I was kidnapped—plucked from my home, disoriented by bright lights, and transported to a top secret facility where government types could study me. As a keen observer of the human condition and a master of disguise, I could be anything. To protect myself from abduction, I’d hidden in a sea of mediocrity. I thought I would be safe from detection that way, but I have to admit, it’s nice that my powers are finally being recognized.
In this artificial environment where day and night no longer exist, I am forced to live in a transparent prison cell that, while providing the illusion of freedom, separates me from the real world by impenetrable glass walls. The captors wear masks that obscure their identities. They study my behavior and take notes, perhaps looking for pointers.
I observe the other hostages in the room but we don’t speak. An independent breed, we are better suited for individual action than group therapy. We each deal with detainment in our own way. I watch with dismay as my fellow prisoners experiment with their power, shamelessly reinventing themselves, trying to curry favor.
The captors men discuss our fates as if we can’t hear them. Still, I’m intrigued with their idea of using my special talents to cure disease. I dream of curing cancer. Or diabetes. Or a myriad of illnesses that would bring me international acclaim.
While in their custody, I am encouraged to reproduce. They try hard to make me comfortable, to get me to be a willing participant in their plans, but I wonder what will become of my progeny and start having second thoughts. Still, as other kidnap survivors will tell you, when confined by a group of organized captors, you do what you need to in order to survive. And so, I comply. And afterward, alone, in the silence of my dark and shattered soul, I feel like half of my being has been stolen.
I lose track of time then, and float around in a daze. Finally, after a series of frightful experiments, a female captor peers down at me with microscopic intensity. She blinks back startled tears, perhaps at what she has accomplished, or perhaps in empathy for my tragic plight.
My present situation has forced me to concede that for all my bravado, my life as a stem cell has been highly overrated. Perhaps as a perverse lesson in humility, my captors have placed me deep inside the brain of a rat. And instead of curing cancer or Parkinson’s disease, I am now doomed to create limitless brain cells for an ungrateful rodent; cells that transmit thoughts no more complex than, “Who moved my cheese?â€
Linda Courtland is an LA-based fiction and travel writer. Check out her other flashes on Fictional Musings, FlashShot, and Six Sentences.
Brilliant bit of misdirection, Linda! I enjoyed it! And glad to have you as another contributor!