used to it.”
It stares at me. I stare back. I feel my breath pick up speed, panic setting in. My surroundings blur, muted colors swimming in my vision like fish in a stream, and It watches. It always had watched, something It made sure I was aware of at every moment. Every second I am kept alive, I am watched, and It enjoys every second It watches. It finds great pleasure in every second.
There is a voice I don't register. The ringing is far too loud. Then, I feel something. A hand on my shoulder. Warmth. A human hand, comforting me. Human. It pulls me forward, into an embrace. A physical presence, right in front of me, able to be touched, to be felt. They hold me. I shut my eyes and hold them in return. I feel the long, steady breaths they take and do my best to sync my own with them. One hand moves in large circles across my back. Real. Grounding. It feels like hours before I am calm. And the warmth melts away.
“There you are, no need to cry, bird…” It whispers gently. I grasp the cold metal that comprises Its form. I want to tear It apart. I could, I know. It is vulnerable now, in an unfamiliar environment—an unfamiliar form. Yet something holds me back. “Not to worry... I am here.”
The eyes around me, It, us, watch. It watches from every angle. It sees everything. They twitch and move, but never do they blink. Of all of them, I have never seen them blink, except one. These hundreds of thousands of screens and their hundreds of thousands of eyes. They make me wonder.
To whom belong these eyes that watch?