The Fourth Wall
By Randy Streu
The room faded into his view
as he opened his eyes. His brain struggled to interpret what he saw as he fought to leave his stupor behind. And what he saw was white. The sort of empty blur you expect when vertigo takes hold, seconds before finally passing out. This irritated him; he had just woken up, after all, and passing out again seemed like the opposite of progress.
Then came focus and he understood he was staring at the ceiling. And yes, he realized, it was white. Like the rest of the room, from the looks of it. Exactly like the rest, in fact. He turned his head around, looking up and down the room, and became quickly disoriented. The ceiling, the floor on which he lay, the three walls -- they were all blocked out in three-foot-sqauare panels of what felt like vinyl, stuffed with cotton. Very strange. Stranger still, there was no variation in the patterns of the padded blocks, even at the junctions between walls. As if the room had been built to accomodate the blocks, rather than the blocks cut for the room. And, of course, he was only assuming he was on the floor. That, no matter where he was, gravity was still in control. A bold assumption, considering. This only served to add to his disorientation. Which was perhaps why he failed to immediately register that he'd completely forgotten his own name -- or that there were only three walls.
Three. That didn't seem right. So he counted. One on his right. One in front of him. One on his left. And behind him -- the hallway.
Very strange, indeed. Here he was, certainly drugged, and in a padded cell. But evidently, he was also free to come and go as he liked. He sat himself up gently and stood on legs that shook to confirm his suspicions of being dosed. He walked toward the open space, to see what was out there, when he started hearing a voice, small and feminine. She was muttering, and as he looked out from his cell, he saw her. A small girl, sitting in the middle of the floor, staring straight out and having a conversation.
Yup. Mental ward. He took another step toward the doorway, and the girl spoke again.
"I wouldn't do that," she said. This time she spoke loudly. Clearly.
"Me?"
She looked up and smiled, a gap where one of her front teeth must have fallen out. "Of course, silly."
He smiled back, and took another step -- and fell backwards as he found his path suddenly blocked by an instant materialization of a blue and almost transparent face roughly the size of the entire wall.
"Who are you talking to, Benjamin?" the face asked.
He struggled to register his surprise appropriately: should he be more intrigued at the introduction of his -- here-to-for unknown -- name, or taken aback at the appearance of a giant face in the middle of his exit?
He decided on the latter -- a decision made easier by the fact that it was still talking to him.
"My name is Mr. Happy Forcefield," it said. "And it really would be best to not get too close to the barrier, Benjamin."
"What do you mean who -- I mean, my name is --." He stopped, registered everything that just happened. "Wait," he said. "You're a forcefield?"
"Well," the face laughed, "it's actually quite a bit more complicated than that. I'd hardly expect you to be able to understand it, Benjamin." It smiled as it said this, to negate any intent to insult. The effect, as far as the inmate was concerned, was the same as kissing him on the mouth while kneeing him in the groin.
"And you're here to keep me in here?"
"Oh, no, no no. "Of course not," the wall smiled. "My job isn't to keep you in. It's to keep bad things out." And to prove it, the face turned itself inside out, facing the corridor instead of the cell. "Hey, you bad things," said the wall, sternly. "Stay out of here."
The wall turned its face back to the cell. "You see, Ben? I'm your friend."
"So, I can leave?"
"Of course not," answered the face, still smiling. "If you leave, the ion field keeping those bad things at bay would kill you."
"So I'm trapped," said the inmate. "Why am I here?"
"Your protection, of course," answered the wall.
"From the bad things," he said. "Right."
"Of course, Ben," said the face. "Why else would we keep you here?"
"Why can't I see these 'bad things?'"
"Because your mind won't allow you to." said the face. "It only sees what it wants to see." The face looked down at him, with synthasized pity. "You're really quite insane, you know."
He shook his head, growing frustrated. There was so much he wanted to know. Needed to know. But the Wall kept introducing new and dubious information. How could he possibly get all the answers he needed, if the thing kept confusing the issue and outright lying to him?
