Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness - James Gerard (novel books to read txt) 📗

trusted.  He reasoned their so-called devious imaginations were born from pure fantasy and always ended up exposing themselves as amateurs in the art of cunning behavior when acting alone, creating only misery and madness.  No matter, he thought, the focus was now on Timothy alone. Four

Timothy sat in a chair bouncing a beat with his heels off the hard floor while strumming out a rhythm from a rubber band stretched between thumb and forefinger.  He waited for the stranger to disturb his temporary sanctuary.

 

As he conducted his musical rendition of anticipation, his eyes scanned the surroundings to carefully inspect the room.   They scanned the gray walls, a computer sitting silent in a corner, and a black mug anchoring a stack of papers flapping in a stale breeze that flowed atop a desk.  He then peered over the ceiling.  “Different,” he whispered.  “No cameras.  The room’s a lot warmer.”

 

Curiosity led him to the desk and its stack of files leaning against an exposed lamp.  Timothy figured while the opportunity presented itself, he would satisfy his curiosity and take a peek at any information buried amid the mess that might concern the doctor’s true intentions toward him.

 

As his hands fumbled about the tiers of folders, the glint of a paper clip lying twisted on a bed of concrete amid balls of paper discarded to the floor, struck his eyes.  His chin rose.  Eyes squinted at the brightness beaming down upon him.  He reached towards the shadeless lamp, twisted the notch on, and then reached to the side of the door and flipped off the switch to the lights above.  Better, he thought.  Comfortable.

 

Timothy quickly turned his curiosity back to the desk when he suddenly froze.  Like an animal having heard a distant snapping of twigs, cracking of dried leaves under steps prowling in the dark his breath ceased.  Timothy raised and then slightly tilted his head to concentrate on clicks looming closer, louder, from the hallway.  The noise sent him dashing to a darkened corner chair where he went flopping onto its splintered seat.

 

The door creaked open.  A faint background of light cast a shadow of the stranger’s head upon the wall just opposite him.  Mesmerized by the shadow, a ghostly image, he heard a voice softly whisper “hello.”

 

As Timothy watched a head pop out from behind the door he sat silent.  A thought of the same old questions the proper citizen would certainly ask him popped into his mind: Tell me about your family history, Past medical problems, Have you had allergic reactions to any medication, What medications have you tried so far?  He could never understand that in a world where information was a keyboard finger away, that such an archaic manner of attaining information still existed.  What was the reason? he wondered.  It had to be some probing method they all learned in a lecture oriented class like Standard Annoyances, 101.

 

“Timothy?” the voice whispered.

 

“Here.”

 

“Ah, there you are,” he heard the stranger whisper.  “If you weren’t told, my name is Charles.”

 

Timothy peered over the contours of Charles’ expression distorted in shadowy peaks and valleys.  His eyes focussed on the movement of the envelope swinging at his side as he strolled into the room.

 

In the available light, he then strained to discern whether Charles’ intentions were friendly or not.  Then again, he thought, I could never tell anyway.  He watched Charles position himself on a chair opposite him.  He fought the urge to jump from his perch and flip on the beams of overhead light.

 

“I’m not a personality engineer if that’s what you’re thinking.  I just want to talk with you,” said Charles.

 

“Oh, how lovely.  Please, let’s chat.”

 

“Well, to begin with, I’m curious to know if Dr. Johnson ever explained to you the nature of this center or your purpose here?”

 

Timothy smiled.  “You don’t want to know about that.”

 

“That’s part of my reason for being here, yes.”

 

“You mean to say Dr. Johnson was rude and hasn’t told you?”

 

“He told me what he was up to.  But I’m curious to know what you think.”

 

Timothy looked away from Charles.  Staring at the silent computer, he contemplated the inquiry about his thoughts.  “You want to know what I think?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He continued to stare at the computer.  He found it hard to believe that someone dared to talk with him face to face after all this time, let alone probe his mind.  However, at the same time Timothy wondered why his heart continued to race excitement throughout his senses and send fidgety impulses about the seat.  Maybe the years of isolation had awakened the craving for speech?—though serious doubts remained about that.  Perhaps the conversation would be short-lived?  But whatever the reason, he felt if he continued his show of glowing happiness he just might attain an explanation concerning the devious circumstances that stirred within his mind.

 

He looked back to Charles with beaming eyes and wide smile, “I’m here so I can be like a normal citizen.”

 

“I take that to mean that’s what you really believe?” asked Charles.

 

Timothy calmly answered, “Yes.  Therapy has helped me.  Let’s be friends.”

 

Charles smiled.  “My, my, aren’t we just bubbly today.  But what kind of therapy?”

 

“I don’t know.  But then who am I to question such wonderful doctors?” he responded while maintaining a broad smile across his face.

 

“I know it’s a silly question, but please indulge me.”

 

“I am sorry.  I am being rude.  Along with the synaptic memory inhibitors I take, I suppose something to do with…with infliction of loneliness to make me see that I’ve been a bad citizen all my life.”

 

“I suppose you could say that,” laughed Charles.

 

“What do you mean by ‘suppose?’”

 

“Does he talk with you?”

 

“Not fair Charles.  You’re not answering my question.”

 

“I’ll get to it, but first answer mine.”

