I’m wandering aimlessly through a maze of cold, grey stone. Each wall like the next, indistinguishable from eachother. Every time I look back on the path I’ve just taken, the roads blur and duplicate. I cannot turn back and I don’t know what lies ahead of me. I rush on despite of my uncertainty. Because I know that there is something following behind, urging me to retreat from what I haven’t seen before, back down the road that is under the control of this being who is morphing and twisting all that I think I am sure about. All in the hope of returning to the place I have just come from. I decide to take a chance on the unknown. I run into a clearing. The labyrinthine walls around me blur and warp before fading to black. I sink down sobbing in relief at the abscence of that unknown entity. I am alone.
But not for long.
There is a presence. A bag of drowned kittens poured in my lap, one still barely holding onto life. It nudges its brothers in turn then climbs onto my outstretched hand. It’s so tiny and helpless, puddles forming around its velvet paws. It mewls in mourning and confusion, a sickening gurgle. All of its muscles relax and its body folds in on itself. The wet slap of its fur on my hand seems absurdly loud, almost obscene. The sound too final for such a fluid and ever-changing delusion. It dissolves and slips through my fingers, like sand. I am alone again.
I am transported once more. The car is rolling down the hill. I’ve been behind this wheel a hundred times, I know just what to do. But the place where I feel safe is rushing away from me, along with the passing seconds which seem more important than ever in this imagined place. Something is preventing me from pulling the handbrake. I keep rolling and all I can do is steer. Maybe if I could start the engine up and drive it back to where the car started, everything would be okay. Because all I know about what is happening is that I want to be back where I was, but I am hurtling away and I am not in control. I turn the key and the car jolts once, twice then shudders and shatters into a million pieces. I am falling. Crashing through the surface of the water that seems to belong in the place of the usual tarmac road. I take a breath. Then my brain realises that I shouldn’t be able to. I am filling my lungs with the liquid, satisfyingly denser than air, my lungs feeling fuller than they ever have. But water does not belong in place of a road. I was not born to breath fluid. So I sink. Down into darkness. And all that bothers me is that the weight of the water in my lungs is so terribly comfortable. I shouldn’t feel so alive when, in reality, I am drowning. All light goes out. My eyes snap open and I am gasping. The air burning my lungs and feeling so irritatingly thin. Yet, I am alive. And disappointed.