November 1, 2009

- 1 -

Nicholas Jorgensen awoke to darkness. He then realized that it was more than darkness. Not only could he see nothing, but he can hear nothing. None of the usual ambient sounds seemed to penetrate wherever he was. He tried to move, but found that he could not move his limbs. He felt no pressure from restraints, but neither did he feel any of the telltale signs of motion, not even the faint, barely perceptible brush of air across the fine hairs on his arms.

He paused, wondering if perhaps it was simply a dream. He had been in dark, quiet places before. Eventually, he knew, his senses would adapt and he would be able to discern faint sources of illumination or the muffled echo of distant sounds. And so he waited, although not with any particular patience, for his eyes to reveal sources of light and his ears to register whatever sounds they could.

After a period of time he could not measure, although he was certain that it was not as long as it seemed, nothing had changed. The darkness around him remained as pervasive as it had when he had first awakened—and just as silent. He had been in similar situations before—hiding in dark closets, that kind of thing—but even in those instances, in the absence of other sights and sounds, he remembered hearing the sounds of his body. Absent here was the rhythmic throb of his pulse in his ears and the sounds of his own breathing.

He took a quick, experimental breath. It seemed to work, as he did not feel his body kick into spasms of hyperventilation that would have followed otherwise. Yet, there was no sensation of his lungs filling with air and then deflating as they expelled his breath. He tried again, with the same result.

Nicholas began to doubt that this was all a dream, although he had no other explanation for it. While he had heard of sensory deprivation chambers, he had never experienced one. He certainly did not remember making arrangements with any of the campus psychology labs to participate in any of their experiments involving one. But if it was a dream instead, he also had no memory of falling asleep. Before he had awakened here—wherever here was—he had been . . . he had been . . . where?

He tried to recall what he had been doing . . . when? The night before? The morning of . . . ? Any lucid recollection eluded him. He had been to wild and raucous parties before, and drank far more than he should have, but had never before experienced an aftereffect like this—and that list included some award-winning hangovers. He had heard of people dying from alcohol poisoning, but surely it would feel different than this.

It occurred to him then that not only could he not remember what he had been doing before waking up here, but he found that there were many other things that he could not bring to mind. His name: his knew his name. His school: he knew his . . . purple and gold were the colors, but the actual name refused to come. His father . . . his father . . . he could see his father’s face, lined and careworn, the sharp eyes demanding of him that he . . . that he . . . do what?

A sudden chill passed through his mind that had no physical component. Was he dead? Was this what death was really like? An eternity during which you went mad from the complete lack of any sensations? Or was this just to show you that it was time to move on, that when your body was dead and unfeeling, there was no reason to remain?

Nicholas felt a wave of rising panic. He did not want to be dead, particularly if death was going to be like this. He was certain now that he should feel his breathing quicken and the steady beat of his pulse begin to race. None of that, however, took place. Everything around him remained as dark and silent as before. More than anything else at that moment, he wanted to scream.

#

The next time that Nicholas awoke, there seemed to be more clarity to his world. Rather, the quality of his thoughts seemed to be more distinct than they had the last time. Still, though, he could see and hear nothing, although odd sensations like sound faintly buzzed at the edges of his awareness. He took some comfort in this, as it was possible evidence that he was not, in fact, truly dead.

The unusual noises—if that was, in fact, what they were—seemed to emanate from a place other than from the proximity of his ears. It was as if he wore some kind of strange, protective helmet that seemed to make them echo from somewhere near the top of his head. That was not a completely accurate description either, he realized, but it would have to do for now. He tried to speak, to let whoever it was know that he could hear them, but he could feel nothing of his tongue or upper palate. The intake of breath as a prelude to exhaling to produce sound was missing as well.

He was alive. He was certain of it. New fears began to percolate through his mind. Was he in a coma? Was this was it like to be trapped within one’s own mind, unable to feel and communicate? That did not seem right, he decided. Certainly even then he should be able to at least hear the sounds of his own body, or noises from outside, even if he could not make sense of them.

The odd buzzing sound was more persistent now, occasionally taking on a faintly mechanical tone. Several times, it seemed as though it was trying to resolve itself into recognizable words, but understanding failed him. He was certain that he would understand them if he could hear them more clearly, but they seemed both distant and garbled by something like static, but different.

The noises suddenly faded and did not return. Nicholas had not realized just how silent his world had become until there had been sound in it once more, as incomprehensible as it might have been. He waited, listening, trying to hear something—anything—that might hint at the return of the sounds.

He felt suddenly very alone. Before, he had been too intent on studying his situation to realize his solitude, and convinced that he was not truly alone, simply somehow deprived of contact with his senses, or they with the outside world. For the first time, the lack of any sensations made him feel as though he was floating, adrift without any link to gravity or other force of nature that kept him bound to this world.

At first, he found the sensation interesting and almost liberating. Then he realized that there remained no sensation at all, that it was a construct of his own mind. For a moment, he thought he might fall, plunging down to . . . where? There was no here to plummet down from. It was then that the urge to scream returned. And once again he could find no voice.

#

“Nicholas.”

He became aware of his name being called. Awakening to the sound, he felt groggy, as if he had been awakened from the midst of a deep, dream-filled sleep.

“Nicholas?” his name repeated; he was certain that it was a question this time. “Can you hear me?”

He wanted to nod, still unable to find his voice. The muscles in his neck refused to obey, which was not surprising since he could not feel his neck—or his head for that matter.

It then occurred to him that the voice did not sound entirely human. It still had that distinct electronic quality that he remembered from . . . before? Before when? He clearly remembered now waking before, at least once. It might have been twice. Or even more than twice, but beyond the second time he could not discern any specific memories that told him during which period of being aware they might have occurred.

“Nicholas.”

There it was again: the voice calling his name.

“I know this might sound odd,” the voice continued this time. “But if you can hear me, I need you to think very hard about the fact that you can hear me.” There was definite modulation in the voice now, although it was more of a rise in pitch than a genuine inflection.

Think very hard, the voice had said. What did they think? That he possessed some kind of secret telepathic powers? Is that why they were holding him captive like this? He considered ignoring the instructions out of frustration, but then grew worried that they might stop talking to him and leave him alone again. He remembered hearing about that kind of torture being used, keeping someone so completely in solitary confinement that they craved the company of anyone, even their enemy captors.

What harm could he do anyway? he asked himself. It was not as though he harbored any great military or corporate secrets. If they wanted those, they should talk to his father . . . That thought stopped him. Was that what they wanted? Were they using him to get to his father?

A sour sense of resentment ran through his thoughts. He doubted that his father would do more than raise an eyebrow at any suffering his son might endure on his behalf. It would be the subject of scientific observation; little more.

“Nicholas,” the voice came again. “Please try to let me know whether you can hear me.”

Sure, he decided. Why not? Feeling more than mildly foolish, but with the knowledge that no one could actually read his thoughts, he concentrated as hard as he could, thinking, I can hear you. And then, for good measure, he added, I CAN HEAR YOU! At that point, Nicholas stopped and waited.

Some period of time passed. One of the things that he realized about this strange state of sensory deprivation was that he had no means by which to measure time, short of counting the second out of himself in his mind. Even then, he had no way of knowing how closely his own count matched the real passage of the seconds. He did not even have the aid of his own breathing or pulse to serve as an organic metronome for the effort.

He was about to repeat the mental shout, having little else to do, when the voice returned.

“Very good, Nicholas,” it said. “Very good.”