by Bela Seitz
What makes you human?
I ask everyone that when I first meet them down here.
I’ve heard so many different answers at this point. Perhaps it is our mastery of technology
that sets us apart, the great cities that we have built which invade clouds and continue to expand
outwards and up. As a species, humans have transcended the natural food chain, moving past apex
predator status to something entirely new: a creature that has no predators and can kill anything on
the earth with the right tools and the right planning. We are better, smarter, faster. But that’s not
entirely true. Cheetahs dash across savannahs quicker than we can start a car to drive after them
and I read once about a species of octopus that could not only complexly communicate but could
also convincingly lie to humans. Most people are boring in how they answer me, though, and they
say that it is our ability to socialize and bond with others that makes us human, or that we are
simply better because of our storied history. I think that’s pretty close-minded because, for all we
know, animals have fascinating pasts too; it is just that we can’t talk to them.
I’ll always remember what one person’s answer was. It was one of the first people who
stood across from me – as you do now. Even though I couldn’t make out his features, I could tell
that he was one of those guys who you would guess was a linebacker at some point in his life. His
voice came from far above me, even when he lowered himself to sit at my level, and he answered
me in a deep gravelly voice. He said that it was our innate need to do anything to survive that made
us human. Humans can land on any planet and put Earth’s dirt on it and, from that brown substance,
thriving colonies will sprout up. We have been to the depths of the oceans in mammoth machines
and scoffed at the predators that lurk there, killed the deadliest of animals and stuffed their corpses
to hang in museums for our young to point at and laugh – simply because we could. We as a species
are driven to succeed, to reproduce and make places for our children to safely live and then pass
along this same curiosity and drive for the continuation of our species.
Sorry. I went off on a bit of a tangent there.
What did you say?
Oh. That’s an awfully boring question.
I expect that we had a very similar experience getting here, to this pitch-black room. One
moment, you’re out in the world in some menial job working for money to support yourself and
your family and the next you’re in here with your sight completely gone. One guy went insane
immediately, just from opening his eyes and seeing nothing. He didn’t reach out and try to figure
out if he was in a nightmare or imagining things; he just pressed his nails into his eyes sockets and
clawed out his eyes. I found his body lying on the ground, peacefully, with an eye in each palm.
Cowardly, wasn’t he? He forgot about his other four senses.
Being here, in this black place, isn’t as bad as it first seems. All you need to do is close
your eyes and let your logic guide you; when you want to stop feeling sorry for yourself, lift your
hands up from your sides and out. If you go off of probability, chances are that you will just touch
nothing and simply be suspended in complete and total darkness, the ground that your feet are
curled against the only thing that tethers you to this world – at least that’s what I told yourself
when I first arrived. I remember praying that the first thing I touch would not be something painful
or, even worse, something alive.
Thankfully for me, my hands touched the cold, wet walls instantly. The dampness freaked
me out at first, because it reminded me that this wasn’t a dream. At first, I thought this place was
something that my mind conjured up out of boredom or maybe a hyper-realistic hallucination. I’m
sure you did too. You can convince yourself of anything when you cannot see where you are or
smell anything but stale air. The eerily sticky texture of the walls changes that – they confirm that
this is real.
I remember being comforted by the idea of being in a hallway because, to me, hallways
suggest movement. They mean that you’re in between places, that there are rooms ahead and
behind you. They mean that there is a destination and so, by choosing a direction and following it,
I could get somewhere. All I had to do was bite back the panic threatening to overtake my mind
and take a step forward, and that’s exactly what I did; steeling myself and keeping my hands
pressed on the unsettling walls, I gingerly set one of my feet forwards. Extraneous thoughts flew
through my mind about what I might step through or into, the biggest one being that the floor
would just suddenly stop being there. No one has their vision down here, so there was no way of
knowing that the floor stayed level or even existed at all, and maybe there was just a pit at the end
of the hallway that I would step into and fall down. Even now, I try to avoid unnecessary walking,
just in case there is a part of this maze that I haven’t mapped in my mind that will send me hurtling
to my death.
You’re going to have to speak up if you want me to answer your questions.
I can’t hear you from down here.
In fact, why don’t you sit next to me? It’s not like we can see each other regardless, but it
will be nicer for me to think that we are level. Did you know that’s a power tactic? I remember
that from a history class I took in high school; if you put yourself on the same level as your enemy,
they will unconsciously start to think of you as their equal. There is nothing more terrifying than
having an enemy that you respect, because then you know they consider you to be valuable and
still want to destroy you – not that we are enemies. Another tangent; excuse me.
