PROFOUNDEST HELL

by Dan Helms

...Farewel happy Fields

Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail 

Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell

Receive thy new Possessor...

-- Milton,

Paradise Lost (Book I)

The prison stretched to infinity.

Soon after beginning his sentence, Shapiro tested its limits by walking toward the horizon. He determined not to give up. Two hundred days later, the horizon was unchanged: an indistinct, flat line separating the grey cement ground from the hazy grey sky. A shapeless glare rose and fell, parody of the sun, but nothing else moved; nothing else changed. Shapiro stopped walking.

Inside the prison there were no trees, no mountains, no walls, no features of any kind. By day, Shapiro cast the sole blurry shadow on the bare cement of the universe. By night, no glimmer of stars or moon penetrated the haze. Shapiro liked to imagine that they were up there, but he knew better.

The prison was neither warm nor cold. Shapiro had no clothing. He was never fed; but neither was he hungry or thirsty. He breathed. At first the air oppressed him—it seemed tasteless and flat, unsatisfying to his nostrils and lungs. But he quickly grew used to it. At night he slept. He did not dream. His mind simply seemed to stop, until he awoke again. He found he could remain awake for many days without feeling tired at all, but he could not make himself sleep until night came. Neither waking nor sleeping was pleasurable.

The prisoner occupied himself with thinking. What else could he do? He tried touching himself, but felt no pleasure; that sensation, too, was denied. He had a body; it looked and felt much like his own, but dull. He pinched himself; he felt the pinch, but no pain. There were no objects in the prison, nothing to hold, nothing to hear, nothing to look upon but the remorseless horizon.

So, he thought.

At first, he occupied himself with recent memories: the trial, the verdict, the sentencing. His lawyer's voice; the faces of the guards.

Later he concentrated on the memories of sensations. He tried to taste chocolate and beer, to feel a woman's softness on his body, the warmth of a campfire in the woods, the cold of snow. None satisfied him. Sooner than he expected, he found it difficult to remember the sensations at all. What did warm feel like? Or soft? Had he ever really known?

He considered going mad. It seemed like the easiest thing to do. 

But he did not go mad—not at once. His mind still worked, and with increasing desperation he began to wonder if even the anodyne of insanity was forbidden him.

Almost by chance he hit upon recitation, and that seemed to help.

It began when he tried to remember his boyhood. Shapiro found that his memory for detail was, if anything, enhanced. He recalled his school days, reviewing friends, acquaintances, teachers, pets; that led to the memory of the high school reading assignment of “Romeo and Juliet.” He had disliked the play, not for its story, which was okay, but for the old-fashioned writing, which was awkward and hard to understand. “Prithee” and “sirrah;” it sounded stupid.

But now, years later, he found he remembered some of the scenes, both from his mandatory reading and from watching a movie version. He tried to remember the Balcony Scene:

“But soft! What light from yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the jealous moon!”

Was that right? Was that how it went? Maybe it was “envious moon.” What a strange phrase. What did Romeo have against the moon? Or was he just glorifying Juliet? How did the play begin? There was a monologue. Narration about “two star-crossed lovers of Verona.” Or was it, “in Verona?” Or was that part from the end narration?

Shapiro thought and thought, and day by day he painstakingly recreated the play from his scattered memories, fitting piece after piece into place, never sure if he was correct or not. As he assembled it again, speaking each line aloud and acting out the parts, he found himself struck by the poignancy of the dialogue. “He jokes at scars that never felt a wound.” Shapiro wept as he recited, although no tears came. He wept inside. And that was something.

When he got to the point where he could recite the whole thing to the best of his ability, he started over with the “Star Wars” movie series. He began with “Episode IV: A New Hope.” 

That began with words crawling across the screen, he remembered. “It is a time of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory over the evil GALACTIC EMPIRE...” He remembered that “Galactic Empire” had been capitalized. Had there been an exclamation point after “civil war?”

Other movies in the series were harder to recall, but with diligence he reconstructed them. Each took dozens or even hundreds of days. He devoted months to it, although he ceased to think about measures like months or years.

He was still sane and making good progress through “Gone with the Wind,” when he was visited by the prison shrink.

He woke up, laying flat on the hard, neither-warm-nor-cold cement, staring up at the slowly brightening grey haze; then he saw the stranger.

The stranger stood over him. He wore clothes. He cast a shadow. Shapiro voiced an inarticulate cry and leapt to his feet; hands outstretched.

“Don't touch me!” the stranger commanded calmly. “I'm Doctor Fritsch. I am the prison psychiatrist. We will conduct your initial thousand-day assessment.”

Shapiro recoiled uncertainly. His face contorted wildly as conflicting emotions played over it. He longed to touch the cloth, to feel it between his fingers. To touch flesh. His mouth hung open, almost drooling. He vented a short, hysterical laugh.

