8 – Sadie
SADIE
Day Five
( Well, day two for me )
I n Dr. Weiss’s cabin, time passes in soft, silent strands, weaving the hours together in slow, deliberate stitches. The clocks are programmed to move only once every five minutes, stretching each moment into something longer than it should be.
At noon, after the sun has settled in the sky, the indoor lights dim down a shade with every hour that passes, without the buzzing I’ve become accustomed to. In the silence, I experience something from my past life I’ve almost forgotten—something that I clearly took for granted.
An actual dark night.
Rolling out of my bed, I head to the kitchen and open the microwave. Somehow, the staff manages to deliver my meals through the back of it without ever stepping through the front door.
Today’s offering is French toast, sliced boiled eggs, and sliced bananas. Since I’m still full from last night’s steak salad, I decide to eat it a little later and pick up where I left off yesterday from my private tour.
Tiptoeing past my side of the cabin and down a hallway, I find Dr. Weiss’s suite.
It’s tucked behind a wall of black glass, enclosed by two French doors. Made of sleek metal, they’re both painted in a soft robin’s egg blue and are wearing the same silver sign: Dr. Weiss Residence. Not for Inmates.
Walking away from them, I venture down a long, brightly lit hallway where the doors are all locked and adorned with Weiss Staff Only placards.
Only one of the doors is sporting a small see-through window, and through the glass I see an oversized operating table surrounded by sleek white chairs.
I shudder at the number of restraint belts that lay across its cushion and continue wandering around my new residence.
I slip around a tight corner and find myself in front of a shiny red stop sign.
Under the thick “STOP” letters, the fine print declares, “If you can see this sign and you’re not a staff member, you’ve wandered too far. Turn around.”
A roaming camera suddenly beeps from behind me, as if it’s warning me as well, so I oblige.
I slept so well last night that I’m tempted to risk an escape on my next-to-last day, just so I never have to return to prison.
I took eight showers back-to-back, stunned that the water didn’t cut off after a few minutes—that the streams remained hot and heavy the entire time.
Experiencing a bed with silk sheets and feather-filled pillows brought tears to my eyes, and for the first time in years, I let myself to cry.
Not for long, though.
I filled my free hours by reading books, staring out the window to watch the lake water ripple, and waiting for Dr. Weiss to walk through the front door.
As I’m opening a book, the front door creaks open.
My heart skips a beat as a pair of leather shoes appear, but when the door widens, my excitement dissipates.
“Good morning, Miss Pretty.” A man in a dark brown suit steps inside, carrying white bags. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“No need to call me ‘sir.’” He wags a finger. “I’m Mr. Sheldon, Dr. Weiss’s project advisor. Did you sleep well last night?”
“Yes, sir—I mean, yes, Mr. Sheldon.” I start to walk over to help him with the bags, but the sounds of my hand chains echo through the room and serve me a reminder I’d almost forgotten.
I’m still in custody.
“It’s okay.” He smiles as if reading my mind. “It’s the thought that counts, and you’ll be out of those awful things soon.”
I watch him set the bags on the kitchen counter and open them one by one: new books and papers, medication, snacks.
“Dr. Weiss would like you to take this entire bottle of medication by noon,” he says. “The side effects can be pretty intense, so he made me bring you some extra snacks in case you black out before lunch is served.”
I squint as he lays out the bags’ contents: bags of flavored bagels, balls of butter, and small tins of flavored cream cheeses.
Okay, I’m definitely making a run for it before this program is over.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Sheldon.” I pause. “Is Dr. Weiss coming at some point today? Aren’t we supposed to have a session?”
“Yes, he should’ve sat with you yesterday, but…” His voice trails off, and he doesn’t pick up where he left off. Instead, he unwraps a set of plastic cutlery and sets it next to the butter.
“There have been quite a few changes to our agenda, so he won’t be able to see you today,” he says finally.
“Alas, I’m leaving a note for you to fill out your next ‘then’ page, a folded request with his next chess move, and he requests that you fill your afternoon by doing what you would do if you were on the outside. ”
“Without internet access or television?”
“Ah.” He holds back a laugh. “Good point. Have a good day, Miss Pretty.”
He leaves without another word.
Sighing, I down the medication and am growling with hunger within an hour. I devour the breakfast and the bagels, and quickly pen a “then” page per Dr. Weiss’s request.
Collapsing onto the bed, I read the first few chapters of the top book on my bookshelf. It’s a tragic tale I’ve read too many times to count, a tale that comes shipped to me weekly since my supporters caught wind of it: The Count of Monte Cristo .