Log:This Arcadian Life

This Arcadian Life
This week's episode is about people who have faced inner emptiness and succumbed to it.
Participants Cerise Storytellers C.B. & Dross	1 June, 2018 Where Cerise went after seeking the Hera Pear in the Hedge. Part 3 of 3. cw: eye stuff. ( - Part 1 - Part 2 - )
Location Obliviscence General Hospital
You're in a river. The water is cold and clear. Sharp rocks jut up from the riverbed. Slippery and black, like obsidian. You came down here for something... But what was it? You struggle to remember. Your lungs haven't begun to complain yet, but you know you can only stay down in the water for so long. Cerise is in a river. Is she drowning? Swimming? She's swimming. She has a purpose, but what? Her memories flee her for the moment and so she's still, treading water in place as she holds her breath and opens her eyes, looking this way and that trying to spot something that could be what she came down here for. Someone is sick. But who? Faces flash through your memory, none with a name attached, just now. Each of them, for some reason, with blue eyes. You see a flash of gold at the bottom of the river, trapped between the stones. A short length of metal juts out and moves a little bit with the current. Anything could be at the other end, which is caught in the rocks, too far down for you to see. It can't be a coincidence, Cerise being in the river and that flash of gold there at the bottom. The woman twists her body around so that she can dive deeper and go towards it. She's a runner, not a swimmer, but still, she has strong lungs and muscular legs that propel her down quickly and confidently, sure that her goal is within reach. You soon reach the bottom. It's a simple matter to put your hand on the end of that piece of metal and jerk it out of the rocks. You see through the clear water, still cold enough to raise goose pimples all along your skin, that it's a key. Not the one that you found in Alwin's chest. Somebody else's. And trapped at the end of the key, floating with the movement of the current, bouncing around its teeth, is another piece of metal that looks familiar. An engagement ring. Cerise wraps her hand around the key, and she tucks it away into an inner pocket, someplace where it's safe. Her eyes lift again, cautiously, as they appear wary of what she may or may not see. While keeping this eye out, a hand reaches down to pluck up that engagement ring, and that, too, is tucked safely away. Only then does her gaze become more focused, this time with the intent of finding who both things belong to, pushing away from the rocks to circle around them in her search. Surely the person must be close by. You try to swim up toward the surface. On the other side of the water, you can almost make out a familiar face. Someone leaning down close to the river. Red-faced and screaming your name. You can almost, /almost/ hear them. But the surface of the river keeps receding from you. Or at least, that's what you have to assume. Because you're moving... Aren't you? You think you are. But you don't get any closer to coming up for air. And you don't get any farther away, either. Freedom, and that person who needs your help, whose name is trapped at the back of your mind, screaming to get out, keep away. Just out of your reach. That familiar person screaming her name? Cerise must have come here with them, right? Is it their key? Maybe. Or maybe it's the key of the sick person. Either way, the woman comes to the quick conclusion that she must get up to the surface of the water, they're the person she should be getting to and so she pushes up harder and quicker, beating her legs as fast as she can to try and escape the waves that are separating her from the other person. No matter how you kick, you don't get any closer. You're starting to feel the lack of oxygen. That person... They came here only for you. You remember that. The water over your head takes on a darker hue as you swim. Starts to remind you more of... Something else. A hospital where the rooms keep moving around. Where an experiment begins as one thing, then turns into something entirely different. Where the man who gave you the engagement ring in your pocket sometimes seems like the kindest, friendliest, most loving person you've ever met... And sometimes like he wouldn't put an oar in the water for you to climb out on if you swam into a circle of great white sharks. But a place, too, where your will... Your vision... /Means/ something. Can change your environment. Is that something you can do here? Cerise was raised a good Catholic girl. Alright, maybe they weren't a good Catholic family, but she was definitely raised Catholic and she definitely remembers stories about seas parting and people walking on water. She has something to work with. If she could move rooms and make doors appear, why can't she move water or air. She stops moving upwards, and forces herself to stay calm as eyes close and her mind reaches out to that blue sky, the air just above her. 