R³, page 4
“Why me?”
“Why not?” He’s serious. I hate it when he’s serious. “Perhaps because you’re the only one listening. You can dream, John. Ever since the incident, no one has been able to dream. Only empty sleep with open eyes. Millions killed themselves because of it. They quickly developed the snowflake as if to paint destruction pink, trying to give the dream-less sleeper some grace; allowing them to sleep with their eyes closed. That was until Nina. She could dream. And she could dream loud. She showed it to me. The absolute. I felt it. And then you show up, telling me you met Nina? You are taking me back to it.”
“We met by chance, Bill.”
“The universe happened by chance,” he snaps right back. “John, you must find it. It’s of utter importance.”
“I need to clear my head.”
This is not happening. This can’t be happening. I will not be a victim of circumstance.
I place some crystals into a pipe as Bill paces back and forth, bouncing the issue around his head. He’s setting off on a small, but steady, path to obsession. He looks out the window repeatedly.
I turn to the other side and lie on the floor as I inhale and exhale, trying to relax, trying to escape this madness. I stare at the only empty space in Bill’s RV, the chaos-free ceiling. Untouched. Untainted. Unpolluted.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Lying on the floor.
Inhale.
Exhale.
As if suddenly dreaming with my eyes open.
Chapter 5.5: An unreliable author.
AN UNRELIABLE AUTHOR
The white stream covers him entirely, as if he were trapped at the bottom of a well and the sun was his only beam of hope.
The young man with rosy cheeks checks his stopwatch and the LCD monitor. He makes a note on his clipboard. The monitor, quite similar to a heart-monitoring device, beeps as a continuous green line blinks up and down.
The main door hisses open. The fat scientist stomps all twenty feet without saying a word. He swipes his card granting him access into the spherical mass. The smell of Brussels sprouts lingers.
The door remains open long enough for the young man with rosy cheeks to peer inside. In the middle of the room, upright, is a large white capsule, large enough to fit a full person—it resembles a smooth iron lung. An assisted breathing device inhales and exhales heavily, mechanically. The capsule is designed in such a way that its contents are not exposed. A bundle of thin IV tubes extract a glowing yellowish liquid from inside the capsule, feeding it into a slick, egg-shaped dialysis machine.
The door slides shut obstructing his view.
The young man with rosy cheeks pulls on his white lab coat in a failed attempt to keep warm. His breath materializes every time he exhales.
The door slides open letting the fat man out. It slides shut behind him. He stares down at the young man, despite being way shorter, and then proceeds to stomp his way out.
Alone again.
The young man waits a few seconds before digging into his lab coat, and retrieves a small, thin book, almost the size of a pocket-sized moleskin. He goes to the first page:
NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
When I first came across the pages from the missing settler’s diary, I couldn’t really put a finger on what it truly was; a work of fiction posing as a diary? A fabrication with intensions of deception? Or an actual account, about a legitimate turn of events? After years of close examination, I concluded I had no option but to lean towards the latter. Even after verifying the accuracy of its date of origin through professional carbon testing, there was no way of proving if this person was who he said he was, nor if he saw what he said he saw. As far as my own personal investigation was able to reach, I never came across an individual by that name during that specific period, in any of the surrounding towns – which could as well have been rather spotty. The only reason I decided to believe its contents were truthful was simply because I wanted to believe. However, as an objective publisher, I managed to keep my distance, steering away from any kind of bias when putting the document together. Although at least 60% of the pages are missing [or were removed], I did my most best to follow a chronological order, based on the dates listed on each entry. For the entries that were undated, a separate chapter was included, as there was no sure way to decide if they should come before or after the dated entries. For the reader’s sake, these were included at the end of the compilation, so as to serve as an epilogue. Any scratched out words or sentences (as there were many) were, either completely erased, based on the quality of possible interpretation, or were rewritten with possible word options, trying to remain as close as possible to the original wording patterns.
There’s no “best way” to describe or to preface the author’s experience. Whether it was a product of his imagination, a hallucination, or “real”, is up to the reader to decide, but as he himself explains towards the end of his last entry, his mathematical background prevented his trained brain to reach any illogical conclusion, always resorting to more grounded calculations and logistics. Yet to this day, he has remained an unreliable author.
Cassandra Walker,
Pandora Publishing, Inc.
The man with the rosy cheeks turns the page, coming face to face with the beginning of the manuscript.
October 13, 1591
I wasn’t sure how long I had been walking for, but I knew I had to be over three miles away from the camp, heading north. A small stream had been keeping me company. After a few miles, I finally reached the end of the stream, or more so, its beginning; a tranquil basin, about thirty feet in diameter. I approached its gentle shore. A steep cliff directly in front of me hugged the basin between us. Trees blocked the end of the mountain, keeping it out of sight. I couldn’t see or hear a waterfall or set of streams anywhere around, which meant this basin had been born from underground, and not from an ice cap above. Based on my basic geology knowledge, there should be an underwater cave not too far from the surface, leading into an underground lake, or to an even bigger basin, which, in turn, feeds the one before me with fresh water. Such a kind of lake can actually be very dangerous to swim in. The force propelled by the currents going in and out of the basin and undertow, create a whirlpool that could instantly pull you down into the depths of underground rivers, causing your almost immediate death, either by the rocky interiors, or by drowning. It’s not far from the truth to say I knew better than to go swimming into such an unpredictable environment, but it was something stronger than my intellect and logic that drew me in. That is when the “object” in question revealed itself.
