Flipping the Switch.

It could almost be an interrogation scene. I'm sitting in a stark room, surrounded on all sides by fierce, white light that reduces my pupils to pin pricks. My head feels like it's going to explode due to the high pitched sonic whine that pummels me. I say it's almost like an interrogation scene because there are a few not-so subtle differences. I'm alone for one; there's no rolling up of sleeves, threatening me and giving me the stink eye. There's no actual bruising. I'm not restrained either, unless you count the mental handcuffs I've placed on myself. Even if I'd my spent my phonecall on representation, I'd likely have misinterpreted any counsel as some attempt to debase me further. And anyone (paid or otherwise) who gets too close gets short shrift.

And all the time my mind is tracking wires. Everything I find unacceptable and unsettling is routed through the electrical box on the far wall. No matter which way I look, I can see it. The front plate has swung open and sits ajar. An old fashioned manilla postal tag hangs flaccidly from the breaker. 'Flip Me!' it reads, in some weird call back to when I was eleven and got lost with Alice in Wonderland.

It's at times like this that I sincerely wish I could.

But I can't.