I awoke in the middle of the night, feeling that something was amiss. I couldn't recall hearing anything, and it didn't feel like I'd been in the midst of a bad dream, so I was curious as to why I'd awakened and why I felt as I did.
I was fully awake, so I decided to get up and go to the bathroom. I usually had to do so at least once each night anyway, so I figured I might as well do it now. The room was almost completely dark, but a faint light coming in through the window was sufficient for me to get out of the bedroom and into the hall.
As I passed the window, however, something caught my eye. I thought I'd caught a glimpse of a moving light down on the ground below, so I stopped and looked down at the parking lot. It was extremely dim outside, but I could see a small colored light moving back and forth down there. I could also just make out the general shape of a person holding this light.
As I squinted and craned my neck, I could see that it was not a light I was seeing, but some sort of display. It looked like a tiny screen with several colored LEDs beside it. My first thought that it was some neighbor of mine in a drunken stupor, waving his MP3 player around. Or perhaps his GPS unit.
But the movement wasn't random. It was a back and forth motion, like someone taking a reading of some kind, or looking for something.
It wasn't lost on me that the place he was standing was the exact location where I'd had my conversation with Irene DiFalco.
Without turning a light on, I grabbed the my clothes off the dresser and pulled them on. I stepped to my front door, opened it quietly, and moved out into the hallway. I figured my best chance of not being heard was to go down the back stairs to the rear door of the building. Then I'd pop out and surprise him, find out what he was doing.
When I reached the bottom of the back stairs, I stepped up to the door and put my ear to it. I heard nothing. If he was moving around out there at all, he wasn't making any noise.
I had to act quickly if I wanted to find anything out. If I waited much longer, he'd probably finish up what he was doing and leave. So I took a deep breath, counted to three, and slammed myself against the door's crashbar.
"What are you doing?" I called out as I dashed towards him.
I reached out for his device, but suddenly found that he was holding something quite different in his hands.
A gun.
I screeched to a halt and put my hands in the air.
"None of your business," the man said.
Even in the dim parking lot light, I recognized him.
"You were in the café today," I said. "You were watching me."
He said nothing. He simply took a step towards me and continued to level the gun at my face.
"What is this all about?" I asked. "Why are you following me? And what were you doing with that gizmo?"
He waved the gun towards the driveway, the international sign for "Start moving".
I blinked. He waved the gun again.
I started moving.
"I think you'd find me a lot more cooperative if you'd just tell me what's going on," I said. "Giving me the silent treatment isn't really going to much endear you to me, you know."
He must not have liked my witty banter, because a moment later I felt a sharp thud on the back of my neck.
——————–
When my senses returned to me, the first thing I noticed was a massive headache. I reached up to put a hand on the back of my head. It was tender and swollen back there.
So I hadn't imagined it. Buddy had actually whacked me with his gun.
I opened my eyes. I was seated in a metal chair at a metal table. The small room was drab, lit only by a bare bulb hanging from the low ceiling. There was one door, no windows. Another chair across the table from me, in which sat my assailant.
"So people really do that, huh?" I said. "Hitting the back of the head with the butt end of a gun? I thought that was just in the movies."
"You talk too much, Mister Richmond."
My companion's lips had not moved. The voice had come from another part of the room. I looked around, an act which brought me great physical discomfort, and finally discerned a shadowy shape in the corner to my left.
He stepped forward. I still couldn't make out his face, but I could see he wore a dark suit, just like his compatriot.
"My ex-girlfriend used to tell me that a lot," I said. "I think it's some kind of defense mechanism. You know, to keep people at arm's length."
The man took another step forward. I could see now he was older than his colleague, perhaps in his sixties. His face was gaunt, wrinkled, tired. His hair was mostly gray.
"I'm surprised you're not smoking a cigarette," I said. "You know… go for the full effect."
He looked down at the seated man. "Well entrenched in popular culture, this one," He said.
The other man nodded and smiled slightly.
