And I couldn't forget, not completely. She was at theback of my thoughts constantly, at work, in my sleep. A dull pounding, myvery own telltale heart beating out the same three words over and over:let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Eating dinner with my parents, andthey ask, how have you been? Let me out. Brewing a pot of coffee in themorning before work, Let me out. It's still there, that unending refrain.Sometimes it's louder. Sometimes it's barely audible unless I listen veryhard, in a quiet room, but it never stops. Let me out, let me out, let meout.I finger the handle of my knife as I slice the crusts off her littlesandwich (PB&J, her favorite!) before I bring it down. She hates crusts. Ithink about just getting it over with and slitting my jugular, right now.I could do it. She would die, of course, without me to feed her - thenourishment of food, yes, but also hope. Every time I descend the steps,she thinks, maybe I will let her go now. Maybe this is the time I fumblemy key,. Until Mike unlocks the door. Fluorescent lights blaze on and we step inside. Paul and I stand mesmerized. Mike and Gloria stay silent, letting us drink it all in. A raised, padded platform about the size of a king-sized bed but about 30 inches off the floor stands nearly in the center of the large room. From narrow trays along the sides hang towels on rods. At the bottom, there appears to be a narrow pull-out, the width of a gynecologist’s table and indeed it appears equipped with gynecologist stirrups. Above the platform hang multiple ropes, cables and straps extending up above the open rafters to mysterious pieces of equipment somehow reminiscent of the flies above a stage for live theatre productions. A control module hangs from a gooseneck pod at one corner. Another pod supports a narrow, high-intensity light, while another supports what seems to be a camera. Other cameras are mounted on a track above. I’m stunned!Beside one wall are two tall, white-enameled rolling.
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