“What are you blabbering about, you idiot?” I snapped.
He laughed. I didn’t.
“In other words,” he said, “I want you to act happy. I’ve given a lot of thought to what kinds of acting exercises you should do. I came up with this one, which will consist of me ordering you, unexpectedly and with no warning, to act out a certain mood, or a state of being, or to adopt a personality trait. Now is the time for happiness.”
“Forget it.”
“Oh, come now, do we have to go through the whole gun and threat process? Can’t we skip it and take it for granted?”
I didn’t answer.
“Okay, good, I think you agree. Now please do happiness.”
It was pointless to resist. “I’m happy,” I said, stiff-lipped.
He laughed. “You’ll have to do a lot better than that.”
“I’m so happy,” I said dully.
He aimed his gun at me. “Well I’m not. You’re going to have to make it at least ten times better.”
“I’m ecstatic?”
He shot me in the thigh. I screamed with pain and indignation. I was shocked, shocked, that he would shoot me over that. I plucked out the shard and threw it in his face.
He performed the now classic throwing-of-the-Band-Aid-at-me. After I put it on my wound, he said, “Do happiness.”
“And how would you like it prepared: with jumps in the air and screams of joy?”
“You could.”
“For how long?”
“Until I say stop.”
“In a minute or so?”
“No. Anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours.”
“But that would be aerobics.”
He sighed. “Do happiness. Just do it. And well.”
I clapped my hands once and kicked my foot and said, “Life is great!” but it came out sarcastic, like the cereal tiger, and I got shot again.
I took a deep breath and focused my thoughts and drained every drop of sarcasm from my being, and did happiness: “I’m so happy to be here,” I said. “It’s like being at a spa. It’s great to not have to go to work at the Xerox shop or at the jewelry store. It’s like attending an acting school for free, plus a gym for free, and getting delicious meals free, and cage and board free.”
I hoped he wouldn’t shoot me for the offensive but irresistible last four words. He did frown, but I quickly rambled on to distract him: “And the anagram! What a charming way to give a present-slash-message. And the activities! I’m always in suspense as to what new and challenging method of improvement you will have concocted for me.” It may be hard to believe, but my tone didn’t contain a hint of mockery.
“I’m sorry I don’t have anything new planned for today,” he said.
“Well that’s okay too. This way I’ll get to enjoy the old stuff, which is still very new to me anyway.”
“Does it bother you to do this mood?” he asked, obviously intending me to demonstrate my mood further.
“Like yeah, it really bothers me to be staying in this gorgeous house with this gorgeous guy giving me all these acting exercises for free. Yeah, I’d much rather be wasting my life at the Xerox shop.”
He was smiling with appreciation at my tour de force: being able to say what I really felt while still fitting into his exercise.
He looked at his watch and said, “Hold that thought, I’ll be back in a while.” It was 1:25 P.M.
I watched the monitors and saw him go through the same doorway as yesterday, at the same time — the doorway that led to the mysterious unfilmed place.
He came back half an hour later, having, like yesterday, obviously cried.
He informed me that I was not yet relieved of my obligation to “do happiness.” He brought me down to the pool and made me swim again.
“Don’t just stay afloat; advance!”
“I can’t,” I said. “It’s not possible.”
“Of course it’s possible.”
“No.”
“Just watch,” he said, placing his gun on the shelf with the rubber ducks. He dove into the pool, and flew through the water (since moving through this airy water was more an act of flying than swimming). A moment later he was back at my side.
He heaved himself out of the water. “The secret is to kick your feet as if you were doing the crawl, but with your arms you should do the breast stroke. Just as you would if you were flying.”
Speak for yourself, I thought. That’s not what I would do if I were flying, and I’ve never seen anyone fly that way. Except maybe in a dream.
“Advance,” he ordered, standing at the edge of the pool. His dripping clothes stuck to his skin. His naked body was quite visible underneath.
“Move it,” he repeated, and shot an ice needle in my neck, which hurt less than a shard.
I tried advancing, but he had still not allowed me to stop “doing happiness,” and it was a challenge to keep a smile on my face while I was so frightened of drowning. At one point he said, “You don’t look very happy,” and he gripped his gun and I forced a bigger smile on my face, and he said, “Yes you do, I was wrong.”
He finally allowed me to come out. I climbed up the ladder, the smile hanging off my lips precariously.
He said, “Was it fun?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me more.”
“It was exciting, so challenging and exhilarating,” I said, mustering every last drop of emotional energy I had. “No health club on earth can offer such a workout.”
“Okay, you can stop acting happy now.”
I hissed, “What’s in your head, you twerp? You can’t treat a human being this way. I’m a human being! Don’t you have any concept of what that means?” I was trembling from the cold and from rage. “Do you think you’re God? I never thought it would be possible to feel such hatred for anyone. I’m actually disturbed by the strength of my hatred. If I had a gun I would kill you without a moment’s hesitation. I would even kill myself, just to deprive you of me: your plaything.”
My lips were starting to curl away from my teeth without my controclass="underline" I was baring my fangs. “If I get any chance, I will kill you. Escaping is no longer enough for me.”
I crumpled to the floor and burst into tears, in distress.
He gently placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “Your attempts to make me feel better will only make it worse.”
“I wasn’t going to try to make you feel better,” he said softly. “I was just going to say that now I want you to do hip.”
“What?”
“Now act hip. Do hipness.”
I tried to hurl myself into the pool, willing to put an end to the whole thing through drowning, but he caught me by the waist and said, “I don’t feel like rescuing you again today. Please don’t make me jump in after you. Be good.” He watched me carefully, and added, “Now, have some courage, Anna. Do hip.”
“Can you give me a few minutes before you make me do this?”
“That would defeat the purpose. You must do it now.”
“Oh God how I hate you,” I said, panting. I felt like the little girl in The Exorcist, possessed by the devil. I screamed, “Die!”
“Do hip!” he answered.
Fury, and a sort of fever, were destroying my sanity. I was actually snarling. Like a dog. It was the first time I had ever snarled, and I didn’t know humans ever did, or could, when pushed to the limit. I crawled away from Damon, over to the wall, on my hands and feet.
He approached me cautiously, like a tamer. He was still dripping. “Anna, be reasonable. Stop making that noise, and come to your senses. Do hip. From the moment the word leaves my lips, it is yours; you have to act it. Now or I’m going to shoot.”