Fragments of Reflection | Ch.1-4 | WIP

Prologue



         Boston, Massachusetts, early morning. David stepped out of the historic brownstone with the black-framed tinted windows and the nine-month lease. If he signed in June and the calendar was eking toward September…
         … on a $45,700 contract, he had like 60% of the term left.
         So, he had already paid – what? -- $15,000?
         A bit less -- $14 something. David’s brisk footfalls echoed against the jungle of brick and concrete.
         $5,077 every month. An almost imperceptible discomfort shot down David’s left side, that’s two mortgages anywhere else with enough left over to enjoy a fancy steak dinner every month.
         $5,077.77, actually. So, you can get the good steak. The math was no surprise to David, despite his intrinsic discomfort at the thought. He ran the formulas in his head a thousand times before. David turned a corner as the angular sentinel façade of Back Bay receded into the expanse of the Esplanade against the backdrop of a sparklingly pristine Charles River. Oasis.
         A man in his late 30s, David's existence was one of routine and order. Each day, he navigated the same streets to reach his glass-walled office on the 20th floor, where he spent hours engrossed in data and screens. His life, like the city around him, was a system of clockwork precision and predictability, a waltz choreographed with the steady rhythm of routines and familiar patterns. Each day, he navigated through the bustling streets automatically gliding under locomotive power, weaving through the currents of people with practiced ease.
         The city itself was woven from the threads of a complex productivity system. Systems like these have existed since time immemorial, deigned to the task of extracting resources, inextricably overreaching sustainability limits, and devouring its host. Ants marginally and systemically consuming the flesh. Soldiers, gazes affixed, march for their rations.
         The streets in Boston are mostly old cow trails of a time before the modernization of the nineteenth century. They snake through the town, connecting in circular ways. In this town, sometimes you got North to go South.
 



Chapter 1: Dissonance



         Morning. An ergonomic office chair. Coffee. David eyed two level teaspoons and, by varying the grade between his finger and thumb, disseminated a sugary snowfall across a mocha landscape. An odd shimmer in the reflection of his spoon. David blinked. The distortion vanished. A trick of the light. A product of fatigue.
         During states of prolonged fatigue, the body's hormonal system can be significantly affected. Cortisol, often referred to as the "stress hormone," is produced by the adrenal glands and plays a crucial role in regulating various physiological processes, including immune response, overall health, and the sleep-wake cycle.
         If the stressor, or source of fatigue, is allowed to persist unchecked, cortisol levels might remain elevated or even become imbalanced. This can lead to a range of issues, including disrupted sleep patterns, impaired immune function, mood disturbances, and metabolic changes.
         Fatigue can contribute to the dissonance experienced by individuals, both in terms of their physical and mental states. Days can melt into one another. Cortisol distorts. Perception seemed to lean and stretch, and the city resonates more strangely.

         A drizzly, late morning walk. David’s glance rises into the face of a bustling street. Masses of people crowd the street. Traffic slogged along. The mass of individual life becomes a life in its own rite. Each system begets higher complexity, ad infinitum. The individual becomes as faceless as a fleck of skin along the tip of her elbow. Yet in his anonymity, David was overcome with an oppression yanking him down from the inside. Like strolling through the Museum of Fine Art, each face in the crowd appeared to be following him like the watchful gaze of a portrait on the wall. Shadows. Unlike the museum, malice was painting across every countenance. David’s breath contracted. His heart raced. His skin felt a sort of slick discomfort. He shook as he moved.
 




Chapter 2: Withdrawal



         David was numb to fear, gnawing at his thoughts like a rat. Fear takes many forms and intensities. Sharp, intense fear strikes suddenly in response to immediate threats, triggering adrenaline and heightening senses. It's like lightning – vivid and memorable. It sears out memory. In contrast, chronic, underlying fear is a persistent, subdued unease that lingers in the mind and body like the gunk at the bottom of your car’s gas tank. The constant anxiety, like a drizzle, influences decisions and colors perceptions. Chronic fear gradually wears down mental and physical well-being over time.
         Days blurred into each other as he withdrew from his co-workers, their concerned inquiries becoming distant echoes that he only half-heartedly acknowledged. He couldn't muster the energy to engage in their conversations about projects, meetings, or weekend plans. The once-familiar faces and routines now seemed like foreign concepts, as if he were an outsider looking in on a world he could no longer grasp.
         His apartment, once a mere dwelling, transformed into both sanctuary and prison. The four walls seemed to close in around him, and the outside world grew increasingly alien. He found himself spending hours sitting by the window, the glass a thin barrier separating him from the city's ceaseless hustle and bustle. The world moved on, but he felt stuck, trapped in a space between reality and something else entirely.