Lying. That the wall was lying to him seemed obvious. It was an assumption he had made since the thing first appeared to him. What could he trust, and what was false? He shook his head again. He was still groggy from the drugs, and the standing and talking and trying to think only made it worse. He needed rest. Knew it wouldn't come. Not here.
"Wall," said the inmate.
"Mr. Happy Forcefield, if you please," said the wall.
"Yeah, I'm not calling you that," the inmate answered.
"I call you by your name," answered the wall.
"How do I know that's true?"
"Well," the wall answered reasonably, "Do you know your name?"
"For all I know my name could be Brian or Kareem. I'm rather fond of Steve. How do I know I'm not Steve."
"Because," said the wall kindly, "your name is Ben."
"Well, I --." He stopped, growing angrier. He pointed an accusing finger at the wall. "You," he said, "are trying to confuse me. Stop it. Who is 'we?'"
"It's who are we, Ben. And I've told you. You're Ben, and I'm Mr. Happy Forcefield."
"No," he said. "When I asked you why I was here, you said, 'why else would we keep you here.' Who did you mean?"
"I'm sure that's not what I said," said the wall, pleasantly.
"It is what you said," he insisted. "What, you want me to believe that you just came and got me yourself? That you are keeping me here entirely of your own volition?"
"Of course not," said the wall. "That would just be silly. I'm a wall."
"So who is keeping me here?"
"Technically, I am," said the wall. "Since, if I don't dissolve, you can't leave."
the inmate groaned in anger; turned and stalked away from the wall, frustrated and tired. He turned quickly, pointing out toward the hall. "What about the girl? Who's keeping her here?"
"Girl?" The wall feigned ignorance. "Ahhh," it said, as a digitized simulation of understanding came to its eyes. "Who you were talking to earlier."
"Right."
"There is no girl, Benjamin."
"What?" said the inmate. "I'm imagining her?"
"I can't read your mind, of course, Benjamin," said the wall. "But if you claim to see a girl who I know is not there, then, yes. That seems logical." The wall smiled. "Oh, look how much progress we're making!"
"So, I'm imagining her, and I can see you, but I can't see the 'bad things' you're keeping away from me?"
"So it would seem," said the wall.
"How do I know you're real?"
"Because I am," answered the wall.
"I'll bet the little girl in the other cell would say the same thing," he said. And to prove it, he peered out, over to the girl who was, again, engaged in conversation with the air. "Hey, kid," he called.
She looked up. "Hello, again," she smiled.
"Hey, are you real?"
She giggled. "Of course! You're funny, Mister."
he turned back to look the giant, looming face in the eyes. "See?"
"No," said the wall.
"No. Of course not." He pushed his hands through where his hair had been. For the first time, he noticed it was close-cropped, nearly to the scalp. But then, since he still couldn't remember who he was, he certainly had no recollection of his pre-incarceration hair style. But thinking about his prison, he thought of something else.
"Wall," said the inmate.
"Please call me Mr. Happy Forcefield. We can shorten it to just 'Happy,' if you prefer, Benjamin."
Ben ignored the request. "Wall," he stressed the word this time, "how do I know you're not just a hologram?"
The face appeared irritated. "This is getting tiresome, Benjamin. I suppose you could test me. Of course, you'll never find out if you were wrong."
the inmate considered this. "Hey, kid," he called again.
The girl smiled up at him. "Yes, mister?"
"What's your name?"
"Mary."
"Mary? Would you like to get out of here?"
"I really must protest this, Ben," said the wall. "This is stupidity."
"I would very much like to get out of here, Mister," said the girl.
He stood with his toes mere inches from the threshold, where the face glowered down on him.
"Benjamin, that's enough!" the wall's voice boomed, even in the padded cell.
"Mary," he said. "Call me Steve." And with that, the inmate closed his eyes, and stepped forward.
}
~~~~~ <~
}
Randy Streu is the Senior Editor of Digital Dragon Magazine, a political blogger and a radio DJ (a hobby for which he actually gets paid). His fiction has also been featured in Daily Tourniquet. He lives in Northern New York with his wife and four children.