"What surprises me, Mister Richmond," the older man said, "is that you don't seem to be afraid of us."
I tentatively touched the back of my head again. "Look, pal," I said. "First off, I'm only halfway conscious right now, so things aren't really reaching all the way in here." I pointed at my head. "Secondly, I just tried to kill myself a few days ago, and frankly, I don't know if I'm ever going to be successful at anything. So, if you want to save me the trouble, go right ahead. Just use the proper end of the gun this time."
The man's mouth straightened into a line. "A man who has nothing to lose is a dangerous man indeed."
I closed my eyes and sighed. "Okay, now you really do sound like the dude from the X-Files. Could you cut the melodrama and tell me what the fuck I'm doing here?"
"I'm not sure if I really want to do that yet."
I squinted at him. "Well, I know your silent friend here was measuring something out in my back parking lot, and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with that woman I was talking to out there, so why don't you just fill in the blanks for me so I'm not guessing at everything else."
A look passed between the two men when I mentioned "that woman". Either I'd just confirmed something they suspected, or I'd just told them something they didn't know.
"Look, guys. I was just minding my own business. Really. I didn't go seeking her out. She just appeared. Five times now. In my room in Emergency, at the nurse's station in Emergency, in my room in the Short Stay Unit, on my TV screen, and then in the parking lot. I don't know why she's coming to me, but it's getting annoying. I just want to get back to my life. Or what's left of it, anyway."
I wasn't exactly sure why I was telling them all this. I was probably giving them exactly what they wanted. I didn't know if they were good guys or bad guys or in-between guys. I guess I figured if I just kept talking, I might avoid further physical injury. Dying wasn't a big fear for me; I just didn't want to be in a lot pain when it happened.
"So, it's true then," the older man said.
"What I just told you? Yeah, it's true. I wouldn't make something like that up. Well, I mean, I would. I'm a writer. This sort of thing would make a really great story, you know? So in that context, sure, I'd make something like that up. But it really happened to me, so no, I'm not making it up. I would never claim something like that happened if it hadn't. I mean… I may be crazy, but I'm not insane. Well, you know what I mean…"
"Yes, Mister Richmond. I get your meaning. My problem is, now that I know all this, and now that you know about me.
I looked up at him. He didn't look angry. He didn't look upset. He didn't even look irritated. He just looked tired and maybe a bit perplexed.
"I think I understand something, here," I told him. "I think I've put a wrinkle in whatever scheme you're hatching here, and now I've become a problem. Am I anywhere near close, here?"
The seated man looked up at his older collegue. The older man nodded thoughtfully for a moment.
"You're a very perceptive man, Mister Richmond," he said after a moment. "I imagine that comes from your being a writer. Always paying attention to details. Always using your imagination to figure out plot problems. Plus, your evident affinity for movies and television seems to be standing you in good stead."
"Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you guys work for some kind of secret organization, and that you're involved in some kind of research into this whole parallel worlds thing."
This elicited a frown from the older man. He glanced down at his seated companion, who looked up at him again with a slightly worried crease in his brow.
"You see, Mister Richmond? You entirely too good at figuring things out. Too perceptive for your own good, I would have to say. My problem now is that you could take what you've just said to me, which, by the way, I'm neither confirming nor denying, and you could start writing a novel or screenplay or something of that nature. And I can't say I'm entirely comfortable with that notion."
"A novel or a screenplay? What would that prove? Even if you people are doing what I think you're doing, nobody would believe a novel or a movie about it. I don't even know the details of it. I don't know a damned thing."
"Yes, but you might be tempted to try and find out some details. We've been observing you, Mister Richmond, and we know you to be an intelligent and resourceful individual with a vivid imagination and precious little regard for authority."
"Well, if I'm so fucking intelligent and resourceful, then why haven't I succeeded at anything I've tried in my entire goddamned life?"
He shrugged. "You have your issues, of course. We all do. Yours appear to be holding you back. But something's different about you now. I'm not sure precisely what that is, but I think it would be useful to find out."