         The city's streets, once navigated with practiced ease, now seemed like a labyrinth of hidden meanings and enigmatic symbols. Faces passed by, but their gazes held an unsettling weight, as if they were all aware of some truth that eluded him. The complexity of the urban system, the interconnected lives of its inhabitants, bore down on him like an oppressive weight.

         Amidst this isolating detachment, David turned to a worn journal, its pages yellowed and creased with time. With a sense of urgency, he began documenting his experiences, desperate to capture the fragments of his unraveling reality. He wrote of the distortions that seemed to ripple through his perception—brief moments when the world shifted and contorted, leaving him questioning his own sanity. He jotted down descriptions of those unsettling gazes, the penetrating stares that seemed to follow him even in his solitude.

         Lines of handwritten text filled the pages, a record of his descent into the abyss of his mind. He drew diagrams, connecting dots that only he could see, searching for patterns that might offer a glimpse of understanding. The journal became his confidant, a repository for his growing unease and the evidence of a reality that seemed to be splintering at the edges.

         As the days turned into weeks, David's obsession with the journal deepened. He found solace in the act of writing, as if by putting his experiences into words, he could regain some semblance of control. But the more he wrote, the more he felt the chasm widening between himself and the world beyond his window.

         Time became fluid, slipping through his fingers like sand. His sleep-wake cycle grew erratic, and he would often find himself awake at odd hours, staring at the journal's pages with bleary eyes. The weight of his discoveries bore down on him, a puzzle with no clear solution.

         In his solitary confinement, David clung to the hope that within the pages of his journal lay the key to restoring his fractured reality. He continued to document, to analyze, to search for meaning in the patterns that eluded him. Little did he know that his journey into the depths of his own mind was only just beginning, and the answers he sought might come at a price he could never have anticipated.
 




Chapter 3: Unveiling

         The night sky hung heavy above the city, the stars obscured by the glow of distant lights like an orange orb enveloping the cityscape. David stood alone on his balcony, the cool breeze tugging at his collared shirt. His gaze wandered across the urban expanse, tracing the familiar lines of the skyline. Yet, tonight, there was unease in the air, a tension that seemed to vibrate through the city's very foundations. David couldn’t shake the feeling.
         As he looked out, he noticed a subtle shimmer in the air, like a heat haze rising from asphalt on a scorching day. David closed his eyes, inhaled deeply into his chest, hesitation, and slow, controlled release. A trick of perception. But when he opened them again, the transformation had begun. Skyscrapers that once stood tall and unyielding started to sway and twist, their forms contorting in impossible ways. Streets wavered like a stone had skimmed the surface of a pond. The city below rippled like a mirage.
         David's heart quickened as he absorbed the scene. He reached out to touch the balcony railing, anchoring himself to something solid. Panic welled up within him, bubbling under the surface, and causing him to turn, to walk, to sit, to stand, to pace the apartment. He labored on each breath. Tight. He choked as he body mechanically attempted a gasp of air, but the pressure against his hyperventilating lung made him wince imperceptible. David stopped. The mirror called his attention. He stood a nose-length from the pane. His eyes locked his eyes, but the face felt foreign. It was David, but not David in the same way he was David.
         Reality contorted like a kaleidoscope. He paced, his steps echoing like a metronome. In the mirror's gaze, a question emerged, profound and unsettling—were there two Davids? One navigating the external world, a mere vessel of flesh and bone, and another traversing the intricate corridors of thoughts, emotions, and consciousness? Was he the mind housed within the confines of his own body, navigating both the tangible realm and the intangible landscape of his own mind? As the shifting city whispered its secrets, David stood at the intercept of perception and reality.

         A shiver coursed down his spine, and his breath hitched in his throat. The boundary between his perception and the world around him blurred. He was suspended in a dreamscape, a reality that seemed to be unraveling like threads coming undone. The city around him was no longer a fixed entity; it was a fluid, shifting stream propelling forward and downward.
         Fear and wonder clashed within him, a maelstrom of emotions churning in his chest. Was this a manifestation of his faltering sanity? Or was he, for the first time, seeing the true nature of his existence? The city had always been a symbol of routine and predictability, a clockwork mechanism that he navigated with practiced ease. But now, it revealed its hidden layers, its potential to be both mundane and extraordinary, a reflection of his own fractured psyche.
         David's hands trembled as his eyes remained affixed on themselves. The distortion subsided, the both the city and David settling back into familiar form. David’s head rushed with thoughts spinning in a mental whirlwind. He realized that the city, like himself, was a complex mosaic of realities. The boundaries of his perception had a beginning and end, and he was left to grapple with the enormity of the revelation.

