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skonen_bladesOkay, I admit it.
I pull off my pajamas in the middle of the night sometimes.
An ex-girlfriend once offered forth the theory that I was more in touch with my inner caveman when I was asleep. This inner caveman thought that ‘clothes’ were alien and would shuck them off with primitive grunts and dog-like whines at four in the morning.
I’ve woken up naked more than once.
Usually it’s in my own apartment if not my own bed. Never in a metal chair, never handcuffed to a metal table, never cold, and definitely not crying under bright lights.
It’s a strange experience to wake up crying.
Although looking at the blood-spattered apparition in the one-way mirror across the table from what I guess is a police interrogation chamber, I’m not surprised the tears are gushing.
I’m a peaceful dude. I’m soft around the edges. I can’t understand why my reflection is looking back through blood-soaked hair that is (and I notice this with a shock that scares me more than anything else so far) longer than I remember.
I’m naked. The chair I’m sitting on is cold. I can see my breath.
The muscles in my face ache like I’ve been crying for hours.
“H-hello?” I whimper in the echoing room. I turn my head around and that’s when I realize that there are no video cameras in the room. At all. None that I can see.
This worries me more than the change in hair length. The absence of cameras or microphones on the table raises the disturbing possibility that this is not a police questioning room.
What am I doing here?
Why is there a body across the room?
Why is there a blood-covered pen in my white-knuckled fist?
I’m putting two and two together here and coming up with panic.
The door bangs to the room bangs open and two men dressed in black riot gear rush in. I can see a person in a lab coat behind them that I recognize.
And then-
-I’m eating a donut in a diner in Houston. I pause with the donut halfway to my lips. I’m sitting in a booth with a beautiful woman across the table from me. Her brow creases.
“You okay, babe?” she asks and cocks her head playfully to the side. She touches my fingers that are resting on the coffee cup between us. There’s a wedding band on her finger.
My eyes flick down to the matching wedding band on the finger of my donut hand.
I close my mouth with a click and nod to her.
“Oh yeah sure. Just tired. That donut was good.” I say to her and excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
What I see in the bathroom mirror shocks me even more than last time.
I’m at least ten years older than I was in the interrogation room.
tags
I pull off my pajamas in the middle of the night sometimes.
An ex-girlfriend once offered forth the theory that I was more in touch with my inner caveman when I was asleep. This inner caveman thought that ‘clothes’ were alien and would shuck them off with primitive grunts and dog-like whines at four in the morning.
I’ve woken up naked more than once.
Usually it’s in my own apartment if not my own bed. Never in a metal chair, never handcuffed to a metal table, never cold, and definitely not crying under bright lights.
It’s a strange experience to wake up crying.
Although looking at the blood-spattered apparition in the one-way mirror across the table from what I guess is a police interrogation chamber, I’m not surprised the tears are gushing.
I’m a peaceful dude. I’m soft around the edges. I can’t understand why my reflection is looking back through blood-soaked hair that is (and I notice this with a shock that scares me more than anything else so far) longer than I remember.
I’m naked. The chair I’m sitting on is cold. I can see my breath.
The muscles in my face ache like I’ve been crying for hours.
“H-hello?” I whimper in the echoing room. I turn my head around and that’s when I realize that there are no video cameras in the room. At all. None that I can see.
This worries me more than the change in hair length. The absence of cameras or microphones on the table raises the disturbing possibility that this is not a police questioning room.
What am I doing here?
Why is there a body across the room?
Why is there a blood-covered pen in my white-knuckled fist?
I’m putting two and two together here and coming up with panic.
The door bangs to the room bangs open and two men dressed in black riot gear rush in. I can see a person in a lab coat behind them that I recognize.
And then-
-I’m eating a donut in a diner in Houston. I pause with the donut halfway to my lips. I’m sitting in a booth with a beautiful woman across the table from me. Her brow creases.
“You okay, babe?” she asks and cocks her head playfully to the side. She touches my fingers that are resting on the coffee cup between us. There’s a wedding band on her finger.
My eyes flick down to the matching wedding band on the finger of my donut hand.
I close my mouth with a click and nod to her.
“Oh yeah sure. Just tired. That donut was good.” I say to her and excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
What I see in the bathroom mirror shocks me even more than last time.
I’m at least ten years older than I was in the interrogation room.
tags
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no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2007 08:07 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2007 08:28 (UTC)no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2007 09:25 (UTC)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mirror#One-way_mirror
no subject
Date: 31 Mar 2007 20:43 (UTC)d