Figura en una Finestra

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. It was the only one the woman had ever known, and it wasn’t even real. Made of linen and oil paint, it was a crude caricature of freedom. Unlike her, the figure at the window had opportunity. The ocean lay beyond her view, with a distant ship headed towards a horizon unknown. Her face looked onward, and her right foot was raised, ready for another step into the sea of possibility.

The four walls of canvas starkly contrasted with the woman’s four walls of concrete. The painting was the only window she could remember. And she couldn’t remember why. Or how she got there, or who she was. But she had a sinking feeling it was by design. She had felt this way before. Manipulated, like a marionette. The strings held her hostage, palpable, but invisible.

The thought alone was maddening. The walls began to close in on her, bringing the image of the figure in the window into focus until it was all encompassing. The window became larger, and the figure’s back loomed large. Her breath hitched in her throat. The woman could feel her blood begin to boil. Her blood pressure rose and pupils narrowed in response to a sharp assault of sensation.

The room flooded with light and the woman fell to the ground. Upon receiving her, the once concrete-laden floor was replaced with a cushioned bed. She lay comatose, tucked between layers of sheets and white pillows. It was her last waking memory before it would be wiped clean once again. How many times this had happened, she would never know. But the audience watching was always keeping a tally. The number of times was many, and it would continue to grow until she learned her lesson.

The trouble for the woman, and for the many others in the same situation, is that it is hard to pass a test if you don’t know you’re taking one.

Every time she failed, she would suffer the same fate. Her mind would get the best of her, and betray her body into ticking her heart rate up until she was overcome. She knew these sensations well, but didn’t know how. How could she remember the trauma if she didn’t know who she was? How could her body remember just what to do, even if it wasn’t helpful? Surely it held a purpose. The throbbing of the veins in her temples, the shallow breaths and panicked thoughts? They would do her no good other than to doom her to rest once again on the floor, another mission failed.

Unbeknownst to the woman, the building was filled with rooms just like this one, but with different canvas on the walls, and different people held captive within them. The old, the young, the healthy, the sick. No seeming connection between them, other than the man who held them there.

The woman was not alone, but it was clear it served the man well to make her believe she was. There was strength in numbers, and the man would not be defeated. He had devoted years to crafting his experiment, and he would not be thwarted by a single soul, certainly not by the woman staring into the window. She would only know of the one he had created, not of the world that lived beyond.

The last window to the outside world was within these four walls, or at least she was led to believe it was. But if she would have the courage to question her mind, she would soon learn that a great adventure was on the horizon past the figure in the window.