Paper and Ink
“Alice tells me you won’t write anymore.”
“Of course I can’t, not now. That’s silly, trying to make me write.”
“No, Dorothy, nobody is trying to make you. You have such a talent and if you stop, we can’t share your gift.”
“I don’t want to write, you’re tricking me. This is a trick, I have no free will. Well, I’m giving it to myself, I’m not going to write for you.”
“Dorothy, we need your gift.”
Silence. Dorothy sat in silence and glanced out the tinted gray window to see if the birds were still there. Despite the fact that the birds were the same color as the window and blended in, she used that image of life to escape for the moment. The moment came every time she refused to write. They asked her to, and she escaped to the birds. With the birds. They sat on the branch, that one dead branch, to see Dorothy get interrogated by the man in the suit. We need your gift.
The man, as well, had drifted off. The comfortable silence suddenly became uncomfortable when they both realized they had stopped paying attention to each other.
“Dorothy, I noticed you said “can’t”. I said “won’t”. You won’t write.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why do you say that? You have the ability to, but you refuse to use it.”
“I can’t, I can’t. I don’t want to try because the pencil won’t write.”
“Have you tried? Is the pencil broken?”
“What? No, it’s not broken. I’m broken. It can’t write.”
“So now the pencil can’t write?”
“Right.”
“So you are the pencil, and the pencil can’t write, so you can’t write.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not sure I’m getting it.”
“Me neither.”
The man got up and walked into the other room, the connected one. (The room they watch me in.) I don’t see why they use a two-way mirror, I know they’re watching my every move. They’re scared I’ll hurt myself, or run, they’re scared because they think I’m crazy.
“I don’t get it.”
“She won’t write because she feels she is connected to the pencil, and the pencil only has one purpose, to write.”
The men nodded, and agreed that they had figured her out. They had torn through her psyche like the genius scientists they were. Figured her out.
She hugged her knees and buried her face in the space between them. “Have you ever noticed that prison and prism are very alike? Those are two very alike words. Almost the same, even.” She had looked up to say this, a look of longing and concern on her face, her eyes pressed on the two-way mirror. Pressed like paper and ink.
The man who had spoken to her before looked at his shoes. He felt like he knew her. Poor, lonely girl. Confused, maybe scared. No, she was manipulating them. She wanted out.
“Of course I can’t, not now. That’s silly, trying to make me write.”
“No, Dorothy, nobody is trying to make you. You have such a talent and if you stop, we can’t share your gift.”
“I don’t want to write, you’re tricking me. This is a trick, I have no free will. Well, I’m giving it to myself, I’m not going to write for you.”
“Dorothy, we need your gift.”
Silence. Dorothy sat in silence and glanced out the tinted gray window to see if the birds were still there. Despite the fact that the birds were the same color as the window and blended in, she used that image of life to escape for the moment. The moment came every time she refused to write. They asked her to, and she escaped to the birds. With the birds. They sat on the branch, that one dead branch, to see Dorothy get interrogated by the man in the suit. We need your gift.
The man, as well, had drifted off. The comfortable silence suddenly became uncomfortable when they both realized they had stopped paying attention to each other.
“Dorothy, I noticed you said “can’t”. I said “won’t”. You won’t write.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why do you say that? You have the ability to, but you refuse to use it.”
“I can’t, I can’t. I don’t want to try because the pencil won’t write.”
“Have you tried? Is the pencil broken?”
“What? No, it’s not broken. I’m broken. It can’t write.”
“So now the pencil can’t write?”
“Right.”
“So you are the pencil, and the pencil can’t write, so you can’t write.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not sure I’m getting it.”
“Me neither.”
The man got up and walked into the other room, the connected one. (The room they watch me in.) I don’t see why they use a two-way mirror, I know they’re watching my every move. They’re scared I’ll hurt myself, or run, they’re scared because they think I’m crazy.
“I don’t get it.”
“She won’t write because she feels she is connected to the pencil, and the pencil only has one purpose, to write.”
The men nodded, and agreed that they had figured her out. They had torn through her psyche like the genius scientists they were. Figured her out.
She hugged her knees and buried her face in the space between them. “Have you ever noticed that prison and prism are very alike? Those are two very alike words. Almost the same, even.” She had looked up to say this, a look of longing and concern on her face, her eyes pressed on the two-way mirror. Pressed like paper and ink.
The man who had spoken to her before looked at his shoes. He felt like he knew her. Poor, lonely girl. Confused, maybe scared. No, she was manipulating them. She wanted out.