I haven’t spoken to someone else in a while.
I didn’t think you were even listening to my story. Please, come sit with me; it’ll make this
so much easier.
Much better. Now, where was I?
Once I started to walk out of the initial hallway I was in, I realized a few things about this
place. I bet you’ve realized them too. The ground slopes downwards and most of the hallways
curve. My sneaking suspicion is that we are very deep underground, because there are a lot of
different hallways and a lot of lateral spaces. These hallways aren’t on top of each other, so we
have to be in a place where there could be enclosed spaces for hours with no fear of anyone
intruding on them – and underground is my best guess. Either that or we’re in a place like
Oklahoma. I’ve never been to those kinds of states, where the development that reached the east
and west coast didn’t really mesh well with the locals, but I’ve read about them. That’s the kind
of state where a complex like this could be kept unnoticed and free of outside influence.
I don’t remember its name anymore, but it was one of those places where people are born,
live, and die, never leaving the town limits. What about you?
Now there’s a fun place to be from. I’ve never been to the west coast, but I’ve seen
cityscapes in textbooks and newspapers. I bet you had an exciting childhood, full of different
cuisines and an endless amount of new people. Or is that on the east coast, where the ocean breeze
makes every temperature cold? Where the ways of old seamlessly weave together with hulking
cities, where technology has made humans so detached from nature and, if you wanted to see the
stars, you could only see a depressingly bright grey sky?
That’s fascinating. It’s funny, actually. Some of you never want to talk about where you
are from or your pasts – you just want to pester me with questions of where we are and what I’ve
found down here. You’re a newbie to this, though, so you still want to speak your own history into
existence. You still have memories of the outside world. They’ll become distant eventually, if you
end up staying down here as long as I have; your past will start to hide behind a foggy window
and, no matter how hard you scrub the glass, it will always be cloudy. I imagine that I will forget
my previous life in its entirety soon.
I don’t mean to depress you about your future. What was I talking about?
Oh. I’ve noticed that too. That’s another reason for as to why we might be underground
and why I’ve concluded that we are inside; the air quality is just too dead. There is no circulation
in here. I spent a while trying to find vents at the top of the walls when I was first thrust into this
dark terror and I couldn’t find any.
But who cares? It doesn’t really matter where we are.
This space is locked in from the inside. The hallway that I was first left in led into this
larger cavern and there are four other hallways that all interconnect. If you walk through them long
enough, you end up back here. There is nowhere I haven’t yet explored down here – no way to
walk out of here just by following the landscape.
You’re right; I shouldn’t laugh. Although it is a bit funny.
It’s adorable, actually, that you still think you can escape.
People deal with their new reality down here differently. I remember when I first found
this larger room and the other hallways that I drove myself to exhaustion running through them
trying to find a way out. I would spend hours screaming my head off, hoping in vain that someone
would hear me, and then I’d collapse against those walls that never seem to not be oozing and let
my eyes droop closed in exhaustion. The next day, I would do it again and do it again and again
and again, but it’s no use. Let me save you the trouble. There was no one listening to me back then
and there is no one listening now. We’re stuck here, in this weird system of tunnels without the
ability to see and without the ability to really move anywhere new. Our freedom is gone.
I had a lot of panic attacks, actually, once I accepted the fact that I was stuck in here. I had
those in my other life as well, so they weren’t a new concept – those moments where, sitting there
curled up on the floor, my breathing filled my ears and mind and I was left with nothing but the
overwhelming desire to claw my throat out and save myself from this prison. I even started to talk
to myself, although I don’t do that anymore. I think there is a fleeting comfort in voices, but your
own bouncing off of the walls becomes a cruel reminder of the reality of your situation after a
while. Maybe socialization really is what makes us human; I have never heard anyone down here
who didn’t yell out for help or cry for a loved one. I even heard you, shouting names at the walls
when you first arrived.
I had guessed that. My family died years before I ended up down here but yours must be
alive, from the way that your voice cracked every time you shouted.
Maybe love is what makes you human. You are driven to survive because there is someone
on Earth who cares about you and who you want to see again. That is where your survival instincts
come from – not from your need to reproduce or your desire to make the future of humanity secure,
but from the love that you feel for others. On the flip side of that is the absence of love: hatred.
Hatred is something that has brought the strongest world leaders to their knees and made nations
fall in the blink of an eye. It’s nothing compared to love, though; that’s why you’re still here, isn’t
it, why you haven’t taken your own life yet? You want to see your family again.
Stop crying.
