Story / It's Just a Room - Part 6

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PART 6

NOPE

The watch stopped. Let me explain, I wear an “automatic” watch, which is powered by movement. Long story short, I fell asleep for too long, the momentum slowly died, and it stopped at 8:25. I don’t know how long it’s been since the watch died, but it doesn’t even matter. Even if I get it going again (which to be honest is pretty easy, just have to shake it a bit) I still won’t know what time it really is.

The painting’s mocking me. It’s different, I can tell; it must have changed while I was asleep. Maybe someone snuck in to the room and replaced it with a different -- but disturbingly similar painting. But it is different, I can tell. I can tell.

Something about it, something, something… It’s back on the easel. I left that filth on the floor before I finally passed out. I tossed it, thought I heard it rip, hell, I guess I hoped that’s what I heard. That gnawing, tearing, clawing noise, that rift in the silence, mocking me.

I would try to remember how long I was asleep, but time always seems to pass differently in dreams. The time it could take you to walk a mile in a dream would probably only get you forty feet in your waking world.

But if we’re being serious, I probably couldn’t remember it anyway, because that dream was everything but normal. It wasn’t a nightmare, not by any measure I can think of, but it certainly was peculiar.

I was standing on a really tall building, it looked like some kind of cathedral I suppose. Below me were thousands of small birds--probably chickadees--flying all around what I would assume was the cathedral’s parking lot; I couldn’t see anything below the birds because they were so proliferative. Suddenly I could have sworn there were tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, billions even. I couldn’t fathom what was happening, when suddenly all of the birds--in one instant--went up in flames. It was like someone flicked a switch and they all just combusted, it was so bizarre. When they fell, I realized they weren’t in fact flying above a parking lot, but rather an immensely dubious cavern, filled with a dark mist.

A dark mist? Really? Birds that shoot up in flames? Come on.

But I promise you, this wasn’t a nightmare, just hear me out. When I looked down into that abyss, I realized that below me were massive ancient underground cities. There were huge structures made of what looked like glittering emerald, all constructed to exactly precise geometric standards. All of the rooms resembled some crazy elaborate, yet somehow tangible, and even symmetrical polyhedrons. They seemed to implode and explode at various angles, but they were all perfectly symmetrical. Like stars on the brink of collapse. Stars riddled with disease. dis-ease. Stars that were sick, and dying. Shining beacons of beauty before one final gasp, and then--disaster.

And these buildings were monuments to these beautiful disasters. Some of them seemed to have walls made entirely out of a green tinted glass, or hell, maybe it just seemed green because of the rest of the emerald structures.

These buildings protruded out of every wall, and some even seemed to hover mid air. Several of them were now littered with fresh fried chicken--or close enough anyway--but they still gleamed green as ever in that complete and utter darkness.

I’ve got to say though, the best part about the dream was being able to stand somewhere other than this damn box. It was almost refreshing. But, of course, there wasn’t any fresh air. At least not at first, what seemed like several days passed before I felt fresh air, but here’s why:

After the birds fell, after I saw the strange luminescent buildings, the cathedral beneath me began to collapse--or maybe it was dissolving, I can’t remember, that seems like months ago now.

Next thing I knew, the whole building was gone, and I was just standing, safe and sound on the brightest god damn light bulb I have ever seen. Or at least that’s what I figured at first, I guess it was some kind of floating tower that glowed immensely, a bright white light, which I actually had to shield my eyes from.

The tower began to descend into the chasm below, and suddenly I found myself amidst those peculiar shapes in all of their emerald glow. I saw some of them had open faces, likely to crawl in through. But what kind of sick creatures could wriggle into those bizarrely shaped openings? They sure as fuck weren’t any type of door I’ve seen. I count myself blessed for having the fortune to avoid whatever luring creatures might inhabit these strange buildings. Who would want to?

The tower fell lower and lower for what seemed like hours, passing all forms of hideous creations. Beautifully perfect carvings that had no business being in this decrepit pit, ethereal instruments which played notes so strange you might think they were playing any random note they liked. But these were just instruments, surely they couldn’t know about playing the music; yet somehow they were, and they sure as hell weren’t programmed, because they were made of the mist itself, glowing blue in condensed packs of energy, some resembling pipes, some looking like mere smatterings of shape. The mist hung all around me during the descent, and it became thicker and thicker, it tasted of cough syrup, the cherry kind. It’s funny the kind of things you remember from dreams. I can remember a specific taste, but I can never remember how long the dream really lasted, without looking at a clock.

