Sepia

You hear a lot about how horrible hell would be. I imagine it can’t be worse than where I am at now. They “liberated” me on a bright, sunny afternoon in April. Typical of Northern Illinois that time of year, the trees were flowering all sorts of shades of pink, white, yellow, and lavender-purple. With the windows open in my classroom, I could smell the colors. I knew the custodians would be upset with me for having the windows open. “Open windows mess with the HVAC system,” I imagined our head custodian complaining. I was sure an all-staff email would be sent out reminding all teachers to keep their windows closed, when in reality, it was only me and Mrs. Gonzalez who ever dared to break the rules.

The lilac bushes outside greeted my students and me with jasmine and honey. Remarkably, my class of juniors was in a pleasant mood that morning. Maybe it was the beauty of the day or maybe it was that I decided to deviate from the approved curriculum. However, it was more likely they were happy because I didn’t make them log into C.A.R.E.— the Centralized Academic Resource Engine. Without their VR goggles delivering strobes of dopamine the class just listens in dumbfounded silence.

Today’s lesson was supposed to be on Anthem by Ayn Rand. Instead, I picked a poem by Shelley, “The Masque of Anarchy.” Of course, I didn’t make copies or type out the poem. That would be too risky. Instead I just wrote some stanzas on the board. My favorite is stanza VI:

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,

And the shadows of the night,

Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy

On a crocodile rode by.

After explaining that Shelley was calling Lord Sidmouth a hypocrite for claiming to be pious while at the same time defending the massacre of 18 British citizens, I asked the class if there were any connections they could make to our own lives. Of course, they just sat looking at each other not sure what to do with a request for a personal opinion. It was at that moment that the Education Protection Agents burst into my room. Before I could assign tomorrow’s homework, they had black bagged me and brought me here.

The first thing I notice when the bag is taken off my head is the absence of color. The Lake County Reeducation Facility is fitted with low-pressure sodium lamps that create an eerie, sepia-toned world. The shades of grey and yellow make it seem I am stuck in the negative of an old-fashioned photograph. The cobalt and azure checkered pattern of my shirt are replaced by a single swatch of black. My khaki pants transmute into a muddy yellow. Even these distinctions are ripped from me when I am given my Facility issued clothing. I have no idea whether the jumpsuit is red, green, blue, or any other color. Again, I’m confronted with an almost black sea of scratchy fabric. During this initial processing, the reeducation officers were bellowing commands that were accompanied by plenty of prodding. For the most part, I am the only ward present. I can hear other officers yelling at other wards, but they are just voices in the dark.

I am ushered into a small room with a single chair. A lone LPS bulb emits its muddied light. The guards place me in the chair and then leave. The light goes out, and I am sitting in absolute darkness. A raspy but soothing voice appears from the darkness. “Welcome to the Lake County Reeducation Facility. We are glad you are here.” The wall in front of me is illuminated, momentarily blinding me with its opulent light. When my eyesight readjusts, colors flood back into my mind. I see a man, separated by a window in the wall, in front of me. I focus on the luxurious sky of his pale cyan shirt. Veins of silver streak his charcoal hair. He is in an adjacent room. I can see several other windows to darkened rooms. He continues, “I know this all is very disorienting, but soon you will receive the help you need. Our mission here at the LCRF is to ensure that you return to your life as a productive citizen. President Hannity started this program because he cares about mental health. After a night’s sleep, you will start taking classes and attending therapy sessions to begin the healing process.” Just as quickly as he appeared, he vanishes. The wall goes black, and the tarnished light returns along with the officers who direct me to my room: a single bed, toilet, and sink all bathed in the decayed light.

In the morning, I assume, a buzzer goes off and a voice echoes throughout the facility, “Good morning wards. It is time for breakfast. Please follow the line on the floor to the cafetorium.” Looking down I can see the contrast of the line on the floor. It is a slightly lighter shade than the rest of the floor. The door opens by itself. I step outside, and for the first time, see my compatriots. Since each room is so small, the two people adjacent to me are only 5 feet from me. I turn to the man behind me, “Hey, what is goi . . .” I’m halted by an intense pain that shoots through my entire body.

The voice overhead calmly states, “Please refrain from talking while in line. Further infractions will incur your uniform’s automatic discipline system.” I gather my composure and follow the man in front of me. Our line leads to a large room. Looking to my left and right, I see other lines leading to other doors, which I assume are similar rooms. I was expecting to get a metal tray and stand in a long line, but when we enter the cafeteria, I see that our meals have already been placed on individual small tables. These tables could be more accurately described as desks. With the washed out colors, details are hard to distinguish, but they resemble the student desks from my school. The meal before me consists of three lumps of various shades of grey. The murky-brown gray is oatmeal, I think. The medium gray is bland eggs. Finally, the dull gray is a strawberry yogurt that has a little but too much tang. The colorless food is offputting. Each bite seems wrong as if I’m eating an infertile, depleted mud pie.