Please stop. Not only does it make your words unintelligible but it doesn’t help you deal
with your new reality. Those tears will do nothing but exhaust you and you’ll need to conserve all
your energy if you want to survive down here. Just take a few deep breaths.
Here, I’ll take them with you.
In and out, in and out, in and out.
Better?
Good.
You shouldn’t waste your energy on letting your panic get the best of you. It will make you
weak and, down here, you need to be strong.
I know. You think I didn’t figure that out myself? I’m surprised you did, actually; it takes
a resourceful person to take their current situation and turn it around – to stop panicking and realize
that the walls’ seemingly inherent dampness can substitute as water and that there is even a thin
layer of what feels like moss on the walls that is edible. But whatever grows on the walls is not
nearly substantive enough to give you strength. It will keep you alive, but you’ll be weak; that’s
why you should try not to cry.
I have a gift for you. Hold out your hands.
There. Be careful feeling what it is. Its edge could cut your hands pretty easily. I keep it
moderately sharp, scraping it against the walls like I’m preparing for a pot roast. It’s yours now,
though.
No, but that’s a good guess for why I’d give you a knife.
I’ve had worse reactions to that weapon. A woman once took it and stabbed herself in the
heart right in front of me before I’d even finished explaining what it was for, making her blood
spurt over my figure. It was an interesting feeling; I remember when I was young watching crime
shows and seeing blood spatter, but I’d never imagined what it would feel like on my own skin. It
was kind of like showering in syrup, especially when you can’t see the color of the blood or even
the person in front of you. There are no creatures down here for you to kill, though, so your guess
about its purpose is wrong. We’re the only living things down here – well, I suppose if you consider
me a creature, then there’s me.
I’m not a wild animal, though. I don’t bite.
Not at the first four – and definitely not yet. That’s unfair, really, to just end you before we
can socialize. I too feel that guttural need to talk about the past, even if my memories are slipping
away. It gets lonely down here; I can tell that you feel the same way, just from the happiness that
you first greeted me with. I’m surprised that you were so willing to talk, what with your voice as
ragged as it is. You’ve been yelling a lot.
Your family must be special. Maybe they’re worth it.
No, the knife isn’t for that.
Not that either.
You don’t want to wager a more exciting guess? That’s boring; I was just starting to like
you. Given where you’re from, I bet you’ve seen a lot in your life: people get killed, wars get
waged on street corners, children be born. You seriously can’t think of any other reasons for why
I’d arm you? I thought you would have some unique ideas.
Wow. You’re partially correct: finally thinking in the right mindset. And my god, what an
enchanting response. No one has ever thought that I wanted them to kill me. Maybe I am one of
those people who clings to their morals through it all and refuses to ever harm myself. You could
be putting me out of my misery – doing the one thing that I need and yet swore to never do to
myself. It’s a poetic concept, albeit a wrong one.
The knife is for you.
Do you know how many people have sat there before you, across from me in this large
cavern, trapped underground or some other inaccessible place?
Well, would you like to wager a guess?
You’re no fun. Fine, I’ll just tell you. You are number sixty-seven.
I’ve scratched tally marks into my arm with my nails, because making sure that I knew
how many visitors I’d had always seemed important; it is the only way I can track how much time
has passed down here, where the sun doesn’t rise and fall and there are no seasons. The marks fill
up almost the entirety of my right forearm, inch their way up my arm and stop just before my
shoulder. They will continue to move close and closer to my heart, over to my other arm and
eventually down to my legs. Unless you decide differently. There’s been sixty-seven of you: sixty-seven different people who have walked blindly through these hallways to find some semblance
of humanity and ended up stuck with me. I still haven’t figured out what brings people down here,
but maybe the unknown is what keeps this place beautiful. Sixty-seven times, the silence that
envelops me – a silence that hugs me comfortingly at the same time that it chokes me – has been
shattered by a visitor, a companion. A human.
It’s interesting each time to listen in, through the sounds you all make, decode how you are
reacting to your new life. Twelve people didn’t last more than a few hours, deciding to just give
up on life, but the rest have made their way to the room and sat down next to me. Some of them
want to talk about their lives before, others want me to end their suffering, and some just want to
hold my hand. We always end up talking, with them joining me on the floor, and everyone wants
the same thing: to know more. They want to know how I got down here, if there are others, if there
is a way to escape, even what I look like so they can imagine who they are talking to more vividly.
I never understood that last one. People cling to their sight like it is what makes them
human. Sight does not set us apart as a species; there are other creatures who can see leagues more
than we can, colors that our minds couldn’t even fathom existing. Down here, our ability to see
shackles us to a life we can never return to and the sooner you realize that you’re going to have to
live without sight, the sooner you will actually be happy.
