“Good evening, Mister Wellis. Please take a seat.”
The chair creaks with his weight. His face is at level with that of his companion, but he does not meet her eyes. Click. He flinches. His fists clench as her monotone voice cuts through the silence. “My name is Normandy Crowe. I will be handling your interview today.” Click. “Before we start, do you have any questions?”
He recalls having a pressing question, daring to escape his lips just moments before he sits down. It is gone now. Click. “No,” he mumbles. The woman accentuates her saccharine smile with another Click. “Wonderful. I believe you are here to provide a statement?” Click.
He swallows. His throat reluctantly relents with a sharp pain. “Y-yes,” he chokes.
Your name, please. For the sake of the record,” she clarifies.
“H-” Click. “James Wellis.”
“Thank you.” Click. “Mister Wellis, what can you tell me regarding the government mind-conditioning program, MKUltra?”
His heart pumps with vigor. “O-okay. From what I can tell-” he stumbles, before his words are ripped apart by the thunderclap Click that sets his mouth into overdrive. “The MKUltra program was scrapped in the nineteen-sixties, ma’am. I can’t tell you anything about it.” He tastes blood. His molars clamp onto either side of his tongue. Metal and pain floods his mouth. “Miss Crowe, can you stop that, please?”
“Stop what?” Click.
Click. “Oh, of course.”
She continues, her gaze gouging into his face as if he is not contorting in pain, his fists not balled and bashing themselves against the underside of the table. “Are you or have you been in contact with any individuals who have been involved in the MKUltra program?” Click.
“You’re—you’re—no. No, I’ve not,” he scream-whispers, his voice airy with fear but loud with an anger directed at the blank walls that screech the clicks back to him with vile delight. Click. “I see. What do you think about the notion that MKUltra may still be active?” Click.
“Mm. Mm. Mm. That’s… that’s hm ridiculous, ma’am. Pure conspiracy.” His lungs seize against his will and he wheezes a chuckle. Funny. Funny. Very very very very funny. Click.
“Yes, of course, Mister Wellis. How silly of me to ask.” She pauses to issue another Click. “You know, recently, I’ve been hearing that MKUltra never existed at all. What do you think of that?” Click.
He laughs again. His nails dig into his skin and he paints tattoos of pain on his palms with the blood that has arisen there. “That sounds about right, Miss Crowe. MKUltra is little more than a theory. Nothing of interest there.”
Click. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”
She looks down at her pen as the Clicks fade away into the whispers of unforgetting walls. “It seems that’s all we need, Mister Wellis.” She stands. “Thank you for your time.”
Wellis rises. His muscles remain tight, his tongue tied, his eyes tear-filled. Crowe smooths her coat and makes to leave. In the space she leaves behind, there is no Clicking and the question returns.
“Who are those people, watching us?”
Crowe turns, her face subtly contorted, as if she is witnessing a normalized atrocity. “I’m sorry? There are no windows here.”
There are no windows, only sheets of darkness which reflect light in their endless nonspace. Still, they are not entirely empty. Within their recesses are silhouettes of silhouettes, a great shuffling amalgam which watches him seize over Clicks and lie to himself. Behind that shuffle, it is difficult but possible to make out three letters.