Philosophical Absurdity No. 1

Jack Sharp sat alone in a concrete room. He waited in the room’s lone chair, facing the one-way glass which made up the only variation (however slight) of the room’s gray interior. He had been invited there on account of his vast expertise.

He’s the leading professional in the field of Ballistic Trauma. He has investigated everything subfield related to the effects of high-speed projectile impacts on the human body. Entry and exit wounds, pneumatic shock, psychological consequences, neurophysiological effects, wound treatment, and the list goes on. Jack has endeavored to understand gunshot wounds from every intellectual angle.

“Mr. Sharp,” said the unknown voice from the intercom. “How are you doing today?”

“Can’t complain,” he said, never one to divulge more than necessary. “I was told my knowledge would be of use to you?”

“Indeed,” the intercom replied.

There was a crack, like a shot ringing out, and Jack’s left shoulder was forced suddenly backward. The force wasn’t enough to knock him from the chair, but he felt an immense pressure and a sickening warmth radiating from the impact. He would have stood, but his legs felt alien to him. He looked in disbelief at the deepening red circle staining his new button-up shirt. The hole was small and the wound quite circular–probably a nine-millimeter, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking.

“What the fuck,” he choked. He gasped a couple times, attempting to regain control of his breathing. The warmth and pressure were giving way to a burning pain, and his heart rate was accelerating.

“We were told that if there was anyone who knew everything about gunshot wounds, it was you,” the intercom said with a disconcerting manner of calm. “Would you agree?”

“I—yes, but—”

“Would you say you have learned something from this experience?”

“You—you shot me,” Jack exclaimed.

“I did not shoot you,” the intercom stated. “In fact, I implore you to find a gun that could have shot you in such a manner.”

“What are you talking about?” he yelled. “You fucking shot me!”

“I do agree that you seem to be experiencing the subjective effects of having been shot. However, as to whether or not you have, in fact, been shot, it’s hard for me to say.”

“You motherfucker,” Jack said. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“We have already told you,” the intercom said. “We have need of your expertise; simple as that.”

“Why,” he gasped, fighting to keep his mind from the growing pain in his arm. “Why are you arguing with me about the subjective nature of being shot?”

“We feel it is pertinent to the question at hand.”

“We? Who are you? What question?” Jack grasped his hand around his shoulder, at first carefully feeling for the entry and exit wounds. The pressure of his fingers against exposed flesh sent a spike of pain through his arm and into his chest. When he had his thumb and middle finger against each side of the wound, he clamped down to fight against the flowing blood, which had soaked through his sleeve into the chest of his white button-up, thanks to the cotton shirt underneath.

“The question of your having been shot,” the intercom replied.

His head was swimming, he had waited too long to staunch the bleeding. He tried his best to maintain a resolute stare into the one-way glass, but the spreading red stickiness was making it harder to keep his cool with every passing moment, and the room listed periodically from one side to the other, like the interior of a ship at sea.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Jack pleaded. “How can you see me and say I haven’t been shot?”

“Oh, we can’t see you Mr. Sharp. All we have to go on is your word. That, and the fact that I clicked a button a few moments ago that said BANG. Although I will admit that you are being mightily convincing.”

“Don’t fuck with me, I know how one-way glass works.”

“So do we,” the intercom replied. “Whoever is watching you is likely watching us too.”

“Wh—what is the point of this?” Blood was beginning to drip onto the smooth concrete floor, a few scarlet spots on a field of dark gray.

“We are supposed to respond to that question with another: Would you say you’ve learned something new about the nature of gunshot wounds, despite being a self-proclaimed top expert in the field?”

Jack gritted his teeth, the pain in his shoulder intensifying with every passing moment. “Of course,” he spat. “There’s a difference between studying something and experiencing it first-hand. Who the hell would argue against that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but I think you’d be surprised, Mr. Sharp. People hold all manner of crazy ideas.”

Jack’s vision began to falter, the room growing intermittently darker or brighter around him. “Crazy? Y—you, are the…ones…who shot, me.”

“That’s enough,” said a new voice from the intercom, this one more stern and far less calm. “Send in the medical team. We’re done for today.”

Amongst the blurring concrete gray, Jack was vaguely aware of shapes stepping around him, moving him, and applying various implements to his shoulder. It was the last memory he had of that place when he awoke in a room he recognized. He was being cared for in the local hospital, where he’d visited countless gunshot victims before him.