'I can't breathe. Come to me.' Is this real? Just a dream? Where are you, really, Cerise? At the bottom of the river, the dark water roils. Then the water does begin to split. But not to make way for the air to come down, exactly. Something deeper, more essential, than that. The individual molecules of the water stand out to you as clearly as if each were the size of an apple... Or a pair. You feel like you could separate their parts as easily as discs on a shuffleboard. At the back of your mind, the same voice that's screaming up there on the river bank is saying, not so loudly, as if you were in a small space together with no one else there, sounding honest and frightened and a little drunk, 'I care about you, Cerise.' It's not what she wanted, not really, but it's a start. Cerise bends her mind on separating out the disparate molecules, and attempting to pull together the oxygen into a little ball that she can breathe. Breathing first. Life first. Then, she opens her eyes squinting towards the surface again and again, she kicks her feet, attempting to push up and out. The oxygen comes toward you, pure and colorless, with something about it that makes your heart lift. As it does, what's left of the water begins to part and separate out around you after all. Just as if the river really were dividing to let you pass back into the light. You see clearly, with the first breath of fresh air, a row of people standing on the river bank, including a man with silver-blue eyes screaming something you don't understand like he can't tell that you're going to be /fine/-- That the river has parted for you-- That you're going to come home soon, home to a town filled with tall trees and mountains and a strange river that divides the west from the east as other, older rivers divide life from death and memory from forgetfulness... Cerise is feeling encouraged now, as she kicks a little harder certain that in just a few moments she'll be free completely. She angles herself towards that row of people and although she doesn't cry out to them, she does make a show of splashing and gesturing and smiling as if trying to communicate that all is well, that she's alive and fighting and moving towards them. And then the two walls of water-- of raw hydrogen, with nothing to stabilize it, well up and explode. Everything goes completely white. You can't see at all. Can't feel anything, either. For a second, you can't even think. You start to hear again before you can see. The wind is blowing. Tree branches ache and sough with its wild force; the only thing that you can hear for a little while. You feel yourself standing on solid earth once more. Lift a foot and set it down again: white crunch of snow. Somewhere nearby, the sudden, bright, violent call of a crow. The first thing that Cerise does is take a good look around her. She turns in a slow, steady circle while standing in place, getting a 360-degree look at her surroundings and attempting to orient herself. The second thing that she does is reach into the pocket where she stowed the key and ring, making sure that she still has them both and that they're still safe. Your hand comes up empty. No key and no ring. And you still don't see anything. You hear a familiar voice, though. A woman's voice, calling a man's name: "Ben..." And then the sound of someone sweeping their hand over stone, pushing a cloud of snow off and onto the banks that surround you. Turn around again, and at last you begin to see. This is a graveyard; an old one, filled with crumbling headstones and tall, dark trees laden heavily with snow. It has an iron gate at one end and a somewhat dilapidated-looking house backed up to the other end with a covered porch that seems to keep the sunlight off as much as it does the snow. The fact that the key and ring are missing causes a small swell of panic to rise in the woman's chest. She doesn't even fully comprehend why that key is precious, only she knows that it is and she moves her hands from one pocket to the next, patting herself down just in case she forgot which pocket she put it in. Then she drops to the ground and attempts to sweep away snow from around her, looking for that key, most likely in vain. Instead of the key, you sweep the snow away from what seems to be a freshly buried body. Looking up, you see a new gravestone with the words: "C.B. ALEXANDER: 1994-2018." Wait. This is Ben's grave? It must be, because there's someone coming towards you, though she doesn't seem to see you at all. Someone dressed in a long, black dress and a large-brimmed black hat with an old-fashioned veil. She has one hand in a fur muff, but she's also carrying flowers. There's a single necklace around her neck: a spent bullet casing suspended by a leather thread. That is definitely Franklyn Garreau. How can she not know you're here? You're right in front of her, practically... Cerise rises to her feet as she watches Franklyn approach and a hand reaches out to catch the woman's attention. "Franklyn. /Frank/, what /happened/? /How/?" Cerise's voice is tight and pained, grief and confusion fighting for dominance in her mind. Despite your nearness and your gestures, Franklyn doesn't seem to hear you. She just kneels down in front of the grave, getting snow