Those footsteps again; coming back. No-one is talking. We’re all being kept separate; to isolate us – designed to make us feel bored, scared, controlled, powerless. Why don’t I just tell them that I want out. I volunteered, so I should be able to do that, right? I have that power, right?
The footsteps stop in front of my door. The guard looks through the glass again. He looks bored, but not in the same way that I am.
"Tell Dr. Zimbardo I want out. I’ve had enough of this. I want to go home.”
He looks straight at me, barely moving, a robot with black reflective panels instead of eyes. Then he laughs at me. Certainly not something a robot would do, but it doesn’t sound very human either. Would I laugh like that if I was him and he was me?
“You’re not getting out of here any time soon. I say when you leave.”
I stammer, exasperated. “You don’t have that power! Nowhere in the forms did it say you get that much power!”
The guard removes his shades. I don’t think he is supposed to do that. It probably violates the standardised elements of his side of the experiment; that he signed. I think back and remember it. Guards must wear the shades provided at all times when dealing with prisoners, so as to prevent eye contact between the groups.
“You do know you aren’t meant to do that… don’t you?”, I told him.
The guard looks me straight in the eyes. I preferred him with the shades on.
"I can do whatever the hell I want. Because I’m a guard, and you’re a prisoner. That’s how this fucking thing works. Got it?”
- Excerpt from 'Simulation'; a short story based on the Stanford Prison Experiment.
Written for my Literature of Incarceration module.
The footsteps stop in front of my door. The guard looks through the glass again. He looks bored, but not in the same way that I am.
"Tell Dr. Zimbardo I want out. I’ve had enough of this. I want to go home.”
He looks straight at me, barely moving, a robot with black reflective panels instead of eyes. Then he laughs at me. Certainly not something a robot would do, but it doesn’t sound very human either. Would I laugh like that if I was him and he was me?
“You’re not getting out of here any time soon. I say when you leave.”
I stammer, exasperated. “You don’t have that power! Nowhere in the forms did it say you get that much power!”
The guard removes his shades. I don’t think he is supposed to do that. It probably violates the standardised elements of his side of the experiment; that he signed. I think back and remember it. Guards must wear the shades provided at all times when dealing with prisoners, so as to prevent eye contact between the groups.
“You do know you aren’t meant to do that… don’t you?”, I told him.
The guard looks me straight in the eyes. I preferred him with the shades on.
"I can do whatever the hell I want. Because I’m a guard, and you’re a prisoner. That’s how this fucking thing works. Got it?”
- Excerpt from 'Simulation'; a short story based on the Stanford Prison Experiment.
Written for my Literature of Incarceration module.
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