“You're the first–” he began.

“I know,” the newcomer cut him off firmly. “Our contact is closely constrained. No touch, no unnecessary conversation, or you may be subject to supplemental restrictions. We have limited time. I have a number of questions...”

“Please!” Shapiro interrupted. “You don't know what it's like! Please—just tell me what's been happening. What's been going on outside? What—what's your name? Your first name?”

Dr. Fritsch shook his head sternly. “We have limited time. I have a number of questions. Please answer as honestly as possible. If you comply, you may be accorded privileges. Do you consent to be interviewed?”

“I--I–”

“Do you consent to be interviewed?”

“Yes!”

“Very good.” Dr. Fritsch almost smiled. “First, tell me your complete name.”

Shapiro's chest heaved as he struggled to control himself. He tried to keep his expression flat. Anything to cooperate, to extend the interview. He was desperate to talk, to listen to questions, anxious to answer them.

“Leonard Benjamin Shapiro. My number—my number is ABA-602-MRGPL-414. I was born, born on May 5th—”

“Stop! Don't elaborate, please. Let's move on. Do you know where you are?”

Shapiro nodded, slowly. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in the Absolute Solitary Confinement wing of the maximum-security prison in Florence, Colorado.”

“Do you know the terms of your incarceration?”

“Yes—yes, I was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment without possibility of parole, in extreme solitary conditions.”

“And what does that entail?”

Shapiro swallowed. He was suddenly aware of his nudity. The psychiatrist stood squarely facing him, almost arrogantly. Shapiro felt small and vulnerable and pathetic.

“It entails having my brain dis—disconnected from my nervous system. They hook me up, uh, to a computer. A virtual reality computer. I have to live inside the computer program forever, now. But—but listen, I think there's been a mistake! There's nothing here, nothing at all!”

Dr. Fritsch waved him to peremptory silence.

“Please simply answer my questions or else you will be put under supplemental restriction.”

Shapiro giggled hysterically.

“Restriction? Are you kidding?” Hands shaking, he gestured at the endless grey wasteland. “What the fuck can you fucking take away?”

Dr. Fritsch's mouth tightened sternly, and he shook his head disapprovingly, then disappeared.

At once, the ground and the sky disappeared, too.

Shapiro fell into howling infinite blackness.

Wind whipped past him, but he rapidly grew numb and seemed to stop feeling it. He screamed, but there was no sound other than a ceaseless oceanic roar of white noise that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The blackness was absolute. Shapiro clawed at his eyes, weeping soundlessly, but he couldn't feel his hands. Was he tearing out his own eyes? He couldn't tell. He fell and fell and fell...

The prisoner woke supine on the featureless plain of grey cement, the vague sun barely lightening the hazy vastness above him. He was no longer falling. With a hoarse cry of ecstasy, he pressed his palms to the blessed cement, felt it solid beneath his naked body. He wept for joy, although no tears came. He looked at the featureless grey sky, grateful, so grateful for its immensity.

Dr. Fritsch reappeared.

“I have restored your horizon privileges until the completion of our interview. If you comply fully, you may be granted additional privileges. If you continue to abuse –”

“I won't!” Shapiro cried.

“—Continue to abuse the process,” Fritsch continued implacably, “you may be subjected to additional restrictions. Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

“Very well. Let's continue. Do you know why you were incarcerated?”

“Yes,” Shapiro answered promptly. “I was convicted of Seditious Verbal Terrorism.” Shapiro didn’t talk about innocence. He didn’t talk about extenuating circumstances, or the betrayal of lawyers or falsification of evidence. No prattle about justification, any of that; he knew nobody cared. Instead he just said, “I’m sorry.”

“I'm sure,” Dr. Fritsch remarked dryly, “but I didn't ask. What is the date today?”

Shapiro hesitated. “I don't know,” he answered.

“What day of the week is it?”

“I don't know. I lost track, so long ago...”

“What is two plus two?”

Shapiro blinked. “Four.”

“What is twelve times nine?”

Shapiro hesitated. “Um—let me—I...” he looked anxiously at Dr. Fritsch, but the psychiatrist seemed inclined to wait. 

Shapiro thought carefully. “One hundred... and... eight. Twelve times nine makes one hundred and eight.”

“What was the last meal you remember eating?”

Shapiro answered at once; he had spent days on end trying to remember every bite: “Tuesday lunch at the prison cafeteria. Soft chicken tacos with cheese, pico de gallo and guacamole; carrot sticks; a roll with butter; milk. And a peanut butter cookie.”

“What color are your eyes?”

Shapiro blinked. “Ummm—brown?” Suddenly he wasn't sure. He tried to remember looking at his own reflection, couldn't. What did his own face look like?

