Mobility comes at a price
Stan wakes to find himself bound to a steel table. He has a large cut on both of his thighs, as well as his forearms. The wounds have been stitched closed. There are two chains welded at one end to the table, just next to the sides of Stan's waist. The other ends of the chain are wrapped and locked around his waist tightly and to ensure little movement. His feet hang over the side of the table, and are chained and locked to the legs of the table. His hands are not chained, however he finds that they are enveloped in metal gloves that appear to be removable. Just to his left on the table lies a scalpel. He can feel slight pains on his hands, although the cause is unknown at the moment. Due to the gloves, his hands are immobile. He sees a scalpel just left of him.
Still groggy, Stan begins to search the room. The table on which he lay is in the center, with none of the walls being more than four feet away from the edge of the table. The walls are a cold blue grey. A door is located in the wall to Stan's right.
Just ahead of him, sitting on a shelf mounted on the wall, is a TV, apparently set on a timer. Within seconds of awakening, the TV comes to life, revealing a clown doll with swirled red cheeks. The doll begins to speak, telling Stan what he has to do.
"Rise and shine, Stan. I'd imagine you are wondering why you're here. But I assure you, you've more to worry about right now than you're location. Throughout your life, you've made a very bad habit of stealing countless items despite your lack of need or even want for them, although I'd say you're robbing banks was the last straw that brought you here. You are here now to prove to me that you don't need your hands in order to survive. Your goal is a simple one; remove the chains that bind you and free yourself. Three keys are hidden in this room; one for each lock…"
Stan starts to panic as he looks at the stitched wounds on his legs and forearms. The tape continues.
"Removal of the hands was once a punishment for thievery. Fortunately for you, I've decided to let you keep your hands, however regaining their mobility will come at a price. Live or die, Stan. Make your choice."
Stan lies on the table momentarily as he decides what he will do in order to escape from this room. He looks to his left, now staring at the scalpel intently. He reaches for it, and stops, realizing that with these gloves on there was no way he could pick up the scalpel. He holds up his left hand and begins to examine the glove. It seems to be loose on him, but at what price did he hands come? He brings up his right hand and tries to slowly remove the left glove.
"Sssssssshit!" He cries, as the skin on his left hand begins to tear. He stops momentarily as he braces himself for the pain to come.
Once again, using his right hand, he begins to remove his left glove, faster this time.
Stan hyperventilates as he progresses, knowing that yelling would do him no good at this point.
The glove is now half way off, and there are deep lacerations on his hands running vertically, approximately a half an inch apart. His wrist is bleeding. Stan begins groaning in pain now, as tendons in his hands, both top and bottom, begin to tear.
The glove lands on the tiled floor with a heavy thump. Stan looks at his hand in despair, eyes tearing up, as he realized that his left hand was now useless; his fingers unwilling to work for him now that he'd severed the tendons in his hand.
Still crying, Stan grabs the scalpel in his mouth and tries to cut into his left arm where the stitches are. The scalpel slips. It was of no use to him.
Stan begins to panic again as he realizes how much blood he has lost due to the lacerations on his hands. He sits, mind whirling, and finally decides that he must chew through his stitches.
He lifts his left arm to his mouth and starts to chew away at the stitches. His arm is screaming. He removes the stitches, creating a new trickle of blood. Not wasting any time, Stan chews into his arm looking for the key. Seconds later, he finds it. He pulls it out with his teeth and he puts it in his left hand.
Stan moves now to his right arm, and once again successfully removes the stitches. Another trickle of blood. He digs for a key, and finally stops, stunned, when he doesn't find one. He takes a moment to regain his breath, still crying.
He brought his left hand forward, placing the key that he'd found earlier in his mouth, and leaned forward, trying to place the key in the padlock holding his waste in place. It's no use, he can barely touch the lock with the tip of the key. Using his right hand, Stan lifts the chains just enough to insert the key into the lock. Stan lies down, this time to rest briefly. He is losing a lot of blood. After a few minutes, Stan sits up again and strenuously turns the key, unlocking his waist. He unwound the chains and sat up. I need to hurry… he thinks to himself, as he begins to feel light headed.
Using his right glove, Stan began trying to loosen the stitches in this right leg. Minutes later the stitches are undone, and he grabs the discarded scalpel in his teeth and begins to dig out the key. He finally works it out of his leg, and does the same to his left leg. His breathing is now labored, and he is shaking due to loss of blood.
After getting both keys, he leaves one on the table, taking the other in his mouth, and carefully comes to a standing position, still chained to the legs of the table. He squats down and uses his hands to position the lock in such a way that would enable his to successfully unlock it. He finally undoes one chain and rises to a standing position in order to retrieve the last key. He does so, and returns to his squatting position, and unlocks his other leg. He shakes free of his chains, and falls to his hands and knees, shivering violently.
He stands weakly and walks to the door, legs screaming. He finds a round doorknob. He looks at his hands, one shredded, one gloved. He tries to take the doorknob between this wrists, but the metal glove just slides off of it. He has to remove the other glove. Stan sits down on the floor, placing his gloved hand between his feet and pulls. More tendons tear; more blood spills. He stands up again and lazily walks toward the door, his vision starting to blur. He gets there, and embraces the doorknob between his forearms, and finally opens the door. His legs are shaking, hardly able to keep him standing.
He pushes to door open and sees an old man sitting at a desk. The old man rises from his chair and walks over to Stan, who is now on his hands and knees once again. He looks up at the old man as he began to speak.
"Congratulations, Stan. You are still alive. Most people are so ungrateful to be alive; but not you. Not anymore."