After hours of bending over the table, starring at the screen, the green prompt continued to demand immediate input. My fingers slowed to a stop, unable to make a decision on their own, and my mind blanked.

I stared down at my hands on the keyboard.

Have my fingers ever made a decision on their own? I thought of "Mad Love" with Peter Lorre. Now there were some fingers that acted of their own free will. I raised my hands and inspected my wrists as if expecting to find tell-tale signs of surgery. There was none.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I pretended not to hear the soft spoken voice coming from the overhead speaker. Could I be as mad as Doctor Gogol in "Mad Love"? Or was I more like one of Doctor Gogol's victims of jealousy?

"Mr. Towmbley. You've stopped typing. You know the rules."

I looked up at where the inanimate voice was coming from -- the only voice they allowed me to hear.

"You seem tense. Do you need five minutes of porno?"

"Ahh shut up!" I hissed to myself, trying to be calm, hoping the hidden microphones wouldn't pick it up.

I pushed myself back from the table, arose from my chair, crossed the room, and opened the window. Taking a deep breath, the biting, sharp cold air of late fall felt chilly against my skin, yet like fire in my lungs. I exhaled deeply. Cold steam wafted and hung in the air. The distinct sense of impending snow was all about.

I glanced back at the screen; the screensaver was already playing with the boundaries of the monitor.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I ignored the voice.

I seem to recall there was a time when I could grab my keys and jacket in such a situation and be gone in a flash. Out, out into the cold, walking briskly with a sense of purpose in my stride. Free. Instead, I felt trapped in a cage of false purpose and bound by the expectations of others. Some unknown others. Cold sweat dripped from my forehead and I felt nauseated -- as if I could throw up at any moment. I sensed tossing my cookies right then and there would have given those watching me a sense of smarmy satisfaction, so I bit back the bile. I even started to consider and feel tempted by their offer.

At least that would have eased the pressure and put me in a position from which I could operate -- a position with little duress. Or so I thought.

I whispered to myself: "I'll accept your terms, if you just let me leave."

Of course the microphones picked this up as well. Like everything said and done in this room. It seemed as if I was finally starting to play by the rules they orchestrated.

The red light above the door blinked green. I wasn't quite sure what to make out of this. We all have been trained by Hollywood movies to think a red light turning to green means "The villain has allowed the hero to leave under his terms."

I crossed the room and hit the door button. The door opened with a sliding, hissing metal-like noise. I had the odd feeling that William Shatner was going to stride into the room wearing a groovy polyester uniform. I stepped forward and the door slammed shut with explosive force, nearly tearing my leg off. I fell to the floor swearing, holding my leg, and looked up in time to see the light go red.

I kicked the door and uttered a silent curse. Up to this point I seemed to be immune to desperation, but right now this overwhelming feeling started to crawl up my back. I wish somebody would turn me into a stone right away. If it weren't for the black gaping hole called past, I would remember how I got here. There must be a purpose behind all this. So I got up, turned around and sat down again in front of the computer.