But you know what? That was just the beginning of this labyrinth of a dream. Next, I’m sailing faster than sound through this dark abyss, and everything is flooding past me, all manner of shapes and consistencies, but none of it hits me. I closed my eyes--blinked more like it--and suddenly I’m standing in a field. Not a corn field, or even a cheerful little field of dandelions, no I’m standing in the middle of a field of rice paddies. Up to my knees, and it was all strangely warm too, though it was lit by no sun. Through the darkness, for miles and miles all I could see were these rice fields, stretching on and on. Suddenly I saw some of the sprouts begin to uproot themselves, and move, out of the corner of my eye. They seemed to creep through the water carefully, trying not to be noticed. But I saw one close to me as it began to move, and I snatched it up. What I saw was absolutely disturbing.

As I pulled up the paddy, I heard a fowl scream, and saw that the plant had a deranged face, and that it was howling at me. My first instinct was to throw it, and as I did, I was instantly transported somewhere completely different.

I was in Stonehenge, only instead of stones, the columns were massive shrines of obsidian. They towered over me, and there seemed to be so many of those primitive eclipsing arches, black as the void itself.

I walked around for what seemed like several more hours, maybe even days, but the sun never shone, and I couldn’t help but think I was still underground somewhere. The space felt nice to move around in, but it was no better being trapped in a cryptic dream than it is being trapped in a waking nightmare. The sun never shines here. There are no windows, so I suppose even if it did I wouldn’t be able to see it. I’m in a box, all alone.

AFTER SOME HOURS OF DREAM RECALL

So I walked. I picked a direction, and just started going for it. I used the massive columns as navigation, and what seemed like several months of walking, walking endlessly through this maze of a world went by, every so often hearing the crash of waves just behind me, though when I turned I found nothing but Candice, and Mary, and William Yorkshire III, and Dasna Rukgupta.

But after those several months, I began to realize that this strange world seemed to be progressing uphill. After several more days, I realized that world was curving upward, like a perfect quarter pipe of a mountain, but on a massive scale. I resolved to continue walking, as I still had not woken up, and I had not yet begun to feel tired. Gravity held me until I reached a point where the slope was too great, and I could not walk any farther. So what did I do? I turned around, and sprinted full speed back down the enormous slope. It felt amazing, like flying through the world. When the world finally flattened out, I took a look around, to find any obsidian structures I could recognize. Of course not.

In fact, as I looked around I saw fewer and fewer of those massive arches. There went Darla Thomas, Jerry Cobblefield, and the entire Swanson family in all of their jagged dark edges. I realized then, these were gravestones of some kind. After I had revolved several times, all of the arches were gone. The dirt beneath my feet melted away into actual snowflakes falling down into a looming pit below. Quite reminiscent of the beginning of my dream cycle, but all too different. Instead of flaming birds, I now had beautiful floating crystals. Instead of plummeting, I was falling slowly, like a feather, with unimaginable wind resistance apparently.

The pit began to twist and turn into tunnels, through which I soared, along with my never-melting snowy-friends. I soared for what felt like many more months, maybe even a whole year, before the “falling” finally ceased, and I ended up standing in a room that was entirely dark. There was a door, and even a couple windows on one wall, but the courtyard outside was caught in tremendous darkness as the clouds consumed any moonlight that may have strayed into that place on this crisp night. Morning’s more like it, right? 3? 4? I don’t know what time it is anymore.

Suddenly a light came on. I had been in this darkness for so long, it took me a while to adjust, I had to wince at first. Sitting on a hotel bed in the middle of this dark room, was a man named Tycho Green. Tycho and I go back a ways, probably back to third or fourth grade, and we kept in contact for a while after college, but I haven’t talked to him or really even thought about him in at least a few years. Tycho was sitting on that bed, lit by the shitty hotel lamp on the--thank god it’s not walnut--night stand. This room sure was a refresher, something a little more stable, more normal. Hell, there was even a decorative wallpaper with cute little zigzags and polka dots.

“What?” he said cruelly; deadpan.

Honestly I was taken aback by this, he was a pretty light-hearted guy, and to suddenly see him again after years? decades? and he’s suddenly yelling at me. Well okay, not “yelling” so much as “getting to the point.”

