When I finally sit, I choose the chair, not the bed. The chair places my back against an angle that keeps me awake. The bed invites surrender.
I pick up the water and sniff it. Just water. I take a small sip, hold it in my mouth, taste for bitterness, metallic tang, anything out of place. It tastes like water.
I swallow anyway. Thirst wins.
A voice speaks, and it comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Honey.”
My name in a tone that sounds like a nurse, a teacher, someone whose job is to reassure.
I freeze.
“Good afternoon,” the voice says. “How are you feeling?”
It is such a normal question that for a moment my throat tightens.
They are not supposed to ask you how you’refeeling. They are supposed to tell you what they’re doing. They are supposed to strip you down to a subject, a variable, a thing.
This voice offers me a person’s question.
I hate it for that. I hate myself for the little spark of wanting to answer.
“I feel like you’ve redecorated,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice the way I’ve forced it in front of terrified people, in front of children, in front of anyone who needed a calm face. “It’s charming.”
“Your humour is noted,” the voice replies, as if it’s taking minutes. “You are safe here.”
I laugh once, sharp. “That’s not a thing safe places say.”
There is a pause, not long enough to be human, too long to be a machine thinking.
“We have designed this environment to reduce distress,” the voice says. “Distress interferes with accurate measurement.”
There it is. The seam in the wallpaper. The truth behind the soft lighting.
“So I’m being measured,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Measured for what?”
“Attachment response. Prosocial behaviour. Empathic output.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. “You can’t measure empathy.”
Another pause. “We can measure your body’s responses. We can measure your choices.”
The room’s warmth feels suddenly too thick, like syrup. Like I’m being held in it.
“What do you want?” I ask, and my voice comes out quieter than I intend.
“To understand you,” the voice says.
That’s the second lie.
Understanding is what you offer someone you care about. Understanding is not what you do to a subject strapped to a table, even if the table is disguised as a bed with clean sheets.
The voice continues, smooth and calm. “A facilitator will join you shortly. Please remain in the room.”