all over her long, black skirt in the process, and starts to arrange the flowers that she's carrying in front of the headstone. Carefully chosen, no doubt, just as her movements now are slow and cautious. There's something automatic about them, like she isn't really here. It seems to be winter in the graveyard. But wasn't it /just/ spring? Where did the rest of the year go? Is it still the same year, at all? Cerise is confused, yes, but that doesn't keep her from kneeling down next to Franklyn, a hand reaching out to brush the other woman's arm, and draw her attention towards Cerise. "Please, Frank. I know you hate me, but don't be a jerk. Talk to me?" Your hand lands on her solidly. It doesn't go through, like it would if you were a ghost. When you touch Franklyn's arm, she does look at you, finally. But where her eyes should be a bright, vivid green--the richest and most vibrant sign of color in this black-and-white cemetery--you see only pale grey. No hue at all. Though there is, at the inner corners of that cold gaze, something wet. The beginnings of tears? But perhaps she doesn't see you. For she doesn't say anything. Just folds her arm in and, now that all the flowers have been laid, stands up again. She makes a gesture in the direction of the grave--one that you don't understand--and lifts a hand to the bullet casing that she's wearing on a thread. Then Franklyn... If it /is/ Franklyn... Turns to walk toward that dark, old house at the edge of the grounds. Again, Cerise's eyes dart towards that house, and then she chooses to follow Franklyn towards its entrance. This doesn't mean that she's given up pumping the woman for information. On the contrary, as soon as she's caught up with the other mortal, she's once again trying to make sense out of all this by peppering her with questions, because Frank is so helpful with those ... "Franklyn, I know you ... cared about him, but you can talk to me, really. He was /shot/ by whom?" "It's your fault," says Franklyn, quietly. Can she hear you? Does she mean you, Cerise? Or is she just talking to herself? There's a mirror on the door to the house. When she takes hold of the doorknob, it fractures. A long, dark, spidery vein opens up in the glass. As you hurry closer and follow Franklyn up onto the porch, it begins to rain. A black, steady ripple that collects on the banks of thick, white snow. The liquid neither freezes nor evaporates. Just accumulates, slowly but steadily, until the cemetery begins to flood. Cerise stands on the porch, watching as the cemetery begins to fill, but she never allows herself to stray far from Franklyn's side. "It's not, Frank, I promise." Cerise's voice is soft and filled with earnest sympathy though she can't know what the mortal woman means. She reaches for the doorknob, not letting Franklyn go through alone, intent on helping the woman enter the door while at the same time pleading. "Just tell me what's going on." Cool-eyed Franklyn stares back at you. The dark rain's reflection shines in the flat pewter expanse of her gaze. At last: she sees you... Doesn't she? You're real... Aren't you? "Ben lost his way," she says. There's no accusation in her voice. No fear or anger or blame. Just nothing, this eerie tonelessness, as if Franklyn, so often overflowing with emotion, had become parched inside; had dried out completely, in the same way that the vast deserts of the earth emerged from vanished oceans. "You did that." She jerks the door to the house open and holds it for you. Past her, you glimpse the subtle luster of something metallic in the long darkness of the corridors. She seems to be waiting for you to enter. "Find it for him... If you can." "How?" Cerise breathes out, her voice soft and pained, made even more so by Franklyn's utter lack of emotion, "How did I do that? What did I do, Franklyn? I swear I backed off." Her brown eyes follow the other woman's eyes into the cabin and then with a sigh, she straightens herself up and steps inside, moving first in the direction of that metallic gleam. But there's no answer, of course. Just the door closing softly behind you. When it does, you see that the corridor that stretches ahead of you, which has no end that you can see, is filled with keys. Keys of every shape, size, style, material, and age. Metal keys. Plastic keys. China keys. Little keys that look like they belong to jewelry boxes or journals. Black and silver and white and gold and every other color imaginable... There are a few naked lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling at irregular intervals. Greenish, they make the piles of hushed metal, which reach in mounds toward the ceiling and sometimes touch it, look strange and sickly. The silence that the immense hills of sliding keys emit almost has a feeling and a voice of its own. A soft, wordless whisper, like someone is speaking directly into your inner ear, bypassing the space around you. Cerise turns to eye the door when she hears it close behind her. She doesn't spend more than a couple seconds pondering it, though. Her attention returns to the hall and the keys soon enough. She reaches out a