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. The evident feeling of being trapped in a cage of illusions, false purposes and other peoples expectations punched me in the stomach. I felt like throwing up at any moment. I could feel the cold sweat on my forehead and felt temped to take their offer. At least this would ease the pressure and put me in a position from which I could operate. This situation would lead nowhere but to distress.
I whipered 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 finally started to play by the rules they've orchestrated for this play. It was more than evident to me, because the formerly red light next to the door changed its color to green. I wasn't quite sure what to make out of this, but we all have been trained by Hollywood movies, in which a red light turning to green equals the phrase: "The villain has allowed the hero to leave."
I crossed the room and hit the push-button. The door opened with a sliding, hissing metal-like noice.