So I started writing a book a few days ago. Here's what I've got so far. Remember that it's unfinished. Heh.
Dreams are funny things: you can never tell how they’re going to be. Your eyelids are leaden, and you get tired of holding them up, even though you know there are things you should be doing. The hours have run away with each other, carrying your cognizance with them. So you let the padded vice, the oppressive pillow of sleep sink your face deep into your mattress, and you rest, drifting drowsily between the embellished columns of the gate that holds in the imaginings of your slumbering cerebrum.
You never expect dreams, and you never bear witness of them while they loom behind your lids. Are they really only jumbled sequences of unspent electrical impulses, keeping your brain entertained while you sleep? Are they really governed by time and space? Some dreams you can control, and in some, the choose-your-own-adventure book turns its own pages. Sometimes you can force your way up the overgrown, over-gravitated path back to consciousness, and sometimes you know you’re going to wake, even though the thing you desire above all else is to continue meandering in the forest. The fabric, the nature of dreams is elusive. Your clouded memories weave their way through the tapestries of your dreams, distorting both.
Sometimes what you swear is real is simply a well-placed vision. And sometimes, what you swear is a dream is stark reality.
~
It’s about 2:00 A.M…I haven’t yet consulted the crimson-charactered alarm clock, so that’s only a rough estimation. My room isn’t really hot, but for some obscene reason, I’m sweating when I wake up. The inside of my mouth feels like an old engine: greasy, hot, and altogether unpleasant. My upper left cuspid hurts a bit…have I been grinding my teeth? My sheeted sofa is always uncomfortable come early morning. Normally I roll over and ignore it, resubmerging myself in my earthly nirvana, but I’m thirsty and hot and sweaty…and grumpy. I get up, my stiffened joints griping, and stretch groggily. I walk the fifteen feet to my door and push the latch down slowly, listening to the protestations of the spring-loaded mechanism. The quiet is quite tangible, an ambience that pushes inward on my ear drums, and I’m loath to disturb it. I swing the door slowly on its just-oiled hinges, arresting its progress before it collides with the wall behind it. I tiptoe across the white carpet, its shag fingers caressing my toes, and climb up the three stairs that separate the living room from the dining room (though why we call it a dining room, I’ll never know…I certainly never dine therein). By this time, I’ve crossed the brass border between carpet and wood, and the floor creaks as though offended by my presence. My first stop is the bathroom, where I empty my bladder and splash chill water on my face, disposing of most of the sweat. Thus refreshed, I make my foray to the kitchen, nab two slices of bread, and prepare to make the return journey.
A twig snaps outside.
I whip my head around, paranoid for the simple reason that it’s dark and I’m in a quiet house, early in the morning. I peer out the window, a little frightened that some pale face will appear behind its panes, scaring me quite literally to death. Night does this to me. I wonder if it’s universal. In the wan, sparing light reflected from the city off the clouds, I make out a mobile form. Damn it…somebody must have left the dog out all night. It’s a wonder she hasn’t split by now. I snatch a flashlight from the kitchen counter and dash out the door, irate and ready to return to my bed. The beam suddenly seems totally inadequate, its yellow-white glow illuminating only a square yard of ground at most, and casting the rest in eerie shadows. My eyes flick over the dim yard-scape, searching for the pesky canine.
Out of nowhere, a steel-strong grip latches on to my wrist. As I turn to confront whatever the hell’s grabbing me, an enormous blunt object collides with my face. I hear my nose crack and snap, releasing blood as the cartilage tears and the underlying bone shatters. Both of my lips are split and several of the teeth below are stripped from their positions by the tremendous force. My eyes roll back in their sockets, staring at my inattentive brain and demanding a reaction. But it’s already shutting down, its circuits overloaded. I slam into a pool of density, its enveloping arms welcoming me into unconsciousness.
~
I’ve got a splitting, throbbing headache. It’s hard to open my eyes…they’re almost glued shut. I reach up and push the lids apart, then glance down at my hands. A sticky film of mostly-coagulated blood coats my fingertips, and, I assume, my face. I glance around, surveying my surroundings. They’re very different from what I’ve come to expect when I rise. A medical-green coat of acrylic paint clings to everything, synchronizing the floor with the walls and the ceiling. A metal disk with slits through the center, a drain of some sort, is situated in the center of the painted cement floor. The room, which I can only assume is a holding cell, is about eight by eight, with a low-hanging ceiling and no windows. The only signs I see of a door are two hair-thin parallel lines stretching from floor to ceiling, about two feet apart. Below me is a sparsely-cushioned cot…it’s a rusty, creaky steel frame holding up a small vinyl mat. Reminds me of one of those little mats they pass out in preschool…the ones that are red on one side and blue on the other. Except, you know, it’s green. It’s about the same thickness, and the sweat (and blood, in this case) sticks to its surface in the same way. It’s grimy and covered in irremovable stains and spots of chemical discoloration. The round bases of each leg have been bolted to the floor, though judging from their current state of disrepair, it’d be a small matter to wrench them free.