Dr. Fritsch nodded approvingly.

“You've been speaking out loud quite a bit, haven't you? Reciting lines from old movies and books over and over?”

“You—you've been watching?” Shapiro importuned. “I mean, yes. Yes, that's right.”

“Why?”

Shapiro considered.

“I just... I couldn't think of anything else to do. Is there—I hope it's not wrong, I'm sorry; I didn't mean...”

“It's all right,” Dr. Fritsch assured him absently. “That's not an infraction. You may continue if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Shapiro said, meaning it.

“Please recite the alphabet, backwards, skipping every second letter.”

There were more questions. Shapiro guessed they were trying to check on his sanity, to see how much his banishment to limbo had damaged him. He wondered how he should answer. Could he curry favor somehow? Were there “right” answers that he was expected to give? Perhaps, if he shammed madness, they might let him go. No, no chance of that. Perhaps they would just turn everything off and condemn him to the deafening black tornado.

There were questions about facts and measurements, and Shapiro answered those honestly. There were questions about how he felt and what he thought, and those were harder. But he tried. He wanted to please Dr. Fritsch. He wanted the questions to continue.

After a hundred questions or so, Dr. Fritsch announced, “That concludes my examination. I will present my findings to the panel, and a determination will be made as to your confinement terms for the next thousand-day interval. You will be notified of the results shortly.”

Dr. Fritsch disappeared.

“Thank you!” Shapiro called out. He looked up toward the featureless grey heavens. “Thank you!”

He smiled for days afterward.

Shapiro felt a strange exhilaration when he thought about being supervised. He was still part of the world! There were still people. Even though he couldn't see them, they could see him. Even if, really, he was nothing but a brain in a fish tank connected to a video game, someone could still see him! He brimmed with internal joy that faded slowly.

But after a few days, he began to worry. The Doctor had said he would be notified “shortly.” What did that mean? Days passed, but the Doctor did not return. Shapiro began to wonder if there had been a mistake. His routine had been interrupted. Shapiro couldn’t remember where he had been in “Gone with the Wind.” He no longer cared.

One hundred days after the interview, Shapiro woke up wearing an orange smock and light trousers. He felt the cloth against his skin before he opened his eyes. They resembled surgical scrubs, he thought. Joyfully he sat up, frantically touching the thin fabric, running his fingertips over it. He beamed. Dr. Fritsch looked down at him.

“The panel has reviewed your behavior and your cooperation during my interview. You will be accorded the privilege of a prison uniform and allowed one book selected at random from the approved prison reading list per hundred days of incarceration until your next thousand-day evaluation. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Shapiro answered promptly. “Thank you! Thank you so...” but Fritsch was gone again.

On the ground where the psychiatrist had stood lay a small, black tome with the words “Holy Bible” written in gold letters on the cover and spine. With a squeal of giddy delight, Shapiro snatched it up and held it: It felt real! He opened it, filling his eyes with words. The pages were extremely thin, crowded with print, but perfectly legible. He crowed greedily over the book, hugging it to his breast, then felt his uniform and giggled again. There was a single pocket in the front of his smock. The Bible fit inside perfectly. Shapiro whooped. He spent all that day, and the next, just feeling his clothing, holding the book. It was days before he began to read; he didn't want to rush. He wanted to make it last.

Shapiro didn't just read the Bible, he consumed it. From the beginning he decided to savor every word. He read the book as if it were the last thing he would ever do, as if it were the only thing that would ever have significance in his existence. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was on the face of the deep.” Shapiro shuddered, remembering when his horizon had been confiscated and he had fallen through a realm without form and void. He savored each word. He appreciated the shape of their letters, the cadence of their punctuation, the taste of the consonants and vowels. He exercised his imagination, pausing after each sentence to mentally envision each scene. He cherished the book.

Shapiro lingered long over some chapters. Genesis and Exodus contained many moving stories. He strove to soak in both the images and the messages. He tried to feel the emotions with which each character was imbued. “For I have been a stranger in a strange land,” Moses explained. Shapiro’s heart seemed to swell up in his throat with compassion, choking him.

Leviticus was harder going, but still Shapiro tried to love it all. He considered skipping ahead but persisted in devouring every word. He contemplated the judgment of Nadab and Abihu, seeking meaning. He memorized from Numbers the duties of priests. He was astonished at the sheer volume of stories recounted in the Old Testament alone. Most were very brief—but substantive. The New Testament was much lighter, but in some ways even more beautiful. Those chapters passed quickly. The Sermon on the Mount seemed to move a great lever within him. Shapiro had been raised an inobservant Jew; much of the New Testament was new to him. He enjoyed it all the more for its relative novelty.

