Locked In

How long have I been here? Have I always been here? It feels like I was born here, but I know that can’t be true. But it is true, isn’t it? Sometimes I remember nothing but here. The windows and doors are boarded up, there’s no natural light except through the cracks in the boards. The furniture is old and broken, dust covers everything. 
Sometimes though, sometimes I wake up and I see a different place. No that’s not right. The same place, but it is different. Light pours in through the windows, the doors are thrown open and fresh air pours in. The breeze moves brightly coloured curtains hanging open around the framed double pane glass. On the couch is a blanket, haphazardly tossed there by someone cleaning up. 
On the floor, which is clean and free of dust and debris, there are toys and books scattered about. The laughter of children rings through the house. The smell of baking bread wafts from the kitchen, music plays out of the TV in the living room. The furniture is intact, clean and well taken care of. Outside, how I long for outside, where the grass grows lush and green. Cars drive by and dogs chase them as they go. 
On these days I wake up and I run, I run through the house as fast as I can to find the source of the laughter. To try and make it outside, into the sun that I can barely remember. I never make it. I trip and fall, only to wake up again in a dusty broken down building, locked in with no hope of escape. Or I get there and the door is already gone, disappearing beneath a pile of boards nailed over it. 
On most days I am sure that this fantasy world I sometimes see is an hallucination. A desperate trick my mind is playing on me to stave off insanity. But if I’ve always been here, am I already insane? Or am I immune since this is where I belong, and where I’ve always been? I’m desperate for answers, but none ever come. 
On other days, days that seem to be fewer and farther between, I am sure that the fantasy is my reality. The place I really belong, and where I am supposed to be. I remember vividly the faces of the children that produce that laughter. I remember reading them books, singing songs with them, feeding them the bread that is always baking in the oven. 
Which one is it? Where do I belong? How long have I been here? Have I always been here? I wander through the house, both alien and familiar at the same time. I wonder when was the last time I ate anything. Shouldn’t I have starved to death by now? I try to turn on the taps but all that comes out is liquid rust, sputtering and spraying me with dirt. 
Sometimes I spend hours, maybe days banging on the inside of the boarded up windows. I punch and kick the wood until my hands are broken and bleeding. I scream for someone, anyone to please find me, save me, anything. My throat is aching, my voice hoarse from overuse. I sit on the broken bed, chipped paint flaking off the walls all around the room. Thick dust coats the floor, my footprints have left imprints from the door to the place where I sit now, head in my hands. How long have I been here? Have I always been here? 

I hear the familiar screams from upstairs and run up to make sure she’s ok. I jump over toys and books that the children have scattered across the room. They have abandoned them in favour of the backyard. It’s springtime and the green grass has finally come back, they’ve left the back door open in their haste but that's ok, the fresh air is nice as it breezes through the house. The curtains that she put up so long ago rustle in the wind. 
I reach the top of the stairs and there she is, my beloved Laura, my wife. She’s screaming at something I can’t see, because of course it’s not there. I take her wrists gently in my hands and hold them away from her face so she doesn’t hurt herself again. She looks into my eyes and for a moment it’s almost like she recognizes me. “Laura?” I ask, but the moment is gone, she retreats back into the madness that took her.

Read the rest of this collection in Don’t Read This Book After Dark Vols 1 & 2!