He looked at me with that stern look in his icy blue eyes, and he said, “I asked you a question.”

“What do you mean, what?” I began, and then I lost it. “I’ll tell you what, Tycho, I’ve got some questions for you. What are you doing here? What is this place? What happened to me? And What the fuck are you staring at me for?” I shot back, the words pouring out of my mouth, not my words.

Before I could get an answer, Tycho Green had disappeared completely right in front of me, taking the light of the lamp with him. I was left in pitch black.

Now, Tycho Green was the quiet type, always sat in the back of the class; but not because he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to be noticed. I guess we had something in common. The only way that Chester and I were able to keep up our lazy charade was by learning from the shadows. Neither of us sat up front, neither of us raised our hands unless we absolutely needed to, and neither of us caused any kind of commotion. We left that business to those with less to lose, those who pestered their table mates, those who felt the need to interject whenever they had some funny addition to make to whatever it was the teacher was saying. Usually these quips weren’t funny, but every once in a while, one of us would give a small chuckle.

Tycho, however, did not laugh. He didn’t raise his hand, he didn’t talk, he didn’t bother anyone. What he did was pay attention, and I can only imagine the things that kid must have picked up on. When we were in middle school I noticed what he was doing. It looked like he was staring off into space, or focusing on random objects in the room, but I realized that he wasn’t focusing on them at all. He would essentially pick a spot in the distance, or down on the floor, as long as he could still see the whole class. That’s what he focused on, the whole class. Tycho would take in everything in front of him. To the layman it would look almost like he was vegetative, but he would shift his gaze every once in a while, making sure he still saw everything.

He memorized. Every single action, every interjection, every note, every thing the teacher said, and he was doing it all at once. No wonder he never talked to anyone, he was damned busy the whole time.

One day after class I caught up with him. I must have startled him a bit, because he almost let out an audible gasp (which was a lot for him back then).

“Hey, you’re Tycho right? Tycho Green?” I asked, turning him around by his shoulder as countless people passed by us in the hallway, no doubt this kid standing in front of me counted every single one, and could tell me what they were all wearing. I didn’t ask.

“Yeah,” he said, and wriggled his shoulder out from under my hand. He started to turn back--

“Wait, can we talk for a minute?” I asked. He cocked his head a bit, and then nodded slowly. We walked over to a little nook under the stairs in the lunch room, where those folks who didn’t talk often sat. “I noticed what you do in class,” as I said this, I could feel him tense up and glance at me. “I was just wondering if you’re doing what I think you’re doing.”

Tycho looked genuinely curious, so I explained my reasoning to him, I told him how I could imagine him soaking up everything that happened before him, and to my disbelief, he didn’t say no.

He just stared at me as I kept going, and when I was finally done, I asked, “Why?” His gaze dropped a bit, to the buttons on my shirt I’m guessing. “I asked you a question,” I said.

That’s when he looked back up at me, and said this, “There’s a lot happening right in front of us, and most people are too scared to notice. They just hone in on one thing or another, and let the rest of the world fade out of view. They don’t care, or they don’t act like they do.”

“What do you mean? Most people can’t just see everything that’s happening in front of them and make sense of it all. I mean, most people can’t make sense of the one thing they’re actively doing,” I gave a little one-two chuckle and Tycho’s gaze dropped again, this time to the floor; maybe our shoes. “Are you doing anything tonight? Got a lot of homework?” I asked, hoping for a no to both. And that’s just what I got, a quick shake of the head telling me I’d guessed right, Tycho Green was free.

That afternoon, his godfather drove him over to our place, and we stayed up till 11 (which was quite adventurous for middle school) just talking. He told me that people can learn to do what he does, it just takes a long time, and a lot of very diligent practice. To be able to see everything out of your peripheral vision is almost unimaginable, until you try it for yourself.

It took a long time to get it down pat, but when I finally did, it was like seeing a whole new world. He told me to practice in small rooms with only other things inside them. The dead things, the things that we surround ourselves with to block out the rest of nature (that’s beside the point). Once I could understand the room and all of its contents simply by walking in and looking straight ahead, he had me add people. Of course, Tycho was my practice person, making subtle motions that I had to guess without looking at him. I got pretty good at it, but he was still better. Tycho warned me not to try it outdoors unless I was comfortable with it, because -- and I’ll use his words here -- There’s a whole hell of a lot going on out there.

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