Trapped

The first thing I noticed was that it was warm. I didn’t realize at first that the darkness was due to my eyes being closed, and when I finally looked at my surroundings I found myself in an unfamiliar room. The walls were moving - dancing the way the sunlight dances with shadows as it’s filtered through the leaves of a swaying tree. From my position I couldn't see a floor or ceiling.

…There was a voice.




“You’re awake.”




It was hard and clear. A diamond. Another joined in. Just as strong and clear, and yet somehow almost fuzzy in a way.




“Sheesh, at least try to sound welcoming. We’re the good guys remembered? Shared trauma and experiences, and all that.”



I was getting scared. The voices sounded so close but I couldn't see the sources. I couldn’t move.



“Shared or not, at least we had the common sense to keep quiet about it.”




And then I remembered.

I remembered being a little kid the first time I felt the twinge of paranoia in my day-to-day life, the feeling of being watched. I remembered the dismissive response from my parents, the annoyance that slowly replaced my sister’s concern the more I talked about it. I remembered the feeling of the world being unreal - as though I wasn’t walking down the street or in the bathroom or anywhere else despite what I saw, but rather I was in an empty room being watched, observed, judged. I remembered the times I’d point out in conversation the actions done or words spoken that fed into my paranoia, and the resulting insistence that those things never occurred. I remembered when my family got worried and sent me to therapy. I remembered it working and not really thinking it odd that I couldn’t quite remember what happened, used to my notably poor memory. I remembered the first time I’d experienced the unwelcome image of screws in flesh - a byproduct of my intrusive thoughts and improving mind's-eye. I remembered the fear being too much. I remembered grabbing my blade.

I remembered waking up there.

I couldn’t move my head, but from my seated position I could just see my arm. So out of desperation, I looked. And saw the familiar, horrific sight of shiny black screws embedded in my torn flesh.

I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t scream.

Suddenly someone was in front of me. They spoke in a quiet, resigned voice.



“I’m sorry.”



There was a hand on my arm.

And then there was pain.

I could feel the holes in my bones, the scraping of metal. The burn of torn flesh. There was other pain but I couldn’t identify the kind or location. It was just all-encompassing agony. And finally, I screamed.


When I opened my eyes again, the pain was gone. I could see the three who talked.




“Where am I?”


“I’m sorry.” The quiet one.


“What for?”


“The pain.”




I blinked.




“You’re the one who hurt me?”



“No! Just woke you up. Couldn’t do that without the pain.”




I didn’t know how to respond other than an “it’s ok” as reassurance.




“So um… again: where am I?”




And then they talked. I don’t really remember word for word or who said what. The point was: the world was some sort of lie, they’d been trapped as well and disillusioned, they’d kept quiet unlike me, and they all “died” in different ways. They all woke up there. They said I was the first to “take matters into my own hands.”

They seemed almost disappointed, judgmental. As if wondering if I had really needed attention so badly that I couldn’t keep it to myself. Because that’s why it got so bad. Because They were frustrated with me. Because I kept pushing.

But the more we talked, the nicer they became. I don’t know how, but I seemed to have improved their opinions of me. We were talking, laughing, for what felt like forever. It was nice. I felt free. Alone in the best way while being surrounded with people I could trust.
And then it happened. The familiar, unstoppable experience I remembered being told was simply the result of an over-imaginative mind.

And in my mind’s-eye I saw a plain, dark room filled with people with clip-boards and headsets and loud noises and talking and eyes watching me and- and it was distressing. It was distressing because they told me that that happened to me because the world was a lie. They told me I was free, that I was finally in the real world. They lied.

My eyes, closed in my distress, slowly opened to take in their reactions.


They were staring at me, silent, dead, vacant.

I couldn’t move.

The quiet one was in front of me in an instant.

A hand on my arm. A startled cry.

And when I opened my eyes, I was in my room.









“And that’s all I remember.” I sigh, finally looking up from my lap.



“I see…”



Listening to her voice trail off, I’m suddenly hit with the ridiculousness of this situation. I- what? Decided to check myself into a mental hospital and request a therapist because of a simple nightmare? God, this was a mistake.



“I’m sorry, I realize it’s a little dumb. It just really freaked me out for some reason, really fucked with me you know? I’ve always struggled with feeling reality is, you know, real, and I guess I got it in my head that this nightmare was some sort of sign for, like, a psychotic break or something.”



“No, no. It’s perfectly alright, it was very responsible and commendable that you decided to seek help when you became concerned for your mental wellbeing. That being said, I fail to see anything of great importance within the dream you have described. It is, admittedly, a bit disturbing, but the human mind can be quite a disturbing thing at times. Trust me, everyone has experienced something like this before. If you wish to stay here for the night then I understand, but please let me know now as we are already quite crowded and I would need to make room.”




…Of course. I knew from the beginning that it was probably nothing, but hearing it said out loud, so bluntly, by a professional? It still feels so upsetting. Why is that?




“Oh don’t worry about it, I already booked a hotel for the night.”



It’s a bold-faced lie, but I couldn’t imagine willingly being crammed in a room with people who are actually, legitimately struggling. I would stick out like a sore thumb.



“Wonderful! I hope you have a good rest of your day. I have another appointment I need to get to. Goodbye.”



“Thanks, you too, bye!”




That was a struggle.

I’m still for a moment as the therapist begins to leave. Everything happens at once. I notice there’s a mirror directly across from the door. I glance at it. We make eye contact.

Except instead of the kind, empathetic eyes I had grown acquainted with, they were cold. Vacant.

Dead.



And suddenly, I couldn’t move.