R³, page 9
He later told me he had no place to stay, as I had been forced to ask him to leave. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, but there was not much I could do. Can’t sleep in the shitter.
He started rambling about how he had been kicked out of his apartment for having an unlawful amount of narcotics under his possession. I asked him what he meant by narcotics. I thought perhaps he was hoarding snowflakes, but those are hardly illegal, they are so legal they practically shove them down your throat.
He didn’t tell me. He showed me.
I hadn’t seen those little capsules or powders before. I didn’t really get what he was saying when he called them drugs—or believed him for that matter. I only really knew of the snowflake. It didn’t take much convincing for me to try a handful of whatever he fed me. Next thing I knew, I was inviting him to crash on my couch.
And that’s how this beautiful friendship was born.
A week or so later, he found himself a microscopic studio apartment. However, that didn’t work out either. He got evicted after two months. Tired of dealing with deposits and general landlord bullshit, he said fuck this shit, man, and bought himself an RV. It was his way of defying society. In that sense, I guess I was proud.
We got along pretty smoothly. Soon after I quit my job at the InstaMeal Drive-Thru—something about an incident concerning me pissing in the soda fountain, allegedly—we started hanging out 24/7. He had an endless supply of stories. He told me how he lost his arm; something to do with a door accident, and how he hates children—more like, they make me uncomfortable; I’m never certain what’s going on behind those empty eyes.
He used to be a lab tech, got fired, lost everything. He became a hermit, living off what the street provided, seeking shelter inside a sewer here and there. But whatever horrors he witnessed during the day, were made up for at night, when he dreamt. He told me about his R³ fueled dreams. I was instantly fascinated. I loved all the narcotics he provided—every week there was something new—, but I couldn’t keep my mind away from R³. It kept calling me. It became a fixation. Bill seemed reluctant to help me find any, assuring me that they had stopped making them years ago, and that by now every single bottle had been most certainly consumed. No one would sit on dreaming for that long, he’d say.
Everything changed, however, the day I found the bottle inside the locker.
Still not sure how it happened, or the significance of it, but it’s almost as if it had been calling me from miles away—whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
I didn’t find that bottle.
That bottle found me.
Chapter 16: Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
A dry, firm slam wakes me up. Wakes me up from what? Not sure. I rise. Every inch of my body aches, as if the tap dancing Olympics had spent all night practicing for opening ceremony on my every muscle and head. I’m running out of words to describe it. Its day-to-day continuity makes it a daily occurrence—my new status quo. If only… But the pain increases day after day, as if someone, somewhere, were turning on a tiny, little knob every twenty-four hours, adding onto my pain, and snickering while doing so. I imagine some sort of elf or midget creature. The kind you find on cereal boxes.
I get to my front door—finally. It was no easy task. At the opposite end of it, I find a neatly taped EVICTION notice. Whoever left it must’ve been in a hurry because there is nobody in sight. No steps echoing down the hall.
It looks like the building is under new management. No one told me. Or perhaps this was their way of telling me. Cheeky.
Isaac has decided to take a walk on my ceiling, as if gravity had shifted but only for him. He always had an upside-down view of the world, so I guess this makes it right. Or as right as right can be, if that makes any sense. I realize it doesn’t.
I mustn’t leave.
Not safe outside.
Stay inside.
Inside. Inside. Inside.
Safe inside.
My fridge is empty. Why am I surprised?
Mmm. No grubby-dubby.
Stomach songs want the grubby-dubby.
The dead one ate it all.
He slurps his soup soundly, in his upside-down world. Has he been refilling bowl after bowl after bowl?
Stomach rumbles.
No matter how hard or which way I turn the silver knob, nothing comes out. None of them spit out what I want. I keep trying all of them: kitchen sink, bathroom sink—hoping maybe one will magically douse me with crisp liquid, like an oasis in the middle of the desert.
Nope. Nada. Zilch.
Only nasty sputters, like a war soldier chocking on his own blood.
Forgetting about my desperate need for water, I get lost in my reflection. My head itches terribly. I lower my head, hoping to find the source of such insatiable itchiness, but can only see what looks like a minor rash. That would’ve solved the mystery if it weren’t for the amount of dark, dry blood I keep finding under my fingernails.
My teeth grind, like churning wheels at an old rusty factory, forcing out a semblance of a smile. It looks… normal. Smacking my tongue against my teeth doesn’t do much in the hygiene department, but I choose to believe it does.
Choose.
There’s something stuck in the back of my mouth, possibly between my large molars. My tongue won’t bend that far back, so I stick both thumb and middle finger in an attempt of manual extraction. It’s really in there. With some difficulty, I’m able to finally wrap my fingers around it and yank the nuisance out.
I squint my eyes and let out a small giggle. You’ll have to admit this is rather funny. I bring my bloody tooth up close, examining its inner contours. What a curious shape they have. I’m surprised I was able to pull it out with such ease, seeing how deep the roots go. Perhaps some roots are simply not strong enough.
