Time. Truth. Hearts.

There were three stones, a knife, a red button and a glass of formaldehyde.

I had woken up bounded, dirty, having bathed in my own blood that had congealed marking me red, proclaiming me human. I was in a well lit room that could have been stark white when it was new. My body hurt in parts where my bones surely had broken. There were too many of them to count and care. I believed I was alive due to the excess adrenaline that was pumped through my bloodstream. I could be wrong.

I stood staggeringly up, hands tied in front of me, and walked towards the railings of the cell that imprisoned me. As I made my way, my right foot made contact with a solid object on the ground. It was a knife on the ground mocking me. It was then that I realized that in every situation, no matter how despondent, there was a way out.

I would have pondered as to what I was doing there. I would have flattered myself with a long, intelligent soliloquy had I some time to spare. I didn’t.

I picked the knife up using my bounded hands and placed it on my mouth, sharp edge out. I then raised my arms to rub the adhesive tape used on me on the blade of the knife. It might have taken me ten minutes to finally free myself. Usually, bodily freedom was accompanied by some extent of ecstasy but the scenario didn’t allow any of that. I rubbed my eyes with my hands, encouraging them to see better.

What was better, it turned out, was the table at one of the corners of the room. I limped towards it to examine for I knew a table was a table only when something was on it. I was right but nothing I saw immediately made me any happier.

What exactly was on it were three almost perfectly spherical gray stones and a glass filled with colorless liquid. I was thirsty and if I had been a few IQ points dumber, I would have taken a swig, thinking it was water. But the direness of my predicament was pretty potent and I knew that whatever was in that glass, it was not potable. I picked the glass up, took a waft and memories of my college days rushed in instantaneously. Biology, to be most precise.

“Formaldehyde,” I whispered as I thought back to that news article I once read when I was younger about a man who accidentally drank a glass of formaldehyde, mistaking it for water. That person didn’t even arrive at the hospital alive.

I put back the glass and picked one of the round stones. It’s hardness was sort of comforting. It told me of stories of resilience, painful as it is literal. I had the sudden urge to drop the stone into the glass of formaldehyde, expecting almost with certainty that something quite extraordinary would happen. The logical side of my brain, however, rallied and informed me about the inertness of rocks with chemicals. I tossed the stone back to the table where it made a rather pleasant sound.

I then walked towards the railings to examine what was outside. The same grayish walls greeted me. But that was not all for I also believed that walls only became walls when something was on it, hanging or installed. What exactly was installed was a red button. It reminded me of the same buttons in carnivals which when hit would make a poor fellow drop from a platform into a pool, something that seemingly was very appealing to the audience.

I was enchanted by the red button. I was thinking, if that button was any other color, I would have cared less. It was, however, mercilessly red and portentous. I, to make matters worse, was obsessive compulsive and dangerously always curious. After all, buttons were always made to be pushed.

I didn’t even have to think. Everything was provided for if someone looked or examined enough. It was an unstated law of being locked in nondescript rooms. I took one of the stones and returned enthusiastically to the railings where I aimed for the red button.

I stared, aimed, threw and missed.

I felt like I was in a shootout. I returned to the table and got a reload.

I stared more intently, aimed better, threw harder and missed, still.

One stone left.

I knew I wouldn’t fail. There was no chance that I should. I was certain I couldn’t. It would go against laws, theorems and standards of stories, both bad and good. With that knowledge firmly implanted in my mind, I geared into attempting again.

There was no need to stare. No use aiming. I just threw and hit.

The moment I did, I knew I was wrong. Nothing earth shattering happened. The silence, already prevalent, seemed to have intensified. I listened for anything and I managed to hear a scuffling sound from above the red button. I prepared my heart for what was about to happen. I would fail for nothing could have prepared me, my heart, or my eyes.

From above, outside the railings, directly across where I was standing, a trapdoor opened followed by a falling body hanged by the neck, still writhing and foaming in the mouth.

My pupils dilated as I took it all in.

The body, still harrowingly writhing, wore the same clothes and was bruised in the same parts as me. I tried to scream as I saw my own bloody face, tongue lolling, facing me.

I stepped backwards, fighting the urge to throw up. I looked around and my sight fell on the same table where I took the stones from. The glass of formaldehyde was still there, imposing.

Everything was provided for, I thought.

I knew what the glass of poison was for.