hand, letting fingers run over the cool metal of the keys. Her eyes scan over them, never spending too long on one, seeming to just scan in the scene in front of them. "Where are you?" She whispers under her breath, speaking to the air or perhaps to the keys themselves, then she's quiet, her eyes growing sharper, her ears perking. Do any of these keys remind you of someone that you know? What would C.B. look like if he were a key? The absurd question comes to mind. At the same time: the memory of the dull bit of metal that came out of Alwin's chest. The droning sound from the equipment comes back. Whatever that low susurrus was saying to you, that noise stifles and overpowers it. And it's funny: you felt, maybe because of the memory of the key that you found in Alwin, like that voice had been in your own chest. As you try to push forward and sort through the keys, your head starts to ache. Just a little at first, but gradually getting worse. The river of metal teeth parts around your questing fingers and one of the keys bites you, drawing a drop of what you expect to be blood, but turns out to be as black as the bitter rain outside. Cerise doesn't do much searching, not at first. It's as if she expects the key to show itself or to have some hint of it's location before she goes diving into the piles of metal, but as the droning noise drowns out the quiet whisper, she does dive in and sort through them, only to pull her hand back again as her finger gets caught. Blood, black liquid, it doesn't seem to matter to Cerise, her response is what you'd expect either way: sticking her finger into her mouth in an attempt to stop the flow before it gets too serious. When you put your finger in your mouth and taste that black liquid, an instant sense of boundless peace floods your entire body. You're not in an ill-lit hallway surrounded by mountains of keys and the sharp scent of metal and rust. There's no headache. No cut and no blood. No pain. No green light. No shadow. No strange, blank Franklyn. No grave and no cemetery. No hospital. No Alwin, coming back to life just to insult you. No John. No C.B. No Cerise. Nothing. For a little while, Cerise basks in that empty peace. It's a blessing after who knows how many days of confusion and anguish. How long does she stay like that? Probably longer than Cerise realizes, but eventually the hand does fall away from her mouth. You let your hand fall... And you can't move your hand anymore. You're in a chair, flat on your back, staring up at a screen. Like you're at the dentist... Or on an operating table. Hands and feet strapped down. Head strapped down. There's a black haze very close to your eyes -- so close that you can't see quite what it is -- and something holding your eyes open. Tape? A pin? There's no feeling around them, perhaps from whatever anaesthesia you're under, and so you can't be sure. Whatever's happening, it doesn't hurt. Or at least: It doesn't hurt /now/. You sense someone standing behind you, very close to your head, though you can't see them. The light in the room is greenish here, too, and comes from the screen over your head. Other than the pale square it separates from the darkness, everything is shadow. On the screen, you see bright images of something like a geode with a stone garden inside it. Or, no... Not a garden. A court of some kind. Or a range. Words present themselves to you, try their hand; and fail, each of them not quite right. Not quite able to describe the open expanse of crushed stone and small, mirror-bright shards of jewels, or the thick crust of dark mountain that surrounds the encradling gem. Cerise stares up at that image on the screen above her. What choice does she have, but to stare at it? In those moments, Cerise attempts to make sense of what's happening and to re-orient herself as she has to do so often. As she does so, she's very still in the bonds that are holding her down. The only part of her that moves is her eyes. Her iris slides to one side than to the next, up and then down, stretching her sight as far as possible. Looking around doesn't reveal anything new. The sense that someone is standing behind you gets stronger, though. And you start to feel again like there's a whisper in... Your mind? Your heart? You aren't sure. But on the screen, slowly, you watch that strange space -- all gem and stone -- fill up with even stranger beings. Beings part animal or part mineral. Part air. Part machine. Some look familiar to you, though their faces move past with no names, the image moving closer and tighter to the throng of people around a figure whose face you can't see, but who seems to be wearing some kind of crown. In front of the hidden figure, you see yourself. But not yourself as you've ever looked back from any mirror. Yourself, paler, thinner, with black maws where your eyes should be. The shadows in your eye sockets weep continuously: a thin, watery, dark liquid. Hair shorn tight to the scalp. Dressed in a scratchy-looking black turtleneck that might as well be woven from tiny needles as from stitches of any fabric, the high collar just showing through a tight-belted, long