Paste
Morgan Elizabeth
Part I
The room
I wake up in a room. A room that isn't mine.
Not a hotel.
Not a friend's.
Not a lover's.
Not a stranger's.
Calculated but alien.
Dystopian…
Exorbitantly clinical and white.
Straight out of science fiction.
If you're viewing from the outside, one that's fictional, made-up, you'd be enraptured, titillated. I am here authentically, dinkum, none of this is spurious, factitious, and it is horrifying—some breed of nightmare. I know I'm awake. Certain. My mouth is dry, and the lights assault my eyes.
How did I get here?
Why am I here?
I try to think of what happened before. I'm on my way to work as habitual as usual. Sat in my prosaic, hoary, stale, old toyota corolla, waiting perpetually for that light to turn green. No one's there. I could make it. But I'm one of those people who fears bending the rules. If I did it, I'd be caught. I'd be punished. Something that I couldn't grasp. The possibilities? No. I won't. I can't. As the light switches, a cop car pulls alongside me and stops. Damn… I know I can't feasibly be in trouble. As I said, I won't bend the rules, let alone break them.
"Yes?" I roll down my window.
"Come with me, please."
I wasn't cuffed or anything. Maybe questioned. I thought that some kind of incognito government society could read my thoughts. I'm a “super citizen,” a “good Samaritan.” No, that wasn't it. I can't fool myself. If so, why am I here? Why can't I remember?
I can't remember my face. My name. Who I am. What I am. All I can remember is that car. That road. That light. That police officer; stopped me. The song on the radio.
I can't light no more of your darkness,
All my pictures seem to fade to black and white.
Elton John…
I can remember what he looks like.
***
I have to pee. I can feel that sensation. The one of my body forcing itself even though there's nothing left. That burning. The dehydration. Hours have passed. No one came in. No water. No food. No "Hello, this is what happened." No chivalry. No bare minimum. No sense. No Kindness. Disregard. I get up. There's one steel, grey-blue door (the one's on abandoned factory buildings out in God's country that you find taking the wrong turn home) and a lingering hall with a flickering light. I can hear it buzzing. Maybe it's loud? Maybe it's so quiet in here, making it overly salient. A sore-thumb? I let my curiosity get the best of me. I get up and head for the hall. One flickering light, only one. That didn't grow louder on arrival. I stop to look at it. Light. The sun? What does that look like; feel like on one's skin? I can't remember. I know of it, but I can't remember. I continue. Man, I have to pee. I need water. My body is forcing itself. A sign of desperation. "Hey, I'm causing this pain, so you don't do this to me again." I'm hungry. Tired. I need to pee.
***
I find a door at the end of the hall, one of those rickety, tetanus-baring ones you might find creaking open at some tenebrous motel. "Come in; we've taught the roaches how to tuck you in." I turn the knob. I hope I'm vaccinated. It opens. Confessing to a juvenile, pediatric-pink, tiled bathroom. Matching pink accommodations perfectly coincided. No mirror. All I've seen of myself is my freckled, faded, tawny hands. Hairy knuckles. Left middle finger cut off from a ring, possibly. A memento of sorts. It wasn't green. Exorbitant? A gift? A souvenir? Class ring? Did I have one? How old am I? I shake off the thought and ready myself for alleviation. Do I stand? Sit? I don't know. I haven't even heard the sound of my voice. I just remember the words spoken. Like when you think of a repugnant insult to say to your class bully. It was my conscience. Not mine. Did it even belong to me? I should stand. I go to wash my hands. There's a bar of soap. Untouched. Still, has Dove carved into it. It smells like that scent they've named "unscented." Clean. Soft. Gentle. I try to find a reflection in the faucet. Distorted. All I make out is long, Stygian-brown hair. Have I been here longer than I thought, or was it a fashion statement? I hear a door open. Steps. I stand there, faucet still running, petrified.
"Come, it's time."
I don't want to come. Yet I want to leave. I'm scared of the uncertainty. Maybe I'll stay in this room? Quiet. Untouched. Someone may bring me something to eat. Maybe? Water? Or maybe they'll let me starve. I want to stay, but I go. I'm scared of breaking the rules.
Comments (0)
See all