"So, what, you're going to dissect me now? Is that it? Because if that's the case, I'll just take door number one, if it's all the same to you. The one with 'quick and painless death' behind it."
"Calm down, Mister Richmond. We don't want to dissect you. We just want to run some tests. That's all."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Oh. That's all. Run some tests. I don't even know who you people are."
"And you're not going to know. We have no intention of telling you anything other than what we already have. We'll run some tests, we'll send you home, and you won't remember a damned thing."
"Oh, great. Now we're into the whole Men in Black thing. Why are you even telling me that? Why are you even talking to me?"
He smirked at me. He actually had the gall to smirk.
"Because," he said. "I know how much you enjoy melodrama."
I stood up. "You son of a bitch," I said through gritted teeth. "You wanted me to entertain you? By playing Fox Mulder to your Cigarette-Smoking Man? What kind of fucked up mind would do something like that?"
"My job is not as interesting as you might think," he said. "I have to spice it up in whatever way I can."
He moved to the door. His colleague got up to join him.
"Sit down, Mister Richmond. Someone will along in a moment to take you to a more comfortable room."
I sat down, fuming. If he'd wanted to get my goat, he'd succeeded. I'd been genuinely curious about what was going on. My fear instincts hadn't fully kicked in, but my general inquisitiveness had. He hadn't appeared threatening or evil, so I'd given him the benefit of the doubt. But to stand there so smug and superior and tell me how much he'd enjoyed watching me think, well that was too much. That had set me off as few things could.
It was intolerable. I would not be fodder for someone else's whims. That was taking things too far.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. A man in a gray uniform stepped in. He was tall and muscular and had a shaved head and goatee. He looked like a wrestler stuffed into a corporate setting.
He stood aside and crossed his arms.
"I take it I'm supposed to go with you…?" I said.
He glared at me. I sighed and stood up.
"Doesn't anybody talk around here?" I asked as I stepped past him into the corridor.
He poked me in the back with some kind of baton several times as we moved through the corridors. He'd whack me on the right shoulder when he wanted me to turn right, and on the left shoulder when we were heading left. I refrained from turning around and telling him off, because I could see from his build that he would probably inflict pain and injury upon me if didn't do what he wanted.
I was not a big fan of pain and injury.
Finally, after about what felt like ten minutes of wandering through dimly lit corridors and riding in dimly lit elevators, we arrived at gray door, set into a gray wall with a dozen other gray doors. My burly friend pulled out his keys, opened the door, and ushered me inside.
I turned to say something to my taciturn escort, but by the time the time I faced the doorway, he was already closing the door. I opened my mouth, but I managed nothing more than a slight "ah" sound before the gap closed, the door thundered shut, and the room shook.
I turned away, strode into the room, and kicked the first thing I could find, which was the uninviting cot that sat by the far wall.
"Fuck," I yelled at the wall. "Fuck and shit. What in Jesus fuck damn hell is going on here?"
I dropped my butt onto the cot and put my head in my hands. I tried not to think. I just focussed on my breathing, which was none too meditative at this point. I stared through the gaps between my fingers at the concrete floor and tried to stop my brain from latching onto any particular thought. I figured maybe if I zoned out for a while, I might calm down.
After a while, my breathing slowed a bit, and the pounding of the blood through my head diminished somewhat. I took my hands away from my face and took in my surroundings.
The room was like a prison cell. Besides the cot upon which I sat, there was only a chair, a sink, and a toilet. Presumably, I was going to be here for a while. If I was being provided with a bed and a toilet, it was unlikely I was just here for dinner.
I got up and started pacing the small room. I still had a lot of pent up energy, and it wasn't going to dissipate just sitting on the cot. I had to move.
I tried to figure out if I had done something wrong. Had I been such a horrible person that this kind of fate would find me? Was my attitude really as bad as all that? Had I wronged someone in a particularly egregious way? What had I done to deserve the events that had befallen me the last few days?