grey coat in a sharp black triangle. There's a sense of purpose to your movements. You've come to this place for a reason... Whatever it is. The pain in your head is back now. Worse than ever. Cerise's eyes turn back to the screen, giving up on sussing out more from the room that she's in or catching sight of that ever present figure. Even though the pain causes her to grimace, she doesn't attempt to turn away from the screen. Instead, she turns what energy she has on trying to test her own bonds, attempting to be careful and surreptitious, doing so without drawing the attention of whoever it is in the room with her. Can she get a hand free? A foot? No. Not yet. There are other visions to be had, after all. And you are going to have them, whether you want to or not. Who can say what is real? Does it even matter? Why should you care? Of course, this one particular vision really stands out, doesn't it: it's an image of the river again. That stupid river, the seeming source of so many problems. Except this time, you are nowhere in sight, and Ben, in all of his wild-haired, wild-eyed, Wizened glory, is wading into the river after you. The deeper he moves into the water, the blacker it becomes. It looks like he's starting to drown. One ink-stained hand claws up, reaching for nothing; then that, too, is swallowed. There's another image: one of Ben deep, down in the dark water, naked, curled in on himself, locked in a cage of black bars. A cage with a keyhole. You've seen so many keys, but where is the right one? Where? That's when you feel it... There's something in /your/ chest. You're able to get one hand free, miraculously, so you put the back of your hand to it, and it seems to leap. Something in there wants to come out. Something that could help you. Something that could help Ben. "Ben." Cerise gasps out as she watches Ben slip beneath the water, helpless to do anything. Her face scrunches up in even more dismay when she sees him under that water, her voice repeating his name, but softer and quieter, her helpless sorrow barely contained just under the surface. Then, miracle of miracles, she can move again. For a second or two, her hand rests against her chest, feeling that leaping motion, then it twists, feeling around trying to grasp the key that she assumes is there. Your hand disappears into your chest. Inside, you feel your fingers close on hard metal. A long key with an open ring of silver at its base; heavy, blunt teeth at the far end. There's a brief instant of fear: What will happen when you pull this thing out? Will you die, like Alwin seemed to? Or just lose yourself? Will you forget him and Ben and Kip and Franklyn and John and your mother and father and all the others... Everyone that you've ever met and tried to help? Sit up from some distant operating table, look a stranger in the eyes, and not feel an ounce of regret for what's missing? What else could you lose? And yet, Cerise's hand circles around that key, gripping it tight. Her breaths come quick and tight, a sure sign of the conflict within. And yet, what conflict is it really? There is Ben, stuck right in front of her. She can save him. And she knows about the keys. Who else will know what she knows and be able to help? After moments of internal conflict, Cerise rips loose the key inside her and with it held tight in her grip, stretches towards Ben's cage. Part of you had wondered if it would hurt when the key came out. But it doesn't seem to feel like anything, even though you have to tear hard to pull it out of your chest. You put the key into the lock and it turns right away. No rust. No resistance. Inside, there's no reaction from Ben. Only the black water around him slowly rising... Soon it will be at chest level. It surrounds you, too, though it doesn't feel wet and doesn't seem to hinder your movements, either. Cerise breathes a sigh of relief as the cage opens. She flings the door wide so that Ben can escape and then ... he doesn't. Cerise blinks a few times in confusion. "Ben." She whispers his name at first, and then speaks more harshly, "/Ben/. Get out. /Go/. Please!" If her whispering and pleading has no effect, the woman will swim in herself, reaching for his arm and attempting to pull him out of the cage and to freedom before he can be drowned. The dark liquid continues to rise. The floor of Ben's cell, blank cement, feels cold and smooth under your feet. The air is getting colder, too, and goosebumps start to stand out on your arms as you reach out to him. Just seconds ago, you felt the need to rescue him so strongly that you were willing to rip something essential out of your own body. But for some reason, now that your silver key is in the lock, door open and swinging a little as the black water pushes it to and fro, when you look at Ben it's starting to get harder to remember why. What made you want to do anything for this person? When that thought occurs, whispering itself delicately at the base of your mind, in a voice so like your own that it must be your own thought... Mustn't it... ? Ben at last opens his eyes. Not grey or empty, but bright, vividly blue, with the silver