 

Timothy sat silent but continued to smile.  He could not figure out what Charles wanted by what appeared to be a smirk on his face.  He was somewhat certain that he was putting on an act, but why?  Did he know the truth, or was the purpose of the questions discovery, an evaluation as to whether or not the status of proper citizenship was deserved?  As much as it ached his mind to just straight out ask what his intentions were, Timothy just could not take that risk just yet.

 

“Answer my question about the ‘purpose’ first.”

 

“The purpose,” said Charles, “is to alter your mind.”

 

That’s better, thought Timothy.  Alter makes much more sense than repress.  “But that’s his job.”

 

“Tell me, what else does he do for you?”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“Dr. Johnson.  Now, what else does he do for you?”

 

Timothy looked to the computer sitting silent.  His mind pondered over the reasons why Charles might be attempting to ignore the questions.  Again, instead of risking the possibility of being uncovered he chose cooperation.  His attention turned back to Charles.  “He has me fill out questionnaires.”

 

“What sort of question are they?”

 

“Usual things like how I feel, but he never seems to be satisfied with my responses in that area.  But that does not matter.  Would you like to have lunch with me?”

 

“What do you mean by he’s never satisfied?”

 

Timothy caught himself bouncing the beat of heels again in an attempt to drain anger from his mind out through his feet.

 

“He always writes back on the next questionnaire that I’m not answering the questions right.”  He paused, turned away from Charles, and again stared at the computer.  “It’s like he wants me to feel the way he wants me to feel, not what society wants me to feel.  That’s very bad,” he stated harshly.

 

“Okay.  What else has he done for you?”

 

“I told you he gives me memory inhibitors.”  Timothy smiled.  “They’ve worked so well.”

 

“What else?”

 

“He’s such a nice man.  You know that he watches me with a camera to make sure I am safe and doing well.  Would you like to hear about my lovely family?”

 

“The cameras aren’t necessary, and some of the pills are memory inhibitors,” said Charles, “but some are a special type…let’s just say type of vitamin.”

 

“Who are you?” asked Timothy; smiled.

 

“Drop the act.”

 

Timothy grinned then wagged a finger at Charles.  “That’s not very nice.”

 

“I told you I’m not a personality engineer, so quit acting like you don’t know what’s going on.”

 

Timothy dropped his eyes to the floor and reflected on the strange variety of capsules—sometimes red, green, blue, brown, yellow, multicolored pellets, or vials of syrupy green liquid—that had been provided throughout the ordeal.  Of course they weren’t for the purposes I’ve been told, he thought.  So after awhile he had decided to stop swallowing them, would spit them in the toilet, and then flush them to the septic tank over the years.  Now he figured for sure Charles knew as much as he did—if not more.

 

Charles laughed.  “Okay Timothy, I’ll play along.”

 

Timothy rubbed his hands together, “Oh boy, we’re going to play a game.”

 

“All right then.  Let’s play a game called drop the nonsense.  It starts out by me telling you that Dr. Johnson has not been serving you as a personality engineer, and that he knows you’ve been flushing both the inhibitors and the memory erasers down the toilet.”

 

Timothy spread his arms out wide.  “Oh, I understand the game.  Now I say that he is a personality engineer and I’d never do that.”

 

“Very good,” Charles responded.  “You must’ve played this game before.”

 

Timothy’s face blushed with red.  He shrugged his shoulders, “Well…gee…yeah.”

 

“Then you know that I respond that the guy’s a bad man.”

 

“But he cares about me.  End of game,” Timothy gleefully shouted.  “I win, I win.”

 

“Oh, he cares about you all right, but for his own desires.  Now drop the act.”

 

Timothy still could not be sure if Charles really did view his happy display as an act.  And even though his real emotions cried to burst free, he felt he had to follow the flow of the conversation and keep up the happy façade.  He tunefully responded, “You could be lyyying.”

 

Charles stood then paced the floor.  “Come on, think about it.”

 

“Then tell me why am I here?”

 

“You’re an educated man.  Why do you think you’re here?”

 

Timothy tracked Charles’ rapid pace around the office.  Though it may end up as a grave error, he simply could not repress the voice of rage from blurting out its feelings.  “The doctor’s conditioning me for something.”

 

“That’s better,” said Charles.

 

“You’re not going to ask where my smile went to are you?”

 

“As far as I’m concerned, I could care less that you’re not smiling.  Now, let me tell you something.”

 

Timothy plopped his elbows onto bouncing knees tjem buried his eyes into propped up palms.  He could hear Charles’ harsh utterances as he continued to speak at him, but the words sounded garbled once they penetrated the mind.

 

Timothy always had doubts about the center—no, more than doubts, but discovered that whenever he casually tried to correspond with Dr. Johnson to ascertain the truth of the matter, his questions were returned rephrased, left for him to answer on his own.  Now, he sensed a tide of anger sweep over excited thoughts and felt a sea of agitation storm his turbulent mind.  Finally, the truth was at hand—not a manipulating piece of paper that reeked of deceit.

 

“Are you listening Timothy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“You know why.”

 

“I mean what’s your problem?”

 

“What’s my problem,” snapped Timothy angrily.  He vaulted from the chair, paced between the grayness of walls as he rapidly wringed his hands.  “I’m losing.  That’s the problem—I’m losing.”

 

“Losing what?”

 

“It’s so hard to take all of you on you know,” Timothy answered with a laugh.

 

Charles