Room service.
I woke up one morning in a room that wasn’t my own, and I couldn’t remember how I got there. The walls were white, and gleaming, and the bed was comfortable. It took me a few minutes to panic.
I searched for doors, and found none. The same went for windows, hatches, vents, and tunnels. I began to cry. I rocked back and forth on the bed.
I must have rocked myself to sleep. When I woke again, I had been tucked in, and the light had been turned off. I rubbed my eyes, and felt my stomach rumble.
“Is there any chance of some food?” I said, to nobody in particular, but with a confidence that came from the belief that I was being watched, kept track of.
Quickly, food arrived in my room, although I’m not sure how that happened. They were pancakes, and they were delicious.
“Syrup?” I said, and it appeared.
Over the days, my room became populated with objects, with things I had asked for: books, a television and dvd player, a videogame system, craft materials, clothes… It seemed at one point like there was too much stuff for such a small space, but when I awoke the next morning, the room was somehow larger. When I asked for a bike, it grew bigger still, to accomodate the increased movement.
As I sat and thought about all this, it occurred to me that I had received every single thing I asked for.
It also occurred to me that I had not yet asked for my freedom.
