An Inexplicable Whisper by J. J. Steinfeld

I was looking at a tiny insect crawling along the floor at my feet, attempting to recall when I was first brought to this room and forced to sit on this old wooden chair, when the questioner’s words ended my reverie. The questioner has a lovely voice, and I shake my head at this strange thought, especially since I cannot tell if the voice is male or female, and I cannot even pinpoint the accent. The questioner’s threats are not immoderate and I fail to see any incriminating evidence, nonetheless I tremble with a rhythm that breaks consciousness into small fragments of fearfulness, upsetting the smooth undulation of daily headlines. Could this be the time awareness ends for me, the time when forgetfulness causes forfeit of all sense, all forms of breathing, all poetic routes for escape? The door I can see from my confinement has new locks, the windows have been bricked in. All I have of hope are the memory of having escaped once before and the knowledge not altogether uninviting that God doesn’t play fair but fairness to God and fairness to a man strapped to a wooden chair in a locked room are worlds apart. I smile at this thought also, the questioner telling me I have a disconcerting smile, much like the previous person in this room, a woman who was most cooperative but died, unfortunately, from strain to her already weak heart. Once again I refuse to speak, listen to the threats repeated as if unimaginativeness was an art form this questioner finds pleasing and necessary. Resorting to an anxious tactic, I convey my life’s history with the blinking of my eyes. Then the insults begin again, becoming louder than the threats, insults and threats a cacophony, the fairness or unfairness of God impossible to differentiate. I cannot recall the incantation that unlocks locks, shatters bricks, but I begin to sing a lullaby in a language from another time and the questioner falls asleep just as I hear an inexplicable whisper and come very close to believing.