Well, I had tried to kill myself. But that was self harm. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone else by removing myself from the mortal coil. I was trying to improve it, by taking away a malfunctioning unit. Plucking the bend eyelash. Chucking the bruised apple. I thought what I had tried to do was a logical thing.
But was that all it was?
I stopped my pacing and looked at the floor. It suddenly occured to me that my suicide attempt was not just a thing I'd done earlier in the week. It was the beginning of all the madness that had ensued. It was only after I'd regained consciousness in the hospital that my odd experiences had begun.
So what did that mean?
I returned to the cot and sat down on it. For some reason, I hadn't connected the dots until now. But it was all starting to make sense. Something about what I had done had triggered these events. I'd brought on this madness myself, simply by trying to leave the world.
But what was it about what I'd done? Was it the drugs themselves? The rum? The combination? Did I get closer to death than I'd originally thought? Did my brain chemistry change?
And which would be worse? Finding out that this was all an elborate hallucination brought on by my very active imagination, or finding out that it was real.
I swallowed hard. That was a tough call. Because as much as I disliked the circumstances in which I now found myself, the thought of losing my sanity was a bitter notion indeed.
I stood up again, this time marching over to the sink to splash some cold water on my face. There was no towel, so rubbed my sleeve across my face to remove some of the droplets. It felt good, and for a moment my head felt clearer.
For a moment.
I had nothing to work with here. I'd had a conversation with a woman who couldn't possibly exist, and I was now in the clutches of an organization that, in all likelihood, didn't officially exist. I knew nothing. And armed with that kind of knowledge, I was absolutely powerless. I didn't know where I was. I had no way of communicating with anyone, I didn't know the names of the people who'd put me here, and I didn't even really know if I was actually in full possession of my mental faculties.
Which meant I was helpless. I'd have to endure whatever tests these people wanted to perform on me, and then after that, who knew? I might be taken home, or I might disappear forever, and no one I knew would ever find out what had happened to me.
The suicide thing was starting to look like a walk in the park.
I wiped my hand across my still-damp face, and then turned to the toilet. My bladder was calling to me all of a sudden, so I unzipped and watered the water. I rinsed off my hands, flushed, and went back to the cot. All I could do now was lie down and wait.
As I sat on the edge of the cot and made ready to recline, I glanced at the wall to my left. I had thought that it was plain and unadorned when I'd first entered, but I now saw that there was shape drawn on it. It looked like someone, probably a previous occupant, had tried to imagine his way out of here by drawing an archway.
I smiled. A nice thought, that. Just like Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings. Whatever you draw comes to life. If I'd had a pencil or a piece of chalk on me at that moment, I would have added some detail to the lines there and made it a bit more realistic.
Not that I was any artist, mind you, but I would have given it the old college try.
But as I continued to look at the simple rendering, I began to see that was more detail in it than I'd originally noticed. What I'd first seen as lines forming a simple shape was in actuality a more complex drawing, with depth and shadows. I was sure that if I looked at it from the right angle, it would appear to actually recede into the wall.
And was that color I saw there, down in the corner? Had the prior occupant found something green with which to add a little grass at the bottom?
But there was red there, too, I now noticed. Red bricks, just above the grass. How could I not have noticed that when I first looked? Was I that caught up in my own thought processes?
I stood and approached the wall. This was madness. It wasn't me. I hadn't failed to observe the details. The details simply hadn't been there when I'd first looked. They were appearing, one by one, as I looked at it.
The red bricks now reached halfway up the wall. The edge of the archway was now rendering itself in a large stone blocks, sandy in color. The mortar between the bricks was a grey-white, dry and cracking. There were stones now amongst the blades of grass. Within the archway itself, I could now see the beginnings of a streetscape. A sidewalk. The side of a building. A newspaper vendor. An old truck. Passers-by.
And then, she was there. Walking towards me. Walking towards the archway. Irene. She smiled as she approached, her green eyes glistening. She stopped inside the arch and extended her hand. Her glove entered the room.
"Come," she said. "There isn't much time."