I dig my fingers back into my mouth, setting off exploration Phase 2. Middle finger and thumb wrap around another foreign object and yank it out with as much ease. Another tooth.
What do I do with two bloody teeth sitting on my hand?
Grubby-dubby grinders for green paper?
As a soft scoff slips out from between my lips, my reflection reaches out of the mirror with menacing arms, ready to strangle me.
Ten to fifteen people form a half circle around Bill. He smokes heavily out of his electronic Hookah, letting thin layers of smoke envelope him. The half circle of heads around him chant in unison under some sort of spell. Was it always like this? I vaguely remember the crowdedness, but the chanting doesn’t strike me as familiar. However, the melody does…
That forsaken jingle.
Why does it follow me?
Bill’s RV is certainly a bit more crowded than usual; I can smell it. Plus the new set of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling make it impossible to walk without crouching—terrible sense of decoration.
Like some sort of self-appointed messiah, Bill sits on top of a mountain of cushions, with his right hand on the metallic sphere with odd inscriptions. The thing was supposed to give him all the answers, but had yet to say a word.
At the far end of the room, I spot my mother.
…?!
Yes, she’s here, chanting vigorously, like a devout follower. Has she always been here? Not sure, but her wardrobe is as pompous as before; maybe even a bit more, if that’s even possible. Her fitted, red dress hugs her hornet-thin waist like shrink-wrap; her summer hat, wider than ever, sits like a halo atop her head; her cheekbones, high and mighty. Did she get work done?
All at once, the singing sheep finally silence. The chant was only the overture, a tune to summon a greater force. When, as if on cue, a small TV clicks on, in front of Bill.
“Reuse. Redream. Recyle,” Nina’s ethereal TV advertisement plays on loop. His followers are glued to the screen, speechless. They adore her. They adore Nina as if she were some sort of deity. But why?
“Reuse. Redream. Recyle. Making all of your dreams come true.”
Conductor Bill waves his little magic wand, cuing in the orchestra… “Reuse. Redream. Recycle. Making all of your dreams come true,” they all repeat in unison. “Reuse. Redream. Recycle. Making all of your dreams come true. Reuse. Redream. Recycle. Making all of your dreams come true.”
The monotony of their voices makes my skin crawl. The intensity of the chant grows louder and louder. I feel oxygen rapidly leaving my lungs, not wanting to stay put. Beads of sweat materialize on my forehead as I feel every color of normality drain from my face, leaving only a paleness of pure nothingness.
Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
Not safe outside. Stay inside. Inside. Inside. Safe inside.
Followers crowd around Bill, praising him, the air around him suddenly becoming holy. Rose, my mother, kisses his hand and looks up; her eyes glimmer eerily, moist with devotion, like they’re either too alive or too dead
I remain safely away from the crowd, as away as an RV permits, hiding behind a spider web of Christmas lights, receding from the fervor.
Bill’s room is behind me. The little nook of six-by-nine calls my name. I’m empty; you’ll be safe here.
But the voice lied to me. It wasn’t empty. It was full, completely full of emptiness. Like a mighty black hole, there it sat, surrounded by stinking candles, the metallic sphere-shit-thing-ee, pulling everything and everyone towards it, dragging them into a whirlpool with unforgiving undertow.
Unable to help myself, I gently press my hand on it.
When in a flash,
Nina is trapped.
Nina is trapped inside a glass capsule, curled into a ball, naked, defenseless.
It shows me.
It tells me.
She’s dying.
Chapter 16.5: What happened to the time?
WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO THE TIME?
December 10, 1591?
The journey back has taken longer than expected. I am quite certain I’ve been traveling at a constant pace. If I’ve been mathematically precise, I should have arrived to the village by now. I’ve considered the possibility of having taken a detour, but I am definitely retracing my own steps.
I also have managed to lose track of time. My senses have been playing tricks on me as days have begun to interweave with one another. Nowhere else to go except forward. Or so I think.
Late December, 1591
I’ve finally made it back to the village, but don’t quite remember arriving. I must have fainted due to dehydration. I woke up inside one of their small homes with a violent pounding in my head. My lips were parched. Soon after, a young woman brought me something to drink and a warm meal. I slept for another two days.
As soon as I was back on my feet, I did all the preparations necessary to head back into the wilderness. After reevaluating my previous travels, I concluded I’ve been riding in the opposite direction. I have to return back to the lake. Traveling towards a different perimeter won’t help me find another town. The land here is different; this was not the same land surrounding the lake I had fallen into. That is a fact. I have to go through the lake once more.
As generous as before, the villagers provided me with food, supplies, and water—a larger amount than last time. I refused such generosity, but they insisted, eager to help. I offered my services; I could help with any repairs that needed to be done prior to my departure, anything to help repay their kindness. They asked where my travels would take me. Once I revealed I was planning to return to the lake, their faces grew pale with worry. They knew which lake I was referring to, and explained the mechanics behind the large bubble.