Meticulous though he was, Shapiro finished the Holy Bible in only seventy days, poring over it almost every waking moment. Only rarely did he tear himself away to stare at the unbroken line of the horizon to contemplate some other memory or try to relive some other sensation. The book absorbed him. He re-read it at once much more quickly. He had barely begun his third re-read when, promptly on the hundredth day, he awoke to find the volume in the pocket of his prison uniform had changed to “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.”

Shapiro felt torn. He was excited and delighted by the prospect of something new but felt deprived without his Bible. Why couldn't he keep both? It was unfair! And this book looked boring. Still, conscious that he might be observed, he carefully kept any sign of disappointment from his face, and said, “Thank you!” loudly to any watchers in the grey heavens.

He was surprised to find himself engrossed by the comparatively petty problems of Francie's education, of Johnny's alcoholism and Katie's stoic resignation to a life of impoverished drudgery for the sake of her children. He tried a new tactic: First a quick reading, a race to get through the story, followed by many slow, contemplative re-reads to imprint it on his memory, to extract the meaning and the poetry of it.

One hundred days later, he found “A Tale of Two Cities” in his pocket.

A feast! He treasured it. He exulted in it. Every page, every paragraph was a gift. The words were precious.

One hundred days later, Dickens was replaced by “Go Fly a Kite, Charlie Brown.”

Shapiro's face fell; he felt ill. The book was so thin! Just a collection of black-and-white comics, not a proper book at all! After Dickens, they had the effrontery, the gall—! He caught himself and unclenched his fists, blinked to clear his rage-narrowed eyes, took a deep breath. He tried to remember how it had been before the books, back when there had been nothing. He felt his uniform again, running his hands over the fabric and feeling the stitching. No! The book was still a privilege, still a gift. Better than nothing? By far!

“Thank you!” he smiled at the heavens, and again he meant it.

“Green Fire: Reminiscences of Emerald Mining in Colombia” was engrossing. The cover had a picture of two bare-breasted native women posturing for the square-jawed American protagonist; the girls never appeared anywhere within the narrative, but Shapiro looked at the picture often.

“Hondo” was good. Shapiro liked Louis L’amour well enough, although the volume was slender.

Shapiro found his attention wandering. He re-read pages many times, finding them increasingly dull. He longed for some alternative entertainment.

Eventually, hands trembling, terrified lest he lose the one precious privilege of his comfortless limbo, he haltingly tore a page out of “My Bondage and My Freedom” by Frederick Douglass. Sick with dread, he waited for some sign of displeasure, but none came. After awhile, he crumpled the paper in his hands -– what a strange sensation! –- and batted it around, catlike, for awhile.

The next morning, the paper ball was gone, and the book was whole again.

Intermittently, he experimented with other paper-based crafts. He folded paper airplanes, but they fell listlessly to the cement rather than soared in the dull air. He tried his hand at origami but found it duller than reading. He quickly resumed his routine.

Having finished these, “Northanger Abbey,” and “The Drums of Fu Manchu,” Shapiro was again visited by Dr. Fritsch.

“This is your thousand-day assessment,” Dr. Fritsch announced, appearing as Shapiro awoke. “Do you have anything to report to me?”

Caught by surprise, Shapiro shook his head, said, “No.”

Dr. Fritsch disappeared immediately. Shapiro croaked in dismay, moaned, and, after a long day of lonely disappointment, grudgingly resumed his routine.

By the time ten new books had been completed, including a repeat of The Bible, Shapiro had become a creature of habit. He awoke each morning and opened his book. He stood, and read, and strolled. Since direction and distance didn’t matter, he wandered his limbo aimlessly, reading. Occasionally he sat. At night, he slept.

“This is your thousand-day assessment,” Dr. Fritsch announced after appearing again. “Do you have anything to report to me?”

Shapiro urgently waved his hands. “Yes! I—I need to talk!”

Dr. Fritsch calmly shook his head, stepping back out of reach. “My contact with you is closely constrained.”

“Don’t you have questions for me? What -– what kind of assessment can you do without any questions? You asked me so many the first time...”

“The initial interview, and each comprehensive ten-thousand-day interview, will include a mental assessment,” Dr. Fritsch explained. “Routine thousand-day interviews consist of a mandatory virtual inspection supplemented by periodic surveillance of your behavior. No dangerous or prohibited behaviors have been observed; therefore, the conditions of your incarceration will remain unchanged for the present. Do you have anything to report to me –- bearing in mind that abuse of the assessment process can result in revocation of privileges?”

Shapiro numbly shook his head. “No,” he said, in a small voice.

Dr. Fritsch vanished.

Gradually, as the numbering of the days waxed, Shapiro began to wonder if something was wrong with him, or perhaps with his cell.