I started to ramble again. I seem to be doing that a lot – my apologies.
What do you think about your loss of sight?
That’s good. You seem strong willed. It must be because of that desire to fight inside of
you – because you have people living thats existence motivate you to stay alive. It’s admirable. I
wonder how long you’ll cling to it, but for now you’ve earned my respect. I’ll put you out of your
misery and ask the question that you’re too scared to ask me; what is that knife for?
There are two possibilities for your future. You can end it here, plunge that knife into your
neck or hand it to me and I’ll do it for you, or you can become me.
Anatomically, I will always be human. I have two eyes that stay open, even though nothing
greets them; some people’s eyes adjust, actually, but mine never have. I even once met someone
who swore on their life that they could see slivers of light shining through cracks in the ceiling
although, whether that was insanity or held some truth, I never quite figured out. I have a nose and
a mouth as well, two arms and two legs; every physical marker on my body defines me as human.
I could very well be insane, making up fake conversations and fake visitors, or I could be
lying in a hospital bed unresponsive to the world having completely fabricated a false reality for
myself. Regardless, this feels real to me and that is all I care about at this point: myself. I will fight
for my survival; if you were to lunge at me with that knife, I’d fight back. I haven’t given up on
myself just yet. That knife is made of human bone. There’s only one way to get that kind of material
down here.
Calm down. Don’t start crying again. It’s just such a waste.
C’mon; breathe with me.
In and out, in and out, in and out.
I never said I was going to attack you, so you can relax. I could survive off of the walls. I
don’t need you to sustain myself, although – I’m not going to lie to you – I will eat your body if it
is left around; it would be a waste of resources and, if the roles reverse, I hope you will do the
same to me, even though there is very little eatable meat on my lean frame. Does that make me
inhuman: that willingness to sacrifice one of my own kind for myself? Some humans turned to
cannibalism when there was nothing left around them in the past and their stories are taught as
cautionary tales, not as a history for a lesser species. Or maybe the fact that I will value myself
over everyone and everything makes me more human than most. Aren’t all wars started because
one human thinks they deserve something that other won’t give them – land, a woman, power, an
apology? Ignore me, back to the matter at hand.
Sixty-eight people ago, I met someone else in this room. They didn’t give me a choice;
they tried to see if we could coexist with each other. But there wasn’t enough space down here
and, eventually, we resorted to violence. The same thing happened with the next three people and
so, from the body of a teenage boy, I fashioned this knife. I started to offer people a choice: either
they killed themselves or we fought to the death.
Me or you. That’s the choice.
A lot of people argue, but they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Trust me. It’s much easier this
way. Solitude is infinitely better than a slow descent into war.
You must be tired from your running, from your screaming. I am not. I have been waiting
for you. That’s why I give you the knife. It makes this a fair fight. You have a chance at taking me
out with that knife, should you choose that option, and then you will become me.
Because I am what you will become. That terror and disgust you are feeling, what is causing
those tears to stream down your face, isn’t for me – it’s for you. If you choose yourself and your
family over my life, you will become me. You may steadfastly ignore my advice and try to coexist
with the next person that comes down here, but time will pass, weeks, months, even years, and
then there will be more death. There is something about this place, about the sickly wet walls, that
makes people eventually resort to violence as the solution to their problems. Or maybe it is the
stripping of our sight that allows us to be more human than most. Current humans don’t fight for
their survival anymore but we’ve been around for 2 million years.
We are the only species that has remained. Is that what it means to be human?
And, trust me, you’ll cave on the cannibalism part eventually. You’ll become indifferent
to what you are eating and if that thing could speak a certain language. You will just want the pain
in your stomach to stop, just for a bit. Your family will slip from your mind too, as my loved ones
have: a mirage that, if you squint, you still won’t be able to make out in this place.
It’s your choice, though. I won’t be offended either way. I’m more curious what you’ll
decide if anything. Maybe that’s what being human is about – that need inside of me to know, that
insatiable curiosity to always know more than I do at right now.
Take your time in choosing. I expect you’ll be a fun one.
But, before you do, please answer my question. I don’t think I heard your answer when I
first asked you this, or maybe my erratic mind moved on without letting you speak and, if that’s
the case, I apologize.
What makes you human?
Bela Seitz (she/her) is a graduate of Vanderbilt University (BA) who currently lives in New York City. Other previously published works can be found in the Vanderbilt Fiction Review.