Thursday, June 11, 2009

Daily Story 57: Out of the Frying Pan

Logic clearly doesn't factor into whatever is going on, as there's no way the hot dog cart I'm looking at could ever actually be covered in thick fur, or float up into the sky in a beam of green light, or get crushed under a chunk of building that's been warped like a handful of clay. None of these things can happen, but I see them all at the same time.

I take the hot dog and head back towards the office. The street is locked up with stand-still traffic, cars or horses or vacant rusting tanks. Some of those I've seen before, and once I could have sworn that the horses had looked right at me. When I reach the lobby it's filled with corpses again which I know will give me nightmares, so I hurry to the elevator - legs swishing through the rotting flesh like it isn't there.

Because it isn't. Can't be.

I'm distracted all day, trying to concentrate on the work in front of me on my desk - this is made difficult by the fact that my desk is simultaneously not there and covered in someone else's papers. For half an hour the building itself is also a few floors shorter, giving me a fantastic view but making me quite dizzy. It will all be over soon, though. I feel confident that the doctor will figure out what's wrong and fix it. Even if it's a malignant tumor, at this point I just want to know.

The trip to the doctor's office goes surprisingly well, and I only try to get on an imaginary bus once. I wish I could still drive. The building the doctor is in is a plain office building, an aquarium, a twisted burnt wreck. Oddly, the hideous modern art out front remains the same. I keep my eyes closed while I wait, and then finally I'm led back to see the doctor. He's kind, and old, and looks just a little like Santa Claus - the real him, that is. He runs tests and lowers a huge device over my head, and I'm waiting for him to say there's nothing wrong, that I'm crazy.

"You're not crazy."
Oh thank God.
"There's a strange sort of activity going on in the visual region of your brain. I believe that, like hiccoughs, if we interrupt the signal it will reset, and you'll be back to normal. That's not to say it couldn't happen again, but I think for now we need to be concerned with your ability to function in daily life."
I thank him, repeatedly, and he positions me in a chair. Attaching electrodes to my head, he pauses frequently to consult something on the computer screen.
"Okay. This should reach the correct area. I want you to just relax, look at the wall. This won't hurt a bit."

The wall is white, red, glass, steel. It's...

Suddenly, the wall snaps into focus and is white plaster. Just white. I jump up and turn to tell the doctor it worked, and... he's gone. The only person in the room is some old woman, cowering in the corner. The charts are gone, the equipment is gone. It looks like I'm in some sort of file room. Slowly, the old lady raises an arm and points at me.
"Where... where did you come from?"
Well, shit.