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I awaken tied once again to a chair. The room is bright and I see that I am wearing the clothes I last wore. There are blood stains and a torn hole in my trousers where the bullet had penetrated. Even the dried blood causes a stir so I look away quickly. That stench is still with me so I mustn’t have been cleaned.
My eyes are quite sensitive to the light and it takes a bit of time before I am able to observe my surroundings clearly. I appear to be in some sort of a library, or study, apparently the room of a rather wealthy person. Either that or it is a city hall, or the chambers of a judge. As this is all so manifest and realistic, my mind strays back towards the rational and all my previous theories are absurd to me. I’m even embarrassed to be alone with myself, ashamed to have lost all sense of logic. It would make sense to consider the fact that I was on the verge of insanity, and the fact that I was able to see myself sitting there was my mind protecting itself, coping with the situation. It was disassociation.
Either that or as the symbolic becomes more and more real, the closer I am to either saving my mother’s head or awakening from the coma. At least now I might keep a better grip on the rational interpretations whether or not they seem as equally possible as the others, which according to society are ideas that far surpass the norm. Although, I’ve been told that about my ideas since I was five, so it’s nothing new to me.
Regardless of anything else, I must be here for some reason. If only I could know what is going on. The confusion still has it’s hold, and my mind is becoming the more dominant one, as it is my peer, so I still wonder whether I’m alive, dead, or in limbo. Mostly, where is my Fay?
A door opens and closes behind me but I can’t turn my head enough to see who is there. I hear no steps but there is a presence. I’ve been alone long enough, I believe, to be able to distinguish the sensation of unaloneness. Finally a woman appears before me. She is petite in height and size. Her hands are gloved and she wears a dog-faced mask, hiding her entire face. She is a maid, because that is the uniform that clothes her. The woman places a tray in front of me and a chair facing both me and the tray, on top of which rests a covered silver platter.
I am afraid of what is underneath and close my eyes as she reaches out to grab hold of the lid. My senses are pretty well shot, from having been deprived of their usage, though as soon as I close my eyes, the sense of smell takes charge over sight, and is strong enough to detect the scent of food over the wretched odor that infects my aura. I open my eyes to see a glorious breakfast. Hot cakes, eggs, and toast. Muffins and fruit. Tea and juice. The dog-faced maid begins to feed me.
I find myself breathing in and out in a primitive fashion, devouring each bite and forkful. So crude and unrefined. Yet that is how I smell and most assuredly how I appear. At this point, I am starving and thