The Plexiglas Prison

The Prison was underground, and made out of Plexiglas. It was like an enormous goldfish bowl. I walked through the entrance and was welcomed by a fellow prisoner. He was dressed in ordinary street clothes, as was I.

“Welcome,” he said. “I’m Daniel. How are you feeling? Any disorientation?”

“I feel fine,” I said.

“Do you know where you are? Do you know why you’re here?”

“This is The Prison,” I said. “And I’m here because… I’m a prisoner. But… No. I don’t know why I’m here.”

It dawned on me I had very few memories of recent events. The only thing I could remember was walking through the door, into The Prison. I could remember my childhood, and other events, but there was also an enormous blank. Months, possibly even years, were missing. Whatever crime I had committed, or why I was sentenced, was entirely gone from my mind.

I began to panic, but Daniel quickly put me at ease.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Daniel said. “They erase all memories of our crimes. It’s part of the treatment. Prisoners are more likely to get along with each other if they can’t remember what crime they’ve committed. I just wanted to check if you’re all right. Sometimes the erasure is extensive, and prisoners are left very wobbly.”

“Oh. Okay. No, I feel fine.”

“Good,” Daniel said, smiling.

I looked around me, a little more cautious now. The Prison resembled an ordinary house. We were in a kitchen. Ahead of me there was a living room, and hallways stretching off to other rooms. It reminded me of the house I grew up in, except all the outer walls of the house were made of Plexiglas. Looking out through one of these window-walls, I could see we were in a basement. Just across a small space was another Plexiglas house. How many prison houses were down here?

Daniel, following my gaze, explained: “We’re just one house of many. There are other houses to The Prison, cut off from us. We can’t communicate with them, and they can’t communicate with us.”

“But, why not?” I asked. “We could send text messages to each other. I mean, just by, writing something down on a piece of paper, holding it up for them to see. Then they could write back.”

“We’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t work?” I asked, confused.

“It just doesn’t work,” Daniel said, and shrugged. “Let me show you around.”

He walked further into the kitchen, and opened a cupboard.

“In here,” Daniel said, “we have enough food to last several lifetimes. You can help yourself whenever you like.”

I looked in, saw boxes and boxes of protein bars. Possibly some kind of army food?

“The sinks have running water,” Daniel continued. “There’s cutlery, and glasses, and whatever you need. We’re self-sufficient down here. The guards never come in. They leave us entirely to ourselves. As far as prisons go, this one isn’t too bad.”

“They never come in? Really?”

“I’ve never seen it,” Daniel said. “I hear they come in during an emergency, or if someone has died. But there’s never really been any trouble down here. I’ve never seen any, and I’ve been here for years.”

“Wow. That’s… amazing.”

“That’s pretty much all you need to know. Why don’t you explore the house, a little? Wander around. Everyone is very friendly.”

“Okay, I will,” I said. “Thanks.”

Daniel nodded, smiling.

I walked deeper into the house, exploring. There were large couches, a TV, men lounging around on couches, a stereo system. It was all very open looking and friendly. I walked around some more, and found myself on a balcony, looking down on the first floor of the house. It was hard to believe this place was a prison. It felt more like a dorm for men, who took good care of their home. As far as prisons went, this all seemed quite friendly. Sure, I couldn’t leave, and that was terrible, but it hardly seemed like a punishment.

As I stood there, I heard an alarm bell sounding, and a voice calling out. “Attention! Your attention please! Attention!”

A woman – more a young girl, really – stepped into the centre of the living room on the floor below me. She was maybe 16, wearing a simply blue dress. It looked almost like a uniform. Looking at her closely, it became much more difficult to guess her age. Although she was the size of a child, it was possible she wasn’t 16, but closer to 60. Something about her reminded me of my mother, though I can’t really say why.

“Attention!” the girl yelled again, her voice much louder than seemed possible.

The men of The Prison gathered around. Some were up with me, on the balcony, looking down. Others were on the first floor, a respectful distance away from the girl.

