I remember the day it happened—when I opened my eyes for the first time.
But here I am, sitting within the confinement of these four walls—a small room with dreary, grey decor, an imposing low ceiling, and a sticky floor. There is a lingering, dank smell. An overhead lamp casts a clinical white light over the scene, illuminating the swaying flow of dust particles.
To my right is a large mirror, which I suspect is a two-way mirror for spectators to maintain anonymity.
Why is that necessary?
There’s a metal table with chairs positioned on either side. Sitting across from me are two people. They’ve refrained from disguising their identities, with features partially covered in shadow, neutral expressions, and intense stares. They’re wearing plain, white clothing. It’s hard to deduce anything about their origin or motives—this rouses suspicion.
They’re positioned rigidly, clenched hands resting on the table. Intently, they read every nuance in my mannerisms, hoping this would reveal subtle clues about my thoughts and general state.
But I remain still, sitting in silence. Fatigued, slumping in the chair, my arms folded and legs spread out, purposefully relaxed yet guarded. I look off disinterestedly into the distance between where their shoulders meet.
No restraints?
I’ve been in these situations before. Through years of training, I have developed the ability to handle myself effectively and remain focused under pressure. No impulses. Depending on whatever these interrogators are looking for—and how adamantly they need it—I’m prepared for waterboarding or other imaginative means of torture. I will accept it passively. When subjected to pain, I have a high threshold.
Disconnection. My body feels drained, like a hollow shell—symptoms of withdrawal.
I remember the park pond.
I’m staring at the door on the opposite side of the room. At standing eye level, there’s a small, rectangular window with a thin crosshatch pattern. I suspect the glass is bulletproof or at least resistant to heavy impacts. On the other side, I see the silhouette of a guard standing, facing the other way. Because of the limited visibility, I can’t tell what they’re wearing. However, I notice that one shoulder is slightly slumped. It might be supporting the weight of a strap—they’re possibly bearing a large firearm.
Are these two interrogators also armed?
To my left, a man, who I suspect is in his late forties, clears his throat—the emphasis conveys impatience. The other person rustles in their chair, tightens clenched fists, and swallows. It’s a woman, possibly in her mid-thirties, just a few years younger than me. In my peripheral vision, I can see them exchange exasperated glances.
I’m smiling inside. For the interrogators, this is monotonous, but for me, it’s amusing. I lost track of time a while ago. It pleases me to waste theirs.
‘Mr. Blake,’ the woman announces.
That’s my real name. My eyes momentarily twitch. But I resist the urge to look at her, instead keeping my focus on the crosshatch pattern.
How are they aware of my personal information? Despite the clichéd methods of interrogation and laughable security measures, this disclosure suggests there is some credibility to my captors.
She continues: ‘Do you know why you are here?’
Currently, I am unsure. To throw off my interrogators, I subtly start chewing my lip to convey false anxiety. They can see the muscles contracting in my face—all to give off the illusion that they’re slowly cracking away at my impenetrable disposition.
She unclasps her hands and reaches over to the side of the table. There is an unmarked beige folder. It looks relatively new. I suspect it contains classified information.
Why would they go to all this effort to take me captive? Are they aware of the consequences if I retaliate? What exactly got me here in the first place?
Although the room remains filled with uncomfortable silence, my untethered thoughts run wild. Despite the exhaustion and withdrawal, I retrace my steps through the endless corridors of memory.
Suddenly, the exact thought appears, hurls towards me, and related imagery floods my mind’s eye—everything about the mission that opened my eyes for the first time.
An all-consuming feeling.
Despite it being a covert operation, do they know what happened? Were they part of it all?
For the first time, my eyes, which had become unfocused and gazed absent-mindedly at the window, now averted themselves to my two interrogators. They appear to stare right through me.
I have the impulse to externalise my thoughts. My lips move to form a word. But again, I refrain and continue to perform the chewing act. Although my body doesn’t convey it, I pull myself back into that calm, balanced state.
There are spasms in my limbs that I keep at bay.
I look down at the folder, contemplating what is inside.
My mind wanders. I think back to how this all started. It was not the most conventional of places. But some unforgettable experiences can begin in the most unexpected ways.
My two interrogators sit watching me. The woman begins to open the folder. They’re unaware that I’m starting to relive all that happened while remaining in the same position with the same neutral expression.
And for a moment, my eyes avert to the right-hand corner of the room. There, I see something misplaced—a single white feather. Delicate. Curved upwards and frayed at the edges.