veins that you remember so well. "Hey, Cerise." "It's flooding. You need to go." Cerise is less insistent than she was moments before, but the urge to save is still somewhat present. Her eyes widen in his direction, pleading with him. At the same time, she steps back again, making room for Ben to pass. As she does so, her hand reaches for the door, running along its cool bars and then pulling out the key to save it before she forgets that as well. "Go where?" asks Ben, squinting at you. But he does at least stand up. Less in danger of imminent drowning now that he's on his feet. It's funny, but the more life that he shows, the less you feel like it matters what he does. Or what you do. When you reach for the door, your hand closes on nothing. The lock is empty now, with no way to secure the cage again. The door is just open. But even that doesn't feel like it really matters. Ben is stretching, yawning, starting to walk around. Good for him... Whoever he is. You know, but don't know. Or maybe it's just that you don't care very much anymore. Cerise's eyes tear away from Ben when her groping for her key lands on nothing. Her lips draw down in a frown and she turns away, searching the lock for the key and then stretching down to feel the floor under the water. Part of her knows that it won't be there, but compulsion drives her to look anyway. Your hand finds smooth cement... Nothing more or less. The cell begins to drain. As it does, Ben steps into his clothes -- checked shirt, jeans, boots, army jacket -- and says, "See ya." Then he walks out and the door closes behind him. That black haze that you were seeing back on that table, strapped flat, unable to move anything but your eyes, obstructs your vision again. There's something very close to your eyes. Perhaps even touching them, although you can't feel it. Your arms and legs start to slow down as the dark liquid disappears from the cell and this whole place begins to break up like just one more bad dream... Leaving you where you were: on your back, staring up at a... Screen? No. It's just a rectangle of sick, greenish-looking light. The color of nausea. Behind your head, you hear the person standing there breathe, very softly, without speaking. Again, Cerise is very still at first. Moving only her eyes, the one part of herself that she can freely move, as she stakes out the room. It's not as if she expects to be able to suss out more this time than before, but she's driven to try anyway. She can't tell what that person behind her is doing, but eventually, she goes back to trying to free herself, going slowly at first, her ears perked for any hint that her 'captor' has picked up on what she's doing. If there is none, she'll tug harder at her bonds. "I wouldn't move, if I were you," says a familiar voice. It sounds like you've always known it. And yet, when you try to think how, you can't quite place it. It feels like it's always been there, just a whisper, at the back of your mind or somewhere deep in your chest. Telling you when you're on the right path... ... Or not. And yet... "Not unless you're prepared to lose your eyes." The words are enough to still Cerise's struggling. Not only because of the warning (or is it a threat?) that they give, but also because they're a sure signal that she is being watched. Her choices are limited in the position that she's in, and so she resorts to perhaps the only choice she has - begging. "Please. Please let me go." "Go where?" asks the voice. Either it belongs to the person who's been standing right behind you at the head of the operating table that you're confined to, or they've come in to join that person. It's a mark of how confused and disoriented you feel after all this time that you aren't sure if there are one or more people there. "You are the only place you've ever been, Cerise Hodgson." Go where? Cerise doesn't actually seem to know the answers to that, and so for a little while, she's quiet. During that time, she again tries to stretch her view and see more of the room around her, perhaps even catch sight of the person or people behind her. Eventually, her hand moves again, giving a little tug at her bonds, but it's more for show than a real attempt to escape. In fact, she sets her sights very low, pleading, "Let me get out of the chair?" You hear a mechanical whirring noise when you try to look around. A sharp hiss accompanies it. The voice says, "As I said... I really wouldn't advise moving, if I were in your position. Not even your eyes. Unless, of course, you don't want them... Which would be... Such a shame." When it speaks, the 's'es drag out for just a fraction of a second longer than normal. You still haven't placed where you've heard it before. "Why should I let you go?" it asks. Something like amusement begins to creep into the too-familiar voice. "What makes you think I am the one holding you here?" Again, Cerise freezes where she's at. Her eyes lock above her. Her hand stops moving. There's only breaths, but those come quicker than normal, filled with fear as they are. "You're the one here now. It's in your power." She swallows, nervously. "It hurts - my head." "Of courssse it does," answers the voice. "Something inside is weighing you down. Holding you back. Isn't that true?" Above you, that square of pale, stomach-curdling light begins to shift again. You see glimpses of things you've seen before: the man in the chair with the innumerable small knives. A locked trunk that rattles and rattles and goes nowhere. The cavity of Alwin's chest filling up over and over again with the same dark and flavorless, scentless, traceless liquid. Ben waiting in his cell to drown. Someone who looks just like you moving through a landscape of raw stone and gems. The same person moving through the halls of this hospital-- But not confused, lost, like you have been. Moving with total and perfect knowledge of what's going on here. From the way that your ghost pushes through the a set of tall black operating room doors, you /feel/ her absolute and crystalline certainty; feel that she has no questions left. But before you can see what's on the other side... There's one last image, of yourself at home in bed, sweating and mumbling no language known on Earth, sightless eyes wide, rolling back and forth and away from John's gentle, ice-cradling hands. And then only that strange, bright light. As soon as Cerise realizes what is happening, she begins to recoil, to fight the visions, "No, please..." but of course they come anyway, wanted or not and as they begin to overwhelm her, even the protests fall still and quiet her eyes wide as she soaks them in. "You can stop them," says the voice. It sounds closer than ever now. Dropping in volume to something closer to its usual whisper, as if it were still inside your head; as if it had never stepped out. "You can stop all this." "Tell me how. Please." The voice doesn't offer much, but it does offer a modicum of control and Cerise has not had that for a long time now. She clings to that offer, a small glimmer of hope beginning to form for the first time, "/Please/, tell me how to stop it." Something touches your forehead. It feels like the ice from your vision. At first, it's so still and so cold that it takes you a minute to realize that it's a gloved hand. Latex-covered fingertips smooth a few fine, sweat-damp hairs back from your temples. "/You/ know," says the voice. Something about what you said seems to have pleased it. You can hear something like a smile, or perhaps a smirk, in that long, sibilant drone. "You've set so many others free already." "Those were just dreams. They weren't real." Cerise's voice is tinged with despair at her situation, and the icy hands offer little comfort, even if Cerise is eager for some sort of respite. "I don't know what to do." That green light beats down. You're afraid even to blink now. You don't seem to need to blink anymore, though. At the same time: you become aware of moisture under your eyes. Are you crying? You wouldn't be crying, would you? "What isn't real about your dreams?" "I can't do it." Cerise's protests continue, this time accompanied by a shuddering breath. She might be talking about the physical aspect, still except that she follows quickly by a weak, pleading, "Don't make me do it. Not that." "Can't," says the voice. The hand lifts away. You hear someone take a step back. And then they begin to move around the room, whoever they are, with their gelid touch and their susurrus of a whisper that sounds like it's been part of you since before you were born. It sounds like they're unplugging things. "Then... You'll never know what they mean," it says. Though they've moved away, they sound just as close as ever. "A shame." Even though the presence of that unknown figure wasn't comforting, when they move away Cerise can't help but choke down a swelling feeling of disappointment. "Come back." Her voice is small, it's desperateness plain for all to view. "If I do it, will you let me move?" "Of course," says the voice. Although you don't, yet, feel its presence nearby. You still feel like that unknown figure is moving around the room. You hear the low electrical hum of the machines that seem to fill the space growing thinner and thinner as it turns more and more of them off. But then it stops, and there are no more changes in the environment. Just the sickly green light shining down into your eyes as they leak... /Something./ "You will be freer than ever before, Cerise." Cerise swallows. She's nervous and fearful, sweat beading down her forehead along with the substance leaking from her eyes. "okay." The first time she says it, the word hardly even makes it out, so soft is her voice. She has to swallow again to make her voice louder. "Okay. I'll do it. You can take it." "Excellent choice," says the voice. Long curl on those 's'es. At last, the source begins to walk back towards you. In spite of its strangeness, its coldness, you have the feeling that at least... In /some/ sense... Whatever else is happening here... That familiar whisper is telling you the truth. "Now... Don't move..." The black haze in front of your eyes begins to click and spit. And you realize, at last, much too late, as if you were staring down at yourself from a great