Day VI. Somewhere in Manhattan. 11.51 a.m.
Brilliant light covered the room with a mix of blue and yellow shining. She was sat down, with a very elegant white dress, smoking a cigarette with no filter.
‘You were selected, John.’ Lorraine said in a low voice. ‘We had been observing you for months. We needed to know all about you before doing it. First, we tapped all your communications, telephones, internet… People usually forget things about their own lives… we don’t. We know much more about you than you.’
‘What’s you role here? You are not journalist, aren’t you?’
‘In this life, I was a journalist by trade once… and I am a medicine doctor too… and I was an actress at the school. And now…’ she stood up and opened her arms here, with a theatrical face. ‘…I am a nurse, would you have preferred an old woman with a great mustache? I like you, John. I have passed hours and hours observing you. I’m your best fan.’
He started to enjoy the funny situation: that girl in front of him knew more about him than himself. Then, he imagined the building he was in: a lonely building with just three residents. The building was both: a jail and a hospital, with everything you need to live or die, it’s always the same.
‘You are not a prisoner, John. You can leave the room if you want. We are here to take care of you. We don’t need to retain you to see you.’
‘Do you create this?’ He finally asked.
‘I helped to create it. But, at the end, you will remember the most ironic answer to the question you’ve ever asked.’
He repeated the last phrase in the deepest place of his mind: ‘the most ironic answer to the question you’ve ever asked’. Is she only flirting with her toy or playing with the meal she’s going to eat? Some hours ago, he dreamt with a creature growing inside him… now, he understood that Lorraine was in fact the mother of that creature with long jaws and sharp teeth. He began to cough again.
‘Open the windows, please.’ He asked for. She did it and he could see the cloudless sky. Suddenly, like an epiphany, he answered the question that nobody questioned. ‘I was.’
And finally, Lorraine laughed.
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid http://www.martincid.com