At first I thought it was only a rock, creating a deceiving reflection on the surface, but upon closer observations, it proved to be that there was no rock in that location—at least not that close to the surface, as the lake did indeed run deep.
My second theory was: perhaps it’s some kind of light fragmentation. On the clear surface of the lake, I could distinctively see an object being reflected, an object, which technically should have been floating about ten feet over the lake; about six feet in front of me. However, there was no object hovering above the surface. In fact, there was nothing between where I was standing and the treetops.
I did a few rounds around the basin’s circumference and was able to climb onto the cliff. It gave me an even clearer view of the lake’s surface and its enigmatic reflection. Simply put, there was nothing there to reflect. And if there was, my eyes couldn’t see it, but for some reason the lake could mirror it, as if it were some trickery or illusion. Yet, that’s quite impossible.
Several hours must have passed, because I could no longer see the sun directly above me. It was hiding between dense branches. Expecting the reflection to move once the sun’s position had changed was unsatisfactory. In fact, the location of the invisible object, remained fixed on the lake’s reflection.
Having disproved every possible explanation to try and describe such an anomaly, and having found none, I moved onto making an attempt at detailing the object.
The object could only be described as a giant bubble, constantly shifting and therefore creating its own light reflections and refractions. If it truly had been underwater, it could only have been some type of giant jellyfish, but as explained before, this object was not underwater. That was not a possibility.
I lost myself, drawn in by the playful ripples on the water’s surface. I was filled with sudden peace and serenity. That is when I found myself falling into the lake.
Chapter 6: You are dead, right?
You are dead, right?
The computer screen illuminates my face. It’s past midnight. I love visiting the library late at night. It’s so quiet. So dark. So empty. Peaceful. I do a quick search for Nina but get zero results. Next, I try Nina’s Dream, but no results once again. This doesn’t make sense. There should be something, there has to be something. What are my choices? I try R³—can’t go wrong with that, a product which had been on sale on every shelf for a few years straight.
The monitor goes instantly crazy with pixelation followed by a black screen. Then it lights up again, giving me the loading wheel. For some reason it had automatically restarted. It looks like something doesn’t want to be found. Or something wants to be forgotten.
What if Bill is right? What if dreaming was suddenly seen as a disease? A sickness? And R³ as a drug, a medium to achieve some sort of personal growth? What if we one day stopped breathing? I wonder if that would suddenly become forbidden as well.
My ears are chill now that it’s colder. That’s when the hoodie comes in. Luckily the winter wave hasn’t hit yet, but it will come, just like last year, and the year before. I wonder if I’ll make it to this winter. Not sure why that thought crossed my mind.
The streets are empty. You can smell the morning dew. It’s funny how something as minute as smell can shift your emotions entirely, triggered by some obscure hidden memory.
I look up. No stars tonight. No moon either. However I catch a shimmering glimpse of the hole in the stratosphere. Could that really be what Bill makes it to be? It could be anything. But one thing’s for sure, it’s there. And you can’t ignore it. I wonder if other people can see it? As I look around, there’s no one to ask—no surprise since it’s about five in the morning—except for one person, about twenty feet behind. A lonely shadow lingering, trying but failing to muffle its echoing footsteps on the dirty concrete. I speed up, uneasy, try to lose it by turning around a corner.
A few seconds later I hear it behind me again. It’s following me. Someone is following me.
I walk into my apartment and lock the door. The shadow isn’t there anymore. At least I can’t see him from my window. Either way, he’s outside, I’m inside. It’s good.
Not sure why, but I’m unable to fall asleep. My eyelids refuse to make contact with each other, so I decide to go on a scavenger hunt through my fridge. It lasts fifteen seconds. Would’ve been longer if I’d had any real groceries inside and not just a frozen water bottle and my secret soda can. I pull out the only other consumable item—a real soda can. I sit at the kitchen table and take a sip. For some reason my eyes refrain to open fully. My eyelids feel heavy even though I’m not tired. Rubbing my temples doesn’t seem to help.
Suddenly someone walks behind me, across the room. I look up and notice the stranger immediately, yet he doesn’t startle me. It’s not the stranger from outside—that, I know for sure. Nonetheless, I feel like I should be panicking a bit, or at least show some faint emotion of surprise. But that’s not the case. Impressively calm, I observe the intruder closely and take another sip from my drink.