height, what that must be. Tubes, inserted smoothly and directly into your pupils, which begin to suck and pull. The noise grows louder and louder as the vacuum reaches all the way down inside you and tugs free, with a familiar feeling, a familiar sound, a hard, long piece of silver-bright metal... Cerise was careful not to move before, but now she is absolutely frozen in place, her face glued into a mask of silent terror despite the fact that inwardly her mind is screaming at her in final protest that comes far too late. The key bites and kicks as it drags up through your body. You feel it opening little cuts all the way up and out, cuts like you saw on that man in the chair with the knives that release a gush of black liquid and close up again almost instantaneously. At last, the vacuum pulls the hard slice of metal out through your left eye, which collapses. In the same moment, the tube in your right eye twists like a knife. Black threads overtake the green square of light suspended in the darkness above you. It's like watching someone step onto too-thin ice and seeing the cracks start to web out from around them. That noise--the noise of ice popping and snapping as it weakens--fills your ears, coming from nowhere, as you watch those black lines spread and multiply and pare the last light that you'll ever see rapidly away. Like countless tiny spiders hatching and beginning at once to devour their own eggs... "Good girl," whispers the voice. In that moment, it sounds impossibly close again: like it's back inside your head... Where it belongs. Cerise still doesn't attempt to move, glued into the seat by her own terror along with the straps that hold her motionless. She breaths in and out, rapidly at first. Then the breaths come slower and slower as Cerise forces herself to calm and center again. Straps? But there are no straps. Nothing is holding you down at all. Whatever just happened... There was something inside you, something that was essential to you; more essential than your heartbeat; the thing that made you /Cerise/ and not some other woman with the same face... /That/ thing... Well... Right now, but not for long, you remember. There /was/ something. But it's gone. And whatever it was, it just doesn't seem very important anymore, does it? What's important is that nothing is holding you here. Was there ever anything doing that? Trying to think of it is like chasing the ghost of a memory. Flash of ... Green light ... Black water ... But then nothing; just the feeling of that dark liquid running through your fingers and evaporating as swiftly as it appears. When Cerise realizes that she's no longer being held down, she begins to sit up very carefully. Her movements are slow and deliberate, ready to freeze at a moments notice, even if she doesn't quite remember why she's being so careful or why movement might be dangerous. Then her hands stretch out to either side of her, groping in an attempt to try and judge her environment. Nothing is in your way. In fact, in spite of the way that your muscles still seem to be holding an incredible amount of tension, as if you had just been hanging from the edge of a cliff by your fingernails, trying to will yourself not to let go, there doesn't seem to be any reason to be afraid at all. You've spent quite a lot of time here, after all, haven't you? This place is your home. Not a... Hospital... Why would you have thought that? Funny... But the kitchen of your apartment. You recognize the feel of the countertops and the smells. There's a knife gripped tight in your hand. But there's no need for that now, is there, Cerise? You're perfectly safe here, after all. It's time for you to relax. A knife? Cerise runs her hands along the counter until she feels the knife block, and there she slips the blade away. Then she continues to run a hand along the edge of the counter, walking along its length until she reaches the kitchen table before taking a few steps so she can settle into a chair there. You sink into the chair and put your feet up on the ottoman. Everything is just where you left it. Someone will be home soon to take care of you. You can't, for some reason, quite remember just who. But if everything is just as normal... And there's nothing for you to worry about at all... Then why does part of you feel like something is missing? It must just be one of those things. Cerise sits for a little while, staring out into the blackness that is her world now. Then, she speaks, "Play NPR." and soon enough the dulcet tones of public radio reporters spring into the air around her, speaking of some random news of the day. Oh, it's This American Life. Ira Glass is talking. This week's episode is about people who have faced inner emptiness and succumbed to it. Seems like a fairly ordinary topic. Yes, this is nice. You don't have to think about anything here. The chair feels kind of funny though, doesn't it? Almost like it's collapsing. Oh, wait. It is collapsing. Everything is, in fact. You can feel it. A low vibration. There is stuff falling on your head. The room is caving in. It will swallow you whole if you don't get out of it, somehow.