We clear our trays to a station in the back of the room and return to our desks. The voice returns, “Wards, it is now time for your course work. Please retrieve your A.L.I.G.N. device in the basket under your desk and put it on.” A black outline image of a head wearing a goggle-like contraption appeared on the wall in front of me. Looking around, I noticed that some of the men in the room with me eagerly grab their devices and put them over their heads. Smiles from ear to ear appear on their faces. I must have been too slow in putting on my device because a burnished flashing appears above me. My jumpsuit starts to tingle, so I quickly put on the goggles. They cover my eyes and ears. They also have nubs that push into my temples. They remind of the C.A.R.E. devices that my students use, although these are more robust is nature. I’m surprised when they turn on. Instead of the sepia-toned world I have been living in, colors reappear. A cartoonish figure of a teacher appears in the virtual reality created by the goggles. The teacher looks familiar. In fact, he has a remarkable resemblance to my English teacher, Mr. Gould from my freshman year. He explains that I am wearing an Adaptive Learning Interface for Guided Normalization. “Over the next several weeks, the A.L.I.G.N. will help you reintegrate back into society. Use your hands to interact with the VR world. Test it out by grabbing the apple that appears before you.” I reach out my hand. Before me is a digitized version of my arm. I know it is mine because it has the same scar I do, the one I got from burning my forearm on an over rack.

Today’s lesson is simple. Images appear before me. I have to move a slider to indicate how positive I view the object. The first several images are of places. The first one is of a forest, beautifully lush and green. Even though color has been absent for one day, the vividness of the VR world is comforting and familiar. I move the slider all the way to the right to indicate I like the image.The next is a beach with white capped waves. I can even hear the waves through my device. Again, I slide the indicator all the way right. Several more images of pleasant places appear; mountains, colorful market places, and flower-filled fields that reflect the rainbow in the sky.

For the next image, I pause. I’m not sure what to do. Before me, I see The Winter Executive Residence. I hesitate, not sure what would happen if I don’t make a positive response. Curious, I decide to be neutral and slide the indicator to the middle. A dull headache begins to form at my temples and spreads to the core or my brain. It creates a heaviness inside my skull. More mundane images appear. I make positive responses, but the headache persists. A positive response for a Hispanic family at a baseball game causes the dull headache to become more piercing. A slightly favorable response to the military lessens the throbbing in my head. I try to play their game and make my choices based on the ideology of our current administration. When I start to do this, the headache becomes worse. I feel a cuff tighten around my bicep from inside my jumpsuit. My pulse is displayed on the screen. “Tell the Truth” scrolls across the air in the VR world. I should have realized there is no cheating. The C.A.R.E. units have similar features, albeit, they do not cause physical discomfort. The bigger the lie, the more discomfort I feel. The more truthful I am, the more discomfort I feel. The lesson finally ends and I am directed back to my room by the Voice.

When I return to my room, unexpectedly, a small bouquet of flowers sits on the sink. In what should be a jubilation of colors there is nothing but a cacophony of dead colors. I sit on the edge of the bed and squeeze my head to hold it together less it breaks apart. Reaching out, I grab the vase and hurl it against the door. The Voice, “Aggression is not permitted. Your automatic discipline system will be engaged. Three, two, . . “ The muted world turns to an even deeper black.

The days that follow are pretty much the same as the first. I follow the same daily routine of eating and education activities. Day in and day out I return to my room exhausted from the distress caused by the A.L.I.G.N. device. Each day, I try to outsmart it, but the biotech built into the jumpsuit knows when I’m lying or telling the truth. I watch many propaganda videos about the Government. At least with these videos, a pleasant sensation emanated through my body. Some nights, when I returned to my room, I found a surprise left for me. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but tonight an apple is waiting for me on my bed. I cannot tell what color it is. It is a shade of gray, so it looks more like a stone. I know I should just leave it because the surprises always put me in a foul mood like that first night. The absence of color has contributed to that foulness. The only time I see color is with the VR headset. I wish I could say that a part of me didn’t look forward to it, but even the A.L.I.G.N. system knew that was a lie. The colorless and shapeless food has also grated on my disposition. As the days pass, the food has become more and more bland. More accurately, each mound of glop on my tray has started to taste the same. Regardless of my trepidation, I give in to temptation and take a bite of the apple. Instead of the explosion of sweetness I craved, the apple confronts me with a disappointing lackluster crunch. I might as well have bitten into a potato.

My sleep is restless. I even dream in the colorless hues. Today’s lessons are familiar. Mountains: slider to the right. The beach: slider to the right. The Winter Executive Residence: slider to the right. An open classroom window overlooking a lilac bush: slider to the left. Contentment. I pause. These answers are not mine. But if they are not mine, whose are they? The VR world is waiting for me to make my next selection, but still I pause. A message appears before my eyes, “Ward, please make your selection.” Still I delay. I hear footsteps from the real world approach, “Ward, continue your lesson!” Before I realize what I’m doing, I stand. “Ward, sit back down!” I feel a hand on my shoulder. Tilting my head back then whipping it forward, I head butt the guard. The goggles shatter and shards of plastic and glass lodge into my eyes. My ADS kicks in and I’m immediately thrown to the floor by the pain, like a million hot needles piercing my skin. I try to stand, but the world drifts away.

When I wake up, I can tell I’m somewhere new. I open my eyes, but there is nothing. No altered sepia tones greet me. I reach up and feel bandages on my eyes. I claw at them and rip them off. It takes me a moment to realize that my eyes are open. They are open but I cannot see. I close them, blink, and open them again. A faint light appears in my right eye. It’s as if I’m looking through a pin hole in a piece of paper. I draw my hands closer to my face, trying to line them up with the pin hole. I see them. I wave them back and forth and can see the motion. I find them and bring them closer. I smile. My hands, dotted with the blood of my battered eyes. Red.