Partially hidden in shadow, he goes through my cabinets and pulls out an InstaMeal. He follows the steps carefully: places it in a bowl, adds the drops, lets it sizzle, and brings it over to the table, sitting on the opposite end. Without acknowledging me, he starts eating and slurps, loudly. His stringy hair dips into the bowl every time he leans in. It’s a bit disgusting, but eating manners aside, he seems to be fine. No blood, no sign of violence. Almost as if I’d never smashed a hammer into his brittle skull. In fact, I would even go as far as saying Isaac has never looked better.
I have to be dreaming.
Why does he eat so loud?
I hadn’t moved an inch, when Isaac looked up abruptly, locking deep into my eyes. Strange.
Can he read my mind? Maybe I should stop asking so many stupid questions. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Man, I’m hungry.
An extra bowl slides out of seemingly nowhere, stopping exactly in front of me. Interesting. Isaac resumes eating his own soup. Slurp. Slurp.
The sea and the sky on the horizon, like Bill said. Maybe this is all a big riddle. A puzzle. A riddle that will either unlock the secrets of the universe, or one that will drive me mad, like the crazy prophetic hobo outside my mother’s house.
Isaac keeps eating. I can’t seem to lift the spoon, so I stare at it blankly. Too many questions floating inside my head to worry about food, no matter how hard my stomach is churning.
I’m having dinner with a dead person. You are dead, right?
I’m sure Isaac heard me, but decided to ignore my question. Instead, he stopped eating, stretched his fingers and—one hand at a time—grabbed onto the air and pulled, as if he had just caught a fly. I see no other way to describe it. Except the air refracted as soon as he did, exposing color streaks similar to the hole in the stratosphere. Once both his hands pulled these refracting, now geometric, color streaks, and brought them to the center, they instantly gave shape to a solid, real, object. In this case: a soda can. A soda can made out of thin air.
Fizz. Isaac opens it and takes a large gulp, “aaaah…!” He exposes his Cheshire cat smile, as his body slowly evaporates leaving only his crooked grin behind.
Hmm…
Chapter 7: There’s a syncopation in reality.
There’s a syncopation in reality.
My mother rarely has the best of ideas, but I’ll admit, this head doctor sparked my interest. It probably wouldn’t have at any other given point, but based on my current situation and my late snack with a dead man, I figured why not?
A white clock ticked on the wall loudly. White fluorescent lights reflected off the white tiles, creating a surreal dream-like environment, closely resembling the Baroque room from 2001: Space Odyssey. If you don’t know what I’m talking about and haven’t seen the movie, perhaps you should. In all seriousness, get your fat ass up and watch it.
The main difference between both rooms was that this one had an obvious way out. An exit. I could see it; same door I came in through. Yet I couldn’t get up, I couldn’t seem to leave. Maybe it’s just an illusion—me leaving. Maybe the door doesn’t exist anymore and all that’s left is a memory of a threshold I went through. Maybe. But it’s still a door, whether it’s an exit or not. A door. I guess the other room didn’t have a door. At least a proper door. Perhaps I’m better off with no way out.
“John Hammond?”
That’s my name. The man’s voice, in par with his suede turtleneck and slick hair, is both clean and flawless. Tiny wrinkles crown the outside of his eyes hidden under spotless, black-framed glasses, fitting like the perfect jigsaw piece on his mature, yet young, thirty-year-old-something face. The impeccably manicured hands, the symmetrical tie, the glistening, gold watch and the black Prada shoes, so polished I almost got lost in my own reflection.
“John Hammond?” he repeats, looking down at his clipboard, as if to double check since I’m the only lost soul currently in the limbo room.
“Welcome. Please step inside,” he says with an all-pearly-white-smile as I make way into his office. A polished bronze plaque neatly adorns his door, boldly displaying his name: Dr. John Hammond, Ph.D.
I know. The name. One of those funny things, I tell you.
Funny.
The Baroque patterns spread into the molding of his office. I let my body sink into the leather Chaise Lounge. How cliché. It has that distinctive new smell. Makes you wonder how many folks laid here appreciating their playful senses, and how many others were too busy yapping their problems away to notice.
“Are you nervous?” he asks, maybe because I’m fidgeting. I’m not really sure why I’m fidgeting.
“Should I be?”
“There’s no reason to be nervous. Though it’s an understandable fear.”
“Fear of what?”
“Fear of being crazy. Fear of being shunned by society.”
“Don’t all mental patients insist they’re perfectly fine and it’s the world around them that’s crazy?” I snap back.
“John, I’m not a crazy doctor. Everyone has issues. Those who you’d call normal people do too. Sometimes that’s all it takes to help someone; to listen. And that’s what I do. I listen. There’s no voodoo to it.” He flashes those pearly whites again. “How can I help you?”
“Can I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I think this is bullshit,” yes, that’s my opening statement, “pretending to get into someone’s head, fixing their brain, their problems, when all you do is sit there and take their money. Some people don’t want to be helped. Depressed people enjoy being depressed. You enable them. You’re their drug.”
“Is that so?”
“Like some vicious cycle. Making the same mistakes over and over, no matter how many times you tell them not to.”
“Do you often see the world through other people’s eyes, John?”