         David sighed. His phone read eleven : thirty-seven. The city had shown him that there was more to existence than routine and order, that beneath the surface of the everyday lay a universe of possibilities. And as he closed the balcony door behind him, he carried with him the understanding that his journey into the depths of his own mind was far from over, that the shifting city was a mere glimpse of the uncharted territory that awaited him. His head slipped comfortably onto his pillow as David turned out the light.

         David's life had gradually settled back into a semblance of normalcy. The dissonance he had experienced, the distortions and discomforts, had faded like a distant nightmare. Routine had reclaimed its hold on him, and he found himself navigating the streets of Boston with the same practiced ease he once had.
         One morning, as David stepped into his glass-walled office on the 20th floor, a subtle unease gnawed at him. The usual hum of activity seemed different – muted. David's unease still lingered as he exchanged a casual nod with Sarah in the neighboring cubicle. She called them cubicle neighbors. Her attempt at a smile seemed strained. David saw a flash of Sarah’s eyes and before they returned to her screen.
         David settled into his chair, his fingers instinctively tapping the keyboard to wake up his computer. A familiar hum of office machines and the soft chatter of colleagues rose amidst the rows of cubicles, creating a façade of normalcy. Under the din, David felt a persistent whisper of doubt remaining, as if all this were a show put on for him. With a sip of his now lukewarm coffee, he opened his email, scanning through the messages, most of which were routine office announcements and project updates. He marked a few for follow-up, then glanced at the clock – time to dig into the data analysis report that had been waiting for his attention. His morning had a comforting predictability to it, a rhythm that usually helped him push aside any lingering disquietudes. As he delved into the numbers and charts, his focus sharpened, and for a moment, the mysterious events and unsettling gazes faded into the background.
         David's fingers paused over the keyboard, his attention momentarily breaking away from the report on his screen. An unsettling sensation tugged at him, like a distant echo of something amiss. He glanced around the office, the glow of computer screens casting an eerie light on his colleagues huddled in their cubicles. Co-workers engaged in hushed exchanges; their words muffled by the white noise of typing. Their furtive glances converged on him, catching his gaze before darting away like shadows retreating from the light. The air itself seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, an invisible thread connecting each person in the room.
         With a strained smile for no one in particular, he rose from his chair, the wheels squealed against the floor. He navigated the familiar maze of cubicles, his footsteps strangely loud in the quiet atmosphere. As he neared the bathroom, the odd sensation persisted, as though the walls themselves held some secret about him, too. He pushed open the door and entered the bathroom, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The sound of running water from the sinks was a muted backdrop to his thoughts. As he splashed water on his face, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the whispers, and hushed talk, and fleeting glances. The mirror felt oddly intense, as if the face staring back at him held the key to unlocking the enigma that seemed to be wrapping its tendrils around him. David dried his face, squared his shoulders, and headed back to his cubicle. Each step through the office space like a brush against an electric current. The sensation was fleeting yet palpable, as if the very air crackled with the weight of the unspoken.
         As he settled into his chair and tried to focus on his work, the whispers continued to flutter around him like moths. He glanced at his computer screen, only to find a strange email notification. When he clicked on it, the message was blank, except for a single line: "They're watching."
         Unease turned to alarm as David realized that something was very wrong. His attempts to inquire about the odd behavior were met with evasive responses or dismissive smiles. The atmosphere grew increasingly suffocating, each passing moment adding to the weight of the unspoken secret.
         Then, it began – the disappearances. One by one, co-workers started vanishing from their cubicles. At first, it was subtle – a vacant desk, an empty chair. But as the day drove on, the disappearances became more frequent and more conspicuous. David watched as people he had known for years slipped away, leaving behind only traces of their presence. David raised his eyes over the crest of the cubicle enclosure and realized that the office floor was nearly empty. The once-bustling workspace now felt like a ghost town, the empty cubicles staring back at him like accusing eyes. Panic clawed at his throat as he considered the implications of the vanishing colleagues.
With a cold sweat forming on his brow, David's instinct was to flee. He lunged for the elevator, fingers trembling as he pressed the button repeatedly. But a thought struck him – what if the elevator was compromised? What if it was part of whatever was happening? In a moment of desperate clarity, he turned away from the elevator and stumbled towards the stairwell. Just as he neared the door to the stairwell, his gaze flicked up and a cold shot coursed through his veins. A group of his colleagues, heads huddled together in intense conversation, were advancing directly toward him. Their voices were hushed but charged with an energy he couldn't decipher. Straining his ears, he caught fragments of their words. "David," one of them murmured, his name dripping with an eerie significance. "Something's not right," another voice chimed in. Then, a chilling whisper that seemed to slice through the air like a blade, "Get him." The words hung there, suspended in the charged atmosphere. Without a second thought, David's instincts kicked in, propelling him into the stairwell just in time. He slinked away from their line of sight, his heart hammering against his chest as he took the stairs two at a time, each step distancing him from the group and their intentions, irrespective of what they may be.
         His heart raced, every step echoing in his ears as he descended the stairwell, flight after flight. Each floor he passed felt like a step away from an unknown danger, but also a step closer to understanding the truth. Thoughts raced through David's mind as he hurtled down the staircase, the urgency of his situation urging him onward. Suddenly, a creaking, metallic thump reached his ears from a door several flights below. Without a moment's hesitation, his instincts took over, propelling him to the railing. David leaped over the railing, catching his left foot between two iron balusters. He stumbled in the air now under half control, limbs flailing. The abyss seemed to stretch endlessly beneath him. He hit the concrete below. Oblivion.