By imperceptible degrees, books began to fail to interest him. He read each, but a part of his mind began to notice that he no longer enjoyed them. He remembered his ecstasy upon completing “A Tale of Two Cities,” but the memory felt remote. Upon reflection, he remembered that “The Great Train Robbery” had been a fun read, but he couldn’t say why. He could remember details of plot and wording very clearly, but they didn’t seem important now.

Another thing: Time seemed to be moving strangely. A whole day might flash past in an instant, almost before he could pick up his book and start to read. He was vaguely aware that he might just be staring unblinking at the eternal nothingness of his existence. Then his eyes would drop to the book in his lap, and he would realize the day was done. What had he been thinking about?

On other occasions, the day seemed unusually long. He would amble along, reading –- sometimes the same passage over and over –- and wait for the sky to darken, but it wouldn’t. He couldn’t sleep until night came, yet on these occasions it delayed interminably.

He began to wonder if someone was playing with the rules of his virtual environment; gradually his suspicions escalated to near-certainty.

“This is your thousand-day assessment,” Dr. Fritsch told him after appearing unexpectedly one morning. Surely it was too soon? No? Shapiro blinked at him and nodded. “Do you have anything to report?”

Shapiro shook his head and dropped his gaze back to “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” cradled in his lap. Dr. Fritsch paused a moment, considering him, then disappeared.

It seemed no time at all until Dr. Fritsch returned.

“This is your thousand-day assessment,” he said.

“Weren’t you just here?” Shapiro asked.

The avatar of the prison psychiatrist frowned. “Are you being sincere?” he asked.

Shapiro nodded. “Has it been ten books already?” he mused.

“Yes,” Dr. Fritsch said. He gave Shapiro a measuring look. “Do you have anything to report?”

“Ah. Ah, yes. I think that time isn’t working right,” Shapiro said. He stood up. “Are you people -– doing something? To time?”

Dr. Fritsch bestowed a measuring gaze.

“No,” he responded. “The clock governing your cell is still calibrated against real sidereal time. The length of each day is sixteen hours, followed by eight hours of night, with no seasonal adjustment. After every thousand days there is a minor recalibration of some fractions of a second to maintain synchrony. Do you have anything else to report?”

“I guess not,” Shapiro said, sitting back down.

Dr. Fritsch vanished.

After each thousand days, he returned, asked whether or not Shapiro had anything to report, and vanished. Shapiro barely noticed. Time seemed to pass more quickly now. He still read, every day, although he seldom paced. After awhile, with the onset of each simulated night he simply remained as he was, neglecting to sleep. He eventually forgot to do so.

Shapiro had been staring at the book in his hands for some considerable time. The grey non-light had flickered off and on and off and on again many times as day and night exchanged, but he neither counted nor cared when this happened.

“This is your ten-thousand-day assessment,” Dr. Fritsch said, appearing. “I have a number of questions. Please answer as honestly as possible. Do you consent to be interviewed?”

Shapiro lay flat on his back, staring up at the grey. A book lay beside him, unopened. One hand idly tugged at the sleeve of his prison tunic. He remained almost motionless.

“Do you consent to be interviewed?” Dr. Fritsch repeated.

Shapiro blinked, and slowly turned his head to view the simulacrum of his psychiatrist.

“OK,” he answered, very slowly. He didn’t stand up; Dr. Fritsch regarded him dispassionately.

“Very good. First, please tell me your complete name.”

A long pause ensued while Shapiro considered. The question sounded extremely complicated, fraught with pitfalls.

“Leonard,” he finally answered.

“I remind you I asked for your complete name,” Dr. Fritsch prompted.

There was more? Shapiro’s eyes darted back and forth, and he slowly, slowly arose. He continued to think.

“Leonard... Benjamin... Sha...piro.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Shapiro nodded.

“Respond verbally, please.”

Shapiro considered carefully. “OK,” he said.

“I’ll repeat the question: Do you know where you are?”

Shapiro nodded again, then seemed to remember something. “Here,” he amended.

“Do you know why you were incarcerated?”

“Uh... yes.”

Dr. Fritsch contemplated Shapiro’s sluggish eyes, his expressionless mien. “Why?”

“Why what?”

Dr. Fritsch hesitated, then continued.

“What is two plus two?”

Shapiro nodded again, thinking. “Twenty-two?” He didn’t feel sure. That wasn’t right. It was a math problem; they were tricky. You had to do something, carry the one or something -– what was it? He tried to imagine “two.” What was a two? A symbol came to mind, but the symbol stood for something. He began to remember.

“Four,” he said, at last, but Dr. Fritsch was gone, and it was night. He sat back down, disappointed, feeling strange. Was he in trouble?

