A girl sits on a chair in a dark, cramped closet. She thinks that maybe she doesn't like it, but she's not quite sure, and certainly if anybody asked her, she'd swear up and down that she enjoyed it. She knows there's a door somewhere, and she's confident that if she could just find it, getting out would be easy. But it's a moot point, since she is tied securely to the chair, though with bonds of steel or scraps of dreams it's hard to tell. Not that it matters; both can hold a person down, and who's to say that ties existing only in the mind aren't stronger than ones that can be touched and seen? But there is something else that keeps her from attempting escape: a single thought, buried so deep she doesn't even know it's there--what if the world outside the closet is worse than the one inside? Just that one unacknowledged thought is enough to still any spark of an idea that would mean a definite answer to the question. So she sits in the closet and tells herself that everything is all right, ignoring as best she can the voice in the back of her mind screaming that it's not. And she whispers over and over in the dark, "I'm fine. I'm fine." And she will sit like that until the end of time, and never know why.

October '00

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