Returning to No Applause, Only More of the Same

They never accepted him fully. Of course not. He was an unforgivable heathen, after all, but… Somehow, in that deep place, they learned to understand that he was human just like they were, despite his unpious deeds. He was neither one of them nor separate from them.

To the observing researchers, the psychologists trying to understand if he is mentally stable enough for future social interactions, this was enough.

Even then, there were some sceptics pushing for him to interact with the Upper-Level prisoners sooner than later, arguing that although allowing him more time with other humans was a generally good thing, if his experience confirmed his thoughts that he could never be truly accepted by other people, it might just be worse than pure isolation. Being actively isolated by people in your own situation is far more stressful than being passively kept in isolation by superiors and caretakers. Thus, although it was a good thing that he was among people who knew him somewhat, the fact that he wasn’t actively friendly with them was a problem they believed wouldn’t go away with enough time.

Furthermore, there was the issue of his family. They had been contacted and had rightfully expressed great interest in meeting Inmate Kreig Wiedemann, though the resident psychologists still wish for there to be more preparations done.

Finally, the two letters Inmate Kreig Wiedemann wrote to the Wiedemann household. Until further notice, these will be kept in a safe under the Head Observer Dr Darius Falk’s jurisdiction, and in respect for the sender, they shall remain unopened.

Although it might have been odd for the observers to preach privacy, they had all come to agree that Inmate Kreig Wiedemann was not only a man to be feared, but a man to be respected as well, not just as a citizen of the Earth, but as a human being who deserved what little privacy he asked for.

Things were stable. Kreig was spending his days and nights drawing in more and more ambitious forms such as oil on canvas, and when his ideas finally ran dry, the first place he looked was in the eye of Head Observer Dr Darius Falk. Or maybe it was his own reflection? -No, he was looking at him alright. He stared at him for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath through his nose. Sniff. Then, he opened his eyes again and started painting on his blank canvas.

Dr Darius Falk was a clever and observant man, but even he was a slave to his human curiosity. “Show me Camera 3C,” he said to one of the half-a-dozen other observers in the room.

“Yessir,” the man replied, fiddling with a few buttons to make the screen of camera C3 pop up like a hologram on one part of the massive one-way mirror they used to observe Inmate Wiedemann through. Dr Darius Falk glanced over at the screen. It showed the back of Inmate Wiedemann, along with the one-way mirror and, most importantly, the no-longer-empty canvas.

So far, all he had were a few large splotches of colour. Something white, something dark brown above the white and a grey background. Nothing much to look at, but as Dr Darius Falk had come to learn during Inmate Wiedemann’s incarceration, all art began by looking something foul.

Inmate Wiedemann closed his eyes and took a whiff. Opened them again, and continued painting.

Details soon became more prominent. A firm jawline, a black buzz-cut, a pair of striking black eyes like swirling pools of black velvet, a beige shirt and brown vest… A black man Darius could only recognize as himself. Even that slight pout of the lips his wife told him made him look far too serious was there. Every detail was spot on, and the other observers quickly took note. A few nervous smiles were exchanged.

“Heh, sir, should I tell him not to use any abilities? This is… unprecedented,” one of his assistants asked, thumbing the intercom. Darius affixed him with a harsh gaze.

“No, let him continue,” Darius ordered, crossing his arms. Call it professional curiosity, call it the will of a man who had never been painted before. He wanted to see where this was going and he wouldn’t let any of his coworkers stop it. After all, he wasn’t harming anyone, was he? “Let’s see if he can finish it.”

And he did. The whole painting took a mere two hours, a time that shouldn’t have been physically possible for an A3-sized oil painting, but Inmate Wiedemann had proved his artistic capabilities on many occasions, which included an unearthly speed that Darius now appreciated.

It really was him. Every detail right and every inch correct. Like looking into a truth-speaking mirror.

As Inmate Wiedemann stood up to place the oil painting somewhere in the room, Darius couldn’t help but feel like something was off. The painting was not completed and it certainly wasn’t in the right place. Without asking for permission from one of his associates, he paced over to the intercom, pressed the button and brought it to his lips. “Inmate Wiedemann.” The man in question turned to look at the megaphone in the wall. “-Please sign the painting and place it in the hatch.”

His colleges seemed baffled, and Darius felt the same. What the hell was he doing? This man was a prisoner of the highest calibre, not some poor artist he can just get a free painting from, that would be-,

There was a metallic clank as the hatch opened and closed on Inmate Wiedemann’s request. His fellow observers turned to look at him.

Darius left the observation-room. Usually, they had many lower-levelled workers who handled the hatch. But even then, Darius, who otherwise was a rather high-ranked figure in the facility with a lot to say on the subject of Inmate Wiedemann, was allowed in there. Not that he had ever had any reason to enter. Today was a different matter.

He opened the door to the hatch-operating room by thumbprint and a keypad. Inside, he found a food-elevator going to and from the kitchen, alongside a small furnace just in case Inmate Wiedemann were to attempt to pass something foul through the hatch. He never had, but the possibility was always there.

The hatch was on the far side of the room. It was closed and locked now, but mere moments ago it had been unlocked and open. Beside the hatch was the painting. It had no frame, but unlike mere seconds earlier, it now had a signature. Just a little one. “Kreig,” and a little triangle with a line extending from one side beneath it. It looked like a very simplified mushroom, though Darius couldn’t fathom why he’d have that as a signature. Either way…

A mere two days later and the now-framed picture was hung up in the observation room. The cover story was that Darius’ wife had a passion for painting, but everyone knew that there was only a single painter in the facility with those kinds of art skills.

And a mere two days after this incident, a decision was made to allow Inmate Wiedemann into the Upper Level on account of his mental health.