 




Chapter 4: Descent

         The rhythmic beeps of hospital equipment pierce the silence. David's eyes flutter open, his gaze settling on the stark white ceiling above. He lay in a sterile room, the clinical scent of disinfectant hanging in the air. The memories of his ordeal seemed like distant echoes, their intensity muted.
         The fog that had shrouded him had lifted. He began to assess his situation with the precision of a mathematical equation. He took stock of his surroundings, noting the IV standing by his bedside, the faint hum of machinery, and the soft glow of monitors.
         David's gaze fell on the digital clock mounted on the wall. Its numbers displayed the time in dry, unambiguous digits: 10:22 AM. His pulse remained steady, his heart beating in a predictable rhythm. With deliberate movements, David pushed himself up into a sitting position. His fingers fumbled for the remote control on the bedside table, adjusting the angle of the bed until he was comfortably upright. The beep of the machines now sounded like a metronome, keeping time with his thoughts. He glanced at the medical chart hanging at the foot of his bed, trying to interpret the data. Even though the information on the page appeared foreign to him and their intent wholly lost, he felt a solace in the organization and form intrinsic in it.

         The charts were an amalgamation of numbers, acronyms, and medical jargon in a foreign language that nonetheless stood stoic upon the page. Each line and graph conveyed information that was beyond his immediate understanding, yet as his eyes traversed the pages, a curious sense of comfort washed over him. The structure, the predictability of the format itself, anchored him. Neat little rows and columns and a rather comely text—it all represented a haven in the uncertainty of his the day. The numbers might have held data he couldn't decipher, but their unchanging presence gave him something tangible to hold onto.
         As David picked at the logic underlying the text, information began to take form.
         Heart rate 72 bpm, I think that’s about normal, actually.
         David feverishly thumbed the web browser on his phone. Blood pressure, blood pressure.120/78 mmHg, normal
         O-two, a little high – shit, what does that mean?
         Each number added to his sense of control, reaffirming his connection to a tangible reality that could be measured and understood. A nurse entered the room, her presence disrupting the numerical rhythm that had enveloped David's thoughts. She smiled warmly, her voice gentle as she inquired about his well-being and explained the circumstances of his arrival at the hospital. David nodded, absorbing the information with a keen awareness that masked his inner turmoil.
         “I've reviewed your test results, and I wanted to discuss your injuries with you. After your fall down the stairwell, it seems you've sustained a broken ankle and a severely sprained wrist.”
         David’s veneer of concern remained unchanged, his mind unable to focus on the intent behind the words.
         “I understand it can be overwhelming, but the good news is that we're here to help you recover. Let's start with your ankle. The X-rays show that you have a fracture in your right ankle bone. We needed to immobilize it using a cast to give it time to heal properly,” the nurse said.
         David had no questions. So, the nurse left the room.
         As the door closed, restoring his privacy, David's gaze returned to the digital clock, which drably displayed 10:30 AM. The passing minutes carried a weight of inevitability, a reassuring continuity that contrasted with the uncertainties he had recently faced. He knew that the events of his past, the dissonance and distortions, had been real experiences, but he needed to focus on the concrete, the quantifiable.

         A doctor entered the room, introducing herself with a calm professionalism that mirrored David's logical approach.