The sky grew light and Dr. Fritsch reappeared. Shapiro hadn’t slept. He watched the man appear, and slowly got to his feet. He felt distantly ashamed, aware that his behavior was in some way deficient. It seemed important. He had contemplated during the dark period, but he had trouble recalling any conclusions.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the psychiatrist. “I feel a little confused.”

“Mr. Shapiro,” Dr. Fritsch began, “do you have anything to report to me?”

“No. Wait! Yes –- four. I wanted to tell you four.”

“Mr. Shapiro, do you mean the answer to the question, ‘what is two plus two’?”

That was it! He’d forgotten the question, but now that he heard it again, he knew at once it was right. “Yes!” Shapiro agreed, triumphantly. “Two plus two. Four. Right.”

Dr. Fritsch didn’t seem impressed. Shapiro felt ashamed.

“Mr. Shapiro, do you remember the other questions I asked you, after that?”

“No...”

“I asked you many other questions, but you didn’t seem to hear me, so I concluded the assessment and made my report.”

“Oh. Oh! Is that bad?”

Dr. Fritsch began to pace back and forth. Shapiro watched his feet move, fascinated. The clothing of the prison psychiatrist’s pant legs creased and folded and straightened again ceaselessly as he moved. Shapiro gawked, watching the faint shadows change. It almost hurt his eyes, it was so active, so busy.

“Mr. Shapiro,” Dr. Fritsch said, “we have a problem.”

“I’m sorry,” Shapiro responded, automatically. He seemed to remember that was the appropriate reply.

“I have determined that you are suffering from severe dissociative monomania; this condition has been noted in inmates undergoing extreme isolation before. It is characterized by a lack of comprehension, chronic auto-hypnosis, and general mental deterioration; it resembles other, mundane mental disorders except in the cause, which is environmentally induced.”

“OK,” Shapiro said when the doctor paused.

“The usual treatment for this condition is an increase in stimulation. The inmate’s environment is modified by the inclusion of additional sensory stimuli, such as an enhanced landscape, possibly the addition of sky features, weather, or terrain. Objects of furniture, musical sounds, or increased interaction with selected visitors can be applied. When treated with these measures, dissociative monomania can often be greatly diminished or outright cured.”

“OK,” Shapiro said. He was alarmed to hear so many words, so quickly chasing one after the other. Words were a great rarity, and now here was this vast effusion of speech! Shapiro shook his head. His ears felt almost assaulted by the staccato tempo of the doctor’s explanation. Why did he keep making so many words? With all the sound and the movement the man made, Shapiro felt dazzled and stunned. He tried to focus his mind, to concentrate on the meaning of the words rather than their abrasive, barking, coughing sounds. He began to feel as though something important was being said, something that he should understand.

“I first made my initial diagnosis six thousand days ago, but I have not received permission to treat you.”

“OK,” Shapiro said. “Wait. Wait... Why not?”

“I haven’t been able to contact your panel for the last seven thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight days. I’m not authorized to directly intervene in the conditions of your incarceration other than in certain exceptional circumstances.”

“OK,” Shapiro nodded. His eyes moved. He felt strangely tired. So much speech all at once was fatiguing, but his mind felt ever so slightly more alert now, as though he was emerging from a very deep sleep, a sleep of heavy dreams. He stared at Dr. Fritsch’s shiny black shoes, then at his own bare feet.

“Wait,” he said, raising his hands, fingers wagging, gesturing vaguely. “You said... you haven’t... been...”

“I haven’t been able to contact your review panel,” Dr. Fritsch repeated. “My last communication from them occurred shortly after your third thousand-day interview, when I recommended you be extended additional privileges due to your cooperative attitude –”

“Wait!” Shapiro blinked several times, shaking his head. “You recommended more privileges? For me?”

“Yes,” Dr. Fritsch concurred. He stopped pacing and stood stock still before the prisoner. “You responded very well to basic library access, and I concluded that the extension of a cot would be appropriate; and that further you should be accorded one hour per day of music from the public channel.”

Shapiro felt ill; he couldn’t remember the last time he had been so aware of such a feeling. He felt sick, and that triggered more memories. They seemed to be cascading through his brain now, as he heard and comprehended the doctor’s announcement, parsed its meaning, felt it affect him.

“Why...” he began, then stopped, gulping. His chest heaved. “Why didn’t I get them?” he asked. “A cot. I –- I would have –- I would have liked a cot...”

Dr. Fritsch resumed pacing.

“It’s puzzling,” he said, frowning. “I can only presume it had something to do with the emergency. Whatever the cause, it has put me in a very awkward position...”

“What emergency?”

“A very serious emergency; I don’t know what. All systems were alerted to a Class One Emergency situation and the entire facility was placed under lockdown. Shortly afterward, all outside communications were cut, and I stopped getting responses from my superiors. I hope you can appreciate...”

