[ IP ] The interrogation chair

The entire room felt like one of Marks old trips with psychedelics procured no more lawfully than the way he'd gotten into this warehouse. The atmosphere reeked of it, the way the light shot through the boarded windows as if it was desperately trying to point something out, the smell of the cut grass in the strangely well kept property next door somehow wafting into this dilapadated hell hole. 
 
 But here he was, Mark Crosby. Recreational drug user zero, king of his sitting room, finally going on one of these adventures with his legs rather than his brain after eating some rather questionable fungi. Maybe he was just sick of being stuck on the once gleaming porcelain throne that held court over the decaying tiling of his flat, the same throne that fell victim to his loss of motivation to do anything, looking as haggard as he does now. 
 
 He'd been reading up on his urban legends lately, trips were getting scarier and so scarcer. So to keep the mind busy in the mind numbing monotony of his days, of which he only had maybe somewhere in the 10, 20 thousands left of and did n't intend to anything but waste, he wanted to follow up on one. 
 
 The interrogation chair. Here it was. 
 
 An old chair table combination he recognised from school. The same one that he'd scrawled his and Charlenes name into when they were official. The memory's sting. They sting more when he realises she's gone, and is n't coming back this time. And now he only thinks of her second in the morning, not first like when she was around and after she was first taken from him. 
 
 So apparently the chair worked like this. Everybody who tried it saw it differently. Always a chair that had some sort of impact on somebodies life. He thought that was ridiculous, how could a chair have impact beyond occasionally being smashed over some drunken fools head in a bar? But here was a desk he recognised. You come alone, and you sit. Then you ask three questions. They're answered, and you leave. Then you send another poor, wayward soul for their answers. The Internet was obviously the way to uphold your end of the bargain now. 
 
 So Mark did. He sat. 
 
 And there it was, right in the arm rest. M + C. This was his old desk. How it ended up in a warehouse in an English industrial town from his old City in Scotland was crazy. 
 
 So, he asked his first question. 
 
 `` Why...'' 
 
 Why. The old chestnut. The question shorter than any answer it yields, the question that in the right context to the right person could topple empires or just clarify your understanding of a subject. 
 The pause was too long. Charlene's memory decided to attach itself to the inside of his throat today, choking him. so he'd just have to hope that if this was real, whatever answers understands. 
 
 `` Where am I going with my life?'' 
 
 A deep question for someone who wastes his life on daytime television and drugs, but he's free to waste his questions however he likes. 
 
 `` Who are you?'' 
 
 The urban legend clearly stated this question was a bad idea. Here's a font in which a man can draw any knowledge that he wants. Why risk cutting it off by delving too deep? 
 
 Then it happened. That light seemed to finally break through the windows of wood. the atmosphere of the room lightened, or maybe 6 hours sober had finally cracked Mark. The light surrounded him, and he swears he felt an embrace. 
 
 `` It was her time. Yes, it happened when she was young and was easily avoidable. But we all have times, and hers was a result of the choices she'd made leading up to it. Fate and free will cant live together, and what kind of creator would burden you with the first? She is happy though.'' 
 
 The voice, or voices, were coming from inside Marks head. He was n't even sure if he was in the room, that chair anymore. He was inside himself. Further than any DMT trip had taken him. Aware, not suppressed. 
 
 `` Well, if this answer would be a positive one, we would n't answer it. Knowledge of your future means you'll change your future, knowingly or not. If we told you you'd get what you want, you'd chase it harder and maybe not get it. So let us tell you this. Your free will is taking you down a path where you wo n't see next year.'' 
 
 Marks blood would have run cold, were he still aware of his body. The blood he'd abused so often, used as a donkey to carry his chemical indulgences to his brain. The brain that now seemed so valuable to him, now that he knew it could be on its last legs. 
 
 `` Well, I'm impressed you asked that question. Nobody has dared, yet. Probably why nobody thinks I exist anymore. People actually think I'm dead, these days. I'm the creator. I made everything, in a sense. Think of this chair as my signature on the world. And remember, tell a friend, do n't tell them any of the answers, and I'll see you when your time comes. Charlene misses you.'' 
 
 And with that, Mark was aware again. The musty, damp, decrepit warehouse was back. The chair was gone, Mark was facing the ceiling. And that's how he finally had a conversation with God, sober. 
 

