The Circumstances
You are in a dark room, lit only by one light that hangs over a table in the center. On this particular table there are bindings and straps- it is so vile in its depravity. You know these people you have lost your freedom to use it for their own foul and horrid purposes. You know you do not want to be here. You have been stripped, the decency of a single cloth is your only accommodation for these circumstances- you feel less than human. The room is cold and still you grow more and more terrified of who may be coming in for you and what they may do to you. The room, echoing your heart, feels dirty and full of risk. You found this place by accident, never intending your involvement with these people and their secluded organization to get so intense and out of hand. You have little rights with them, indeed, they tell you what your options are anymore and you either comply or face the consequences. What have I gotten myself into is all that you can think as you stare at the door and wait for their latest instructions. What will they have you do this time? Tell them more secrets? Tell them more things you swore you'd never tell anyone? Show them more vulnerability as if you deserve to be at their mercy? Try to resist and yet fail as time and time again before? Someone comes in, they're masked as usual, and you are hardly able to contain yourself and your anxiety. He brings with him others, all masked and dark. They tell you to stand and that they are in control of the situation- your time is up."Everything is going according to plan," they say to one another with pleasure. Fear grips you even still- what does that mean? You do not want to stand. Someone grabs your hand and pulls you up from your place, you cannot bear to resist anymore- they have proven themselves too strong in recent times. This table was meant for you, and you know they are going to injure you. This is going to hurt. They will harm you. How could they?! From the time you met them they said they only wanted to help you. From the first time you spoke to the masked one he said nothing of this. That table is yours. You climb your Golgotha and await your sentance, unwilling to attempt escape. It’s no use. They surround you and look you over. How will they perform their ritual this time? How long have they been practicing this dreadful routine? How many others have been where you are now- at their mercy? How did you come to this place? How did you give them so much power? The man stares at you from behind the mask and says, “Just relax,” but you know it's no use. Then he holds his sinister blade above your flesh and lowers it as you pray to escape into the relief of unconsciousness…
The Question
Where are you? There are many answers that could suffice, but I kind of want to see how this short little verbal presentation affects you. Where do you think you are? (and if we’ve had this conversation before, please don’t answer)
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