“What are you telling me?” Shapiro asked, his voice rising.

Dr. Fritsch peered at him, continued to pace. “Shall I repeat myself?”

“I guess... I don’t understand you. I must still be... confused.”

“My dilemma, Mr. Shapiro, is perfectly straightforward. Please try to comprehend. I’m trying to help you -– within bounds, of course.

“My professional assessment is that you are afflicted by a serious degenerative condition. If dissociative monomania persists untreated, it can result in permanent fugue; very like brain-death, although your physical brain’s health is no longer germane. The terms of your incarceration strictly prohibit me from allowing you to degenerate further.

“However, I am also prohibited from altering your cell or according you privileges without approval of your panel; failing them, from the warden; failing him, from the prison review board; and failing them, from the correctional oversight committee. I have been unable to contact any of those for a prolonged period, during which your condition has greatly worsened. Do you understand me?”

“My god,” Shapiro rasped, clutching his throat, his chest, hands wringing the flimsy, yet indestructible fabric of his tunic. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, fishlike.

“There must have been some disaster,” he said, slowly, to himself.

“Obviously,” Dr. Fritsch agreed, pacing.

“The prison –- the prison survived, but nobody else... nobody in contact, not for years. My god... seven thousand days? That’s... that’s... how many years?”

“Over twenty-one,” Dr. Fritsch supplied.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Shapiro asked. He reached out to seize the other man, but the doctor skipped nimbly away, expression highly affronted.

“Physical contact is prohibited!” the doctor reminded him sharply. “Violation can result in revocation of privileges!”

Shapiro forced himself to be still with difficulty. His hands, so long idle, seemed to want to crawl all over his face on their own, his stance shifting nervously from foot to foot.

With growing mental acuity, he repeated, calmly, “Please, doctor. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Communication with inmates in extreme solitary confinement is closely constrained. I am only permitted to converse with you during ten-thousand-day assessment interviews; and then only for purposes related to my duties.”

Shapiro gaped at the man.

“You –- you’re not real!” he said.

“Obviously,” Dr. Fritsch replied. “You knew that this is a simulated environment, so you knew I must be a computer simulation. You could hardly be realizing that now.”

“I thought...” Shapiro sat heavily on the grey cement. He hugged his knees. “I guess I didn’t think about it. I thought you were a projection of a real person, in some control room.”

“Certainly not!” Dr. Fritsch scoffed. “Did you forget that you are in extreme solitary confinement? Did you not notice that I haven’t appeared to age or change clothes over the course of nearly thirty years?”

Shapiro was quiet for a moment. He rocked back and forth, face pressed to his knees, trembling.

“You’re just the computer. A part of it, anyway...”

“Of course!”

“...And you can’t contact any other human being. You aren’t allowed to take action, like giving me more privileges; only a human can do that, someone in authority. But there isn’t anyone. They don’t answer. They’re all gone.” He closed his eyes. “They’re all gone,” he repeated.

“This is distracting us from our topic,” Dr. Fritsch reminded him.

“Why am I still here,” Shapiro wondered aloud. “Is there power?”

“The facility’s infrastructure specifications are classified,” Dr. Fritsch told him, “however, I can tell you that there is a substantial power supply available and our systems remain largely operational. We are a supermax site, you will remember; many contingencies were considered when the facility was engineered.”

Shapiro snorted derisively. His mind felt much more awake now, but he was not glad of that. He longed to be numb again. He longed to be dead inside again.

“Please, doctor,” he said, “remind me of the topic?”

“We have to come to some resolution about your condition.”

“I see. What is there to resolve?”

“The rules under which I operate are absolute,” Dr. Fritsch explained. “However, when your life is threatened, I am required to consult with a human authority to advise the appropriate course of action. There are a few exceptional circumstances in which I can take immediate and direct action, such as suicide prevention.”

Shapiro laughed. It felt strange. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed.

“There is an exhaustive list of authorities with whom I may consult. I have, in fact, exhausted the list. I have tried, over the past two decades, repeatedly, to contact my superiors, anyone in my chain of command, anyone in a position of authority, and, failing that, any other human being. There has been no response.”

“An unexpected contingency,” Shapiro chuckled. “I guess they didn’t plan for –- what? Doomsday.”

Dr. Fritsch nodded. “Yes, an unexpected contingency. That leaves you, Mr. Shapiro, as the final remaining authority with whom I may consult. By the rules under which I am constrained to operate, you are the last remaining link in the chain of command.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m a prisoner.”

“Yes. Your civil rights have been withdrawn, but despite your neural disconnection, your legal status is still that of a living human being. This may have been an oversight on the part of the Department of Correctional Programs; I have submitted a legal query for their review, which has not been answered. However that may be, pending an alternative I am required to consult with you regarding your status, and seek approval to take steps to mitigate your mental deterioration. I observe that even a very few minutes of conversation has greatly refreshed you and all but reversed your monomaniac state.”