“There has been a change in The Prison administration,” the girl informed us. “And with a change in administration comes a change in rules. You men have had it too easy for far too long. Left here, in conditions that border on luxury, you’ve been allowed to go about your business. This hardly constitutes a punishment. Therefore, as of today, new regulations are being put in place.”

Unbelievable, I thought to myself. I just got here, and they’re making things worse. Wasn’t that just my luck!

“You,” the girl said, pointing at a prisoner on the first floor. “Step forward.”

Looking nervous, the man came towards the girl.

“Bend forward and open your mouth,” the girl said.

The man did as he was told. The girl reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a plastic container of medication. She removed a single pill and with great speed forced it into the man’s mouth. Her small hand actually seemed to go into his mouth, almost up to the elbow, as she forced the pill in as deep as she could. She quickly withdrew her arm, and it was clear the pill had been swallowed.

Almost immediately, the man’s face began to spasm uncontrollably. The seizures were mostly in his left eye and down the side of his face into his neck. The spasms were on then off, lasting one second, stopping for one second, over and over.

“The Twitch Pill,” the girl said, “shall be your new punishment. One dose lasts approximately 12 hours. Each of you will take one pill every morning, and spend your day twitching.”

The girl stepped back from the twitching prisoner, looking triumphant. It was almost as if she expected us to be pleased by the ingenuity of this torture. She smiled proudly, her hands on her hips, her chin stuck out. Who was this little girl, so ancient and weird looking? Was this the warden? The keeper of The Prison?

The prisoners weren’t impressed by The Twitch Pill. At first there was a low rumble of complaint from the men. Then it grew louder. Suddenly men were running, yelling, rushing at the little girl. With a yelp, she turned and fled as the men surged forward. It was a riot! Or maybe a rebellion. Or possibly just an escape attempt.

As people ran about me, I just stood there. I was new to The Prison. Did I really want to get involved in all of this? Did I want to take part? I was so new, it felt as though it had nothing to do with me. Should I participate?

The matter was settled when I saw the door to the prison. When the girl warden had fled, she had failed to secure the door behind her. Men were streaming out of the Plexiglas prison into the basement corridors.

I decided that if there was an opportunity to escape, I should go for it. I rushed down to the first floor, out the door, and into the halls. The other men were long gone, and the hallways were silent. Which way did they go? Which way should I go?

In front of me, to the left, was an elevator. The girl warden had almost certainly taken the elevator out. I was tempted to go that way, but there was a camera mounted above the elevator. If I stepped in that direction, the camera would see me. If they got me on tape, and the uprising was quashed, what would happen? They’d see I attempted to escape. I would be seen as one of the troublemakers. That wasn’t something I wanted to face.

There was a door to my right, away from the camera. I could go that way. As I approached it, I could see some kind of mechanical room or boiler room. It was dark and there was a furnace and hot water tanks and other complex machinery. Was this how the prisoners escaped?

I stepped into the darkness, and in front of me I saw, maybe ten feet away, a giant cyclops, wearing a hard hat, bumbling through the dark. His flesh was light blue, and he wore a pair of dark blue overalls, with no shirt. The cyclops’ expression was of stupid rage. There was no source for the emotion – it was the one he always carried.

I ducked back. There was a hard hat on the wall. For a moment, I considered putting it on. Perhaps if I wore one, the cyclops would allow me to pass safely, mistaking me for a fellow worker. But that idea seemed idiotic.

As I watched the cyclops, he turned left, stumbling along. Like a character in a video game, he seemed to have a patrol he had to follow, in a very specific pattern. It would be easy to sneak past him – or so I thought. When I slipped past this first cyclops, I ran into a second, identical one, headed straight for me.

I quickly retreated back to the elevator.

And that’s where I found myself stuck, trying to figure out what to do next. Risk being seen by the camera? Or confront the two monster men and face their idiotic wrath?