@eviji
Total darkness is difficult to achieve.
Space itself is not entirely dark; it is littered with stars and whatever else we propel into it. Science is the discovery of what we are willing to do for knowledge. Ipso facto, ethics exists. And Institutional Review Boards. To curtail that pursuit, shrink its orbit, minimize casualties. The world has decided, broadly speaking, the end does not justify the means. In fact, in the field of psychology, people must never be the means—no matter the importance of the end or the unimportance of the man. Dr. Chilton does not fully adhere to these agreements.
Any presence of light within this room, however dotted or minuscule, would ruin the illusion. Sealed with new, custom rubber lining, the door blocks all luminescence from the outside hallway. There are no windows for light to palette the cushioned walls; Rifat will never know their true color: he enters anesthetized and in the dark, he leaves anesthetized and in the dark.
To Dr. Chilton, the walls are teal. Because he knows they are teal. Even now, in the absence of light, to him, they are teal. He is a practical, boastful man. He enjoys being privy to the most basic of undisclosed details. He does not imagine he is in space. Or that the walls are white or red or nonexistent. Frivolous mental exercises like this don't excite him. What excites him is knowing what others do not. And uncovering that which others wish to keep private.
Without atoms, sound cannot travel. Space is an atomless, soundless gaping gap with the rare disturbance of life. Technically, voices should be stripped here. As lost as the teal walls. But it is necessary for Rifat to hear him. In Rifat's state, the suspension of disbelief that they are able to vocally communicate in the vacuum of space is easily suggestible. With ketamine in his system, Rifat would believe they are communicating telepathically were Dr. Chilton to so much as imply it.
Rifat floats in a sensory deprivation tank. Wet jumpsuit clinging to his limbs like shed skin. The saline water is two feet deep. The exact temperature of skin. Unnoticeable yet pleasant. Nurses loosely bound his wrists and ankles to the edges of the tank to prevent accidental capsize drowning.
When Dr. Chilton—sitting in a plastic, foldout chair in the corner of the room—hears the water slosh, he knows Rifat is awake. Voice gentle but firm, like a potter's hands to dizzy clay:
"The empty, black space you dream of occupying is within you. It has been there the whole time. You are there now. Inside yourself. Here, you are weightless. Unburdened. Safe. Everything is felt but unseen. Like your lungs, your kidneys, your heart. One knows these intimately but could not pick them out in a visual lineup." Frederick Could. A unique insight courtesy of Abel. "Most organisms cannot grow in darkness. Many, however, live in it. You are one such creature. You reach into that empty, black space, grope what you hope is there, and feel warmth in its place. You try to identify this phenomena by touch but it is as receptive as air." How much can Dr. Chilton take from Rifat and not of Rifat? He is the ship of Theseus, remaking himself. "You are receptive. Not empty. Elements have different boiling points. Unknown solutions can be identified if you know how much it takes for each to burn. Feelings are the same. This phenomena never boils. You identify it as love. The empty, black space you dream of occupying is within you. It has been there the whole time. It is love. You are there now. I am, too. As is Margot. Love is filling you. Fulfilling you. You are receptive. Not empty." Dr. Chilton continues on in spiraling circles.