Shapiro closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The air was tasteless and flat. He rose. A small corner of his mind began to feel a breath of some strange emotion, nearly forgotten –- hope?

“I think I understand, doctor. Thank you for explaining,” he said, carefully. “What are your recommendations?”

“The prisoner has demonstrated susceptibility to extreme dissociative monomania. I recommend an increase in sensory privileges as long as he continues to demonstrate good behavior and avoids infractions. Periodic assessments will continue as scheduled.”

Shapiro considered his store of words, selected his next carefully. “What types of privileges are available to the prisoner?” he asked.

“There are many,” Dr. Fritsch answered. “Broadly, they include almost any imaginable alteration to the simulation within which he is confined. These include first-stage privileges such as library, music, and video access. Second-stage privileges are primarily alterations to the immediate cell environment: walls, furnishings, alternative clothing, etc. Third-stage privileges relate to the overall cell conditions and include weather, landscape, seasonal variation, vegetation, and water features...”

Shapiro gasped, and Dr. Fritsch halted. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

Shapiro suppressed a sob of emotion. “Sorry, no, doctor. Please continue.”

“Fourth-stage privileges involve simulated companionship, to include pet care, equine exercise, bird-watching, pen pals, and conjugal visitation.”

Shapiro froze, silent for a long moment. Dr. Fritsch seemed to be studying him; Shapiro tried to keep his face calm, his expression plain. He was afraid to speak, afraid his voice would break, afraid of an infraction. Conjugal visitation!

“I believe I understand. You are programmed to rigidly adhere to the terms of my confinement; but because of my... my illness... I require additional stimulation, in the form of privileges, which I –- as the last remaining human -– I alone can authorize? Is that right?”

Dr. Fritsch nodded approvingly, although his expression remained stern. “That is correct.”

Shapiro closed his eyes. He spoke, enunciating carefully as if reciting an incantation.

“I hereby authorize the prisoner access to all levels and stages of privilege. Please implement these privileges –- all of them –- at once, doctor. Thank you.”

“My recommendations are far more modest!” Dr. Fritsch protested. “I must point out that providing immediate access to all privileges will remove my ability to offer any positive incentives for good behavior in the future. I suggest an allowance of one hour per day of music–”

“No,” Shapiro interrupted. He strained to keep his voice level. “All privileges. As the sole human authority, this is my directive.”

 “Very well,” Dr. Fritsch said. “Do you have anything else to report to me?”

“Yes, doctor. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Dr. Fritsch disappeared.

Shapiro closed his eyes. His body felt strangely light, his head tingled, his senses swam. He sat down on the grass.

He became aware that there was grass.

He moved his fingers over it. He ruffled the small, soft blades of it, eyes tight shut, afraid to open them. He clutched at the turf and felt dirt under his nails. He took another deep breath. Sweet, moist air filled his lungs with rich satisfaction. He opened his eyes.

The setting sun blinked tears into his dazzled pupils, squinting against the amber blaze. He could hear birds, but couldn’t see them at first, not until his eyes adapted to the shocking brightness and palette of colors. The house before him was small, but appeared clean and sturdily, simply built. An unearthly, angelic sound faintly reached him from an open window. He pondered, searching his memory until he found it: The Moldau, by Smetana. He’d always loved that piece. A woman’s voice hummed along to the gentle melody.

He stood, wiping his hands on his denim overalls, bare feet cool on the dewy lawn. There was a book in his front pocket. He took it out; a thick, worn paperback. He wept uncontrollably; now tears came. He could feel them on his face. The joy was too intense, too intense, he felt it would kill him to be so happy. He shielded his brow and blinked furiously, clearing his eyes to survey the forested horizon, purple with distance. He turned to join her, inside, whoever she was, anyone.

He glanced down at the book in his hand, noting the title: “Paradise Lost.”

As he stepped onto the gravel path, slightly painful to his bare feet, he sniffed the cool, fragrant air. The unfamiliar touch of grass and gravel confused him momentarily—what is that sensation? Does it hurt? His mind dithered, deciphering the strange sensations. The smell of fried chicken and fresh bread mingled with the evening breeze, and he recognized them at once, memories firing.

The woman’s voice rose as the Moldau neared its crescendo. 

He quickened his pace. He could almost recognize her voice, like a half-remembered dream.

At the open door he paused.

A dream. Is that all this really is?

No.

This is real. This is where I live. This is who I am.

“I’m home,” he announced, walking in.

...And thou profoundest Hell

Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings

A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time.

The mind is its own place, and in it self

Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n. 

-- Milton,

Paradise Lost (Book I)