According to the villagers, the travelers (meaning ‘us’) swap places with the bubble through the lake. The traveler’s body mass replaces the bubble’s body mass on this side, and the same occurs on the other side—my side. Once things take their course—meaning, once the traveler expires—, a new bubble appears and the process repeats itself. They can’t tell me what causes this, or when it started, as the lake has been there since before the beginning.
There’s no return, they warn me, assuring the road back would not lead me to where I wanted to go. That place is no longer there. That world is no longer there, they say. This would be a new journey, as the lake tends to move.
Travelers come out, they tell me, but they never go back in. They made it sound like a one-way passage, but to me it was only a lake: a pool of water. Even one-way doors can be accessed one way or the other.
They tried to persuade me to stay, but I had already made up my mind; I am returning to the lake, even if my journey is more arduous. Convinced by my determination, they finally asked for a small favor, which I immediately agreed upon. I am to take a traveler with me, the stable boy I previously met—the magic boy who managed to calm my horse with natural ease. They said he was the child of destruction, born out of dead stars and fiery pits. According to them, the wondering boy appeared in the village one day, and they took him in. He had helped with the land throughout the years, but he didn’t belong and his return was overdue. He had to go back to the lake. They told me his name, and made it very clear that if any harm came his way, an all-destructive force would be unleashed. I had no time to question their reasoning, as the boy approached.
He had aged, grown tall and wiry. His eyes glimmered with intricate colors and shifting patterns, like the turning wheels of a clock. I had never seen such eyes before. What struck me the most was his sudden aging; ten to fifteen years since my last visit. Inexplicably. Yet I was presumptuous, as he was not the only one. Everyone had aged significantly. I had failed to notice a difference among the adult villagers, but in fact, after a second revision, they were all significantly older. What had happened to the time?
The industrial chimneys cut through the moonless sky like an elephant graveyard in the wilderness. The luscious smoke scrapes through the darkness, eventually dissolving into nothing.
Down one, two, three, four floors in the elevator, young Bill moves fast, as every security camera is on him. Every move is executed with uttermost care. He knows he shouldn’t be there. He had waited until the sun went down. Until everyone had left. Until everyone was gone…
Young Bill pushes a gurney through the empty, windowless corridor. In and out of darkness, only green security lights guide his way through.
He reaches the simple white door next to the RESTRICTED AREA sign. He retrieves the silver card from his pocket, swiftly unlocks the door, and slips in rapidly. He has to act fast—he’s only got a few minutes.
His footsteps echo coldly in the dark void, the large spherical vault getting closer with every step. He swipes the card a second time and enters the white room.
He pauses. He can’t move, his muscles are not responding. Something isn’t right. The room feels bigger. But that’s not possible. Maybe I’ve entered a different room? Bill ponders. No, not possible either. Bill quickly realizes it’s not the room that has changed—but its contents.
The large capsule is missing. In its place sits a glistening metallic sphere the size of a basketball. A serial code engraved on it: 001, next to a serial number wrapped around its circumference. Bill takes a closer look. 3.14159265359.... it’s Pi, just like this vault, he thinks, but why? And where did the incubator go?
Incredibly confused, young Bill releases irate grunts and approaches the object, his face distorted in frustration. His hands voluntarily smack his head, punishing him for his failure.
His face suddenly breaks into a geometric outline, shifting into various flickering squares, its pieces readjusting, pixelating rhythmically, morphing into John’s face.
It’s me, dressed like Bill.
Where am I? What am I doing here?
I compose myself and open the metallic sphere, which releases a soft “hiss”. Thick vapor trails slither out. I swat it away with my hands, attempting to get a clear view as I peer inside.
The sphere seems to be some sort of cooling device with a white light projecting from within, splitting the darkness in half.
Inside, three glass jars, neatly placed side by side. I remove one of the cylindrical jars. They’re nearly ten inches in length and three inches wide, easily fitting on the palm of my hand. The liquid inside is yellow and has a faint glow.
There’s something else inside. Squinting, I bring it up to my face and try to get a better look of the small chunks floating within. And that’s when I know. I’m looking at Nina.
I close my eyes.
Blink.
Bill opens them.
There is no time.
Like a storm, Bill tears through his apartment, stuffing a small bag with cash, basic essentials, an old shoebox, any non-perishable goods, and a few shirts—not for wardrobe’s sake, but to cushion the metallic sphere sitting in the middle—and nothing else. It is heavy, very heavy. It has suddenly become his cross, his burdening secret—a dreaming fugitive on the run.
I can see him.
I can see Bill.
Chapter 17: Can you bring back Mr. Normal?
Can you bring back Mr. Normal?
Loud silence surrounds Dr. Hammond, as he sits upright on a couch, completely motionless, eyes wide open, locked in on the void. Frozen. Unblinking. Sleeping.
I can see him.
An alarm goes off. His body slowly reanimates, accidentally knocking an open paperback off his lap. His dilated eyes shoot to the back of his head, allowing his eyelids to fully close in a relaxed manner. His blinking goes back to normal as he yawns and stretches his arms upward. He turns the alarm off.