I push my torso off the cut with my arms, noticing a series of small, red bumps on the inside of my right elbow, which is rather sore. My legs and torso are fine…everything seems to be in working order. On cursory inspection it seems like I’ve just woken up from a very refreshing sleep. I walk around the cell, examining both its interior and my body’s reaction to the trauma it’s been placed under. Glancing down, I catch a glimpse of my face in the metal drain cover: the first thing I see is a shock of red. Did they dye my hair for some sick reason? Then I realize that my hair is its natural shade, a light brown with bits of blonde and gold, but directly below it lies a shattered, raw battlefield of mottled, mangled flesh: my face.
For the first split second, I can’t move. Shock is overpowering, especially when accompanied by fear, rage, and remorse. The sudden flood of emotion is sickening in its intensity: I can feel my veins and lymph vessels swelling and pulsing as the emotional hormones sear through them, alerting my body to the situation. My eyes snap shut, yanking on the rest of the skin and muscles that hang loosely from my face, tensing them and igniting a mask of fire in and on my tissues. A sudden flux of saline water from my tear ducts inflames the raw tissue that veils my now-protruding cheekbones. A burst of memory crashes into my mind, bringing to my overloading brain a series of images: a flash of movement in the night, a red haze of pain, a shaded form. Where am I? My lungs begin to pump rapidly and shallowly, depriving me of the oxygen I need while further exhausting my weakened body. My vision blurs.
I force myself to breathe deeply, and a slender lever of reason wedges its way beneath the weight of my plummeting sanity. I sit on the cot, gasping enormous gulps of air.
As the perceptibly over-clocked firing of my synapses slow, one of the paper-thin cracks in the wall widens and becomes door opening outward, its hinges invisible behind its bulk. It’s at least three inches of reinforced steel…what crime could I have committed that would inspire such effort to detain me? A youthful man, who I can only assume is my jailor, enters my room. As he passes through the doorframe, a matrix of red light flashes over his frame, and there’s a series of audible beeps. Some sort of scanner…a metal detector, maybe?
The man’s hair is a dark brown, nearly black, curly, and of middling length, hanging a bit over his ears and eyes. His chin and jaw are masked by a short beard, which is even darker than the hair on his head. His nose is prominent and Romanesque, his nostrils elongated ellipses rather than circles, but his eyes, contrary to what one would expect, are a very transparent blue, clearly displaying the thoughts that live behind them. Their energy is only intensified by the gold-rimmed, old-fashioned spectacles that sit on the bridge of the nose. They’re very cheerful eyes, and a smile tugs on their corners playfully, even though the man’s lips are firmly set below them. He is clad in a dress suit which appears to be of expensive make, though its quality is subtle. His pants and the shirt underlying his jacket are well-pressed and his collar is starched. Though the air is noticeably warm and his garments look rather constricting, he’s completely at ease. In his hands, which feature prominently the veins under his skin, he carries a plastic folding chair; it looks extremely flimsy, which is probably intentional. They obviously consider me dangerous, and if they provide me with any sort of sturdy hardware, it could turn into a weapon. It’s not as if I’d have anywhere to go, even if I did escape. I’d first have to know where I was. And I don’t.
The man unfolds the seat and places it gingerly on the floor, producing little sound. He smiles genially at me, and his eyes light up. I stare, confused...It’s obvious that I shouldn’t trust this man, but it would be so easy to accept what I see of him and not worry about what I can’t see. He sits, bringing himself to my eye level. His breath smells like spearmint…it’s strong enough to detect, even though he sits more than three feet from me. He parts his lips to speak, and the sharp, pungent smell immediately gets stronger. “My name is Anton. I know who you are, so there’s no real need to introduce yourself. Would you care to tell me why you’re here? Now, don’t squawk and fuss and claim you’re innocent, because I know full well when I’m being lied to. It doesn’t matter how well you bluff when I’ve counted every card in the deck.”
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