THERE ARE DEGREES of darkness, that's sure. Unreasonable. Think about it. The small room is inside the large one, and it is the large one that's lightproofed? - that must be the word. So why is it darker. . . no. . .keep clear. . . why does it seem darker inside the small bed chamber? And not only that, but darker still when I shut the door? Dark and silence. I wonder if they checked the diet. Wind would be a bad thing. From their point of view, not mine. Brighten up the senses to wallow in a good fart. But it would break the silence unless. . . no. . . even they don't know that much. Jar the nostrils awake. And help the memory.But it's easy enough. At first, after a few hours, I thought I might have gone blind. And how could I check? As I say, it's easy enough to get out. Ring the bell. They'll come. But then that's the end. The experiment is cancelled. In this darkness how can you tell if you still see? Answer: press your fingers on your closed eyelids. The coloured patterns are still there. Or can the blind do that? Still there. . .
I got lost in there for a while. Watching them. Going deeper and deeper into the crystals. Your story they said. Now did they tell me that, or ask me, or just suggest? That's important to remember. And how will I keep track of time? By the number of meals I eat; the supply of food? But how often is it brought? Always when I'm asleep. It's never hot, so I can't go by that. Always a sandwich, a cold drink. And they leave it until I've finished. So if I slept through one complete day the same food would be there. Not even the bread goes stale in that plastic
bag. And how long do I sleep? How can I gauge and count? Even outside, some nights I wake at 2 a.m. refreshed and force myself back to sleep for another five hours. Other times go right through the alarm. I don't want to smoke. It's forbidden of course. The glow would ruin the experiment. Though they could run a plastic tube in from outside. Like a hookah. Problems of soundproofing again. Unless on the other side of the wall they built another lightproof soundproof room. But what about the glow of the cigarette in that room if I looked down the tube? A right-angle bend in it? Or the smoke in cylinders? A system of valves open only when I suck? Anyway, like I said, I don't want to smoke. I wasn't surprised. Half (now why do I say half when I really thought all?) the pleasure is in seeing the smoke. I tried that years ago, smoking with my eyes shut. Not much enjoyment. So I wasn't surprised. But then I thought well, blind people smoke and seem to get something. Perhaps I was blind and if I had a cigarette I'd enjoy it and that would be the proof. But I got rid of that with a little pressure on the eyelids, like this. . .
Orange...Dark Red...Green...That's the complementary colour business I suppose. There must be something in there if I could just focus. . .
We are not supposed to talk aloud, or sing. Trust. Like those newspaper stands with coin slots. Why did I say we? I am not allowed to sing. Or rather, requested not to. Do they watch us, no, me? With infrared or whatever they have. They're advanced enough in those ways. Must be something. Or how do they know when to bring in the food? Knock me out with odourless gas? No. If they could do that they could pump in cigarette smoke. They don't want me to be too uncomfortable. Yes they have the machines but they still have to put me in here on trust. On trust! That's what the man over the road used to say to his dog. Die for your country! And over on his back he'd go. A wirehaired terrier. Theirs was the only detached house on the street. His wife was Belgian and grew grapes in a glass conservatory in the garden. Middleaged. Chic black dresses. I liked her. When television began again after the war she had me over every Saturday to watch. Nine inch screen. Café Continental. We want MUffin, MUffin the MULE. Dim in the room. Always a smell of curtains, carpets and deep old chairs. Caesar was the dog's name, I just remembered. Not Tray. That's what I thought it should be. And wherever I went, went my po-or dog Tray. My mother used to sing that. I nearly had a dog once. During the war. Arthur brought it for me one Sunday, he always came on Sundays. White with black patches. But I couldn't keep it. The bombs. The food. Played with it on the grass while he talked to my mother by the kitchen window. An old piece of tree trunk to hold the door open in summer. Behind the shelter a clump of gooseberry bushes. I hid with it there. But he took it back. I had a book once about a dog called Ginger. Another called Six Little Travellers. A white rubber doll called Bobby.
So how long do I sleep? Construct a clock. With what? Pulse rate is about 72 a second. Respiration 21 or 22. Breathing's the easiest. Can't hold my wrist all the time. Why not? Nothing else to do. I could hold my right wrist and still pick up the food. Though I was once lefthanded. Still am for some things. Bow and arrow for instance. But the cold I had this morning has gone.