Tangle @185

A feminine voice came echoing at the hillside of my consciousness. “We must wake,” it seemed to say. As I grew more aware of my surroundings, that was the message, “We must wake… We must wake.” Over and over again like the waking alarm of a siren. I could open my eyes, but not focus. I could barely make out my hands and body, and the rest was white. It seemed where ever I was, was an empty room with ambient lighting. My memory was as foggy and unfocused as my sight. I couldn’t remember being called back to Report, but I had definitely been pulled from somewhere. Something was also fighting for consciousness with me as well, I could feel it. My mind seemed split, two divergent struggles to wake up. My internal voice now joined the feminine one, “We must wake.” Whatever the other voice was it was benign, and realized the same thing I did, we were in this together. I squinted tightly, feeling a division of consciousness as I grew more aware of my surroundings. I tried opening my eyes again.

Still blurry, but it wasn’t lack of focus. In fact, it seemed like too much focus. Where ever I was, bits of furnishings would seem to appear and disappear. I could sense them, like how one knows a wardrobe or chair is behind them, but when I turned to find the object, there was nothing. Bits of the room, like little glass boxes containing a cross section of a chair or desk, appeared in my vision. “We must wake,” I shouted in my head, closed my eyes and opened them again. The image was staggering. Like transposing oneself as individuals like myself are trained to do, I had no sensation of moving—yet I was in a fully furnished room. The desk, the chair, the wardrobe were all there…and very Baroque in style. Ornate and lavish was this room, golds and reds lined the walls and the furniture was all a rich Mahogany. Even things like the lamps were nicely shaped brass with baubles, but something was odd. It was Baroque…but not quite. I found I couldn’t move, nor perceive my body as in the blank room, but I wasn’t my wind either. The female voice came again, shouting as I had, “We must wake!”

A short blink was all it took, and I found myself in the blank room again, free to move and perceive. It was an empty room after all. All white, no details as to even where a door may be, and all as mathematically precise as where I had just been. Where had I just been? Not the Baroque room, but before that. The street, or a street. What had happened? Without the female voice demanding to wake us up, I retraced the scene. It had been a fake scene, a trap. A trap which wound me up here, and through a bizarre relation a completely different place at the same time. I struggled to decide what had actually happened, but at the same time knew I had to confront what was happening.

I put whatever mess my consciousness was in to one side, and began a search of my empty room. I knew places like this, and was used to them, there had to be a tiny seam somewhere, microscopic even, where an exit could be. To become wind again would make it easy to find, and even slip through, but I found I couldn’t summon the will. Something was weighing me down, but I could mange dissipating my left had if I concentrated. That would have to do, and like a colored gas in a leaking atmosphere, I could follow the tiniest air stream. I stared at my hand, finding the necessity to concentrate so hard as frustrating as my training days. My hand went transparent, then airy and then I saw it. Feeling like a vacuum tugging on my skin, I watched as my ghostly hand extended, wafting toward the wall on my right. The weight I felt suddenly became greater, and I struggled to allow my hand to extend to a specific point on the wall. I could feel the seam, even though my fingers were only a gas-like substance. I had to concentrate so hard, I couldn’t muster the will to move from the other side of the room. I let my had trace the contour of the seam. Curving in an arch, it was a door way, yet I couldn’t concentrate enough to sense a mechanism to open it. Again the weight, bore down. Like a voice screaming into a pillow. I could feel myself straining, as I almost felt the mechanism. The weight again, a voice from a distant room this time. Clearer but not audible yet. I could sense what it was saying in urgency. I was going to lose the mechanism to my open my cell. Between the weight, the voice, and my strain I conjured enough energy to stamp my foot, giving the floor a good scuff. My eyes were burning, and the Baroque room began to flash in and out of my sight sporadically. I looked down, still trying to feel the whole cell door mechanism. The floor flashed between a featureless white and rich red hardwood planks. On the white I saw where my shoe had scuffed, if I lost contact with the mechanism At least I’d have a starting point. Then my concentration began to buckle under the weight of voice, strain, and consciousness. I was in a flip-book, and every other page was the baroque room. The mechanism had been found, the blank room door opened, and I succumbed to the weight. The voice was shouted through a loud speaker centimeters from my ear. I fell to all fours on the rich, red hardwood planks. Do tho their coloring, I wasn’t sure if I had coughed blood, but it felt like it.

I looked up, and for the first time saw where the door would’ve have been for this room, and it was open too. I looked through the doorway, saw a hall that was half baroque and half white and featureless. There was a doorway opposite this opulent cell, and it lead into a featureless whit room. In that room, on the floor, I was looking at myself on all fours; a tell-tale red splatter just below me.

Realization threw a rock at this bizarre mirror image of myself as I and the feminine voice asked simultaneously, “Are we awake?” I was shattered from the baroque room, and instead found myself in the white room, staring through the door I had opened at a lovely young woman. She stared from the baroque room right back at me, matching my gaze of perplexity. We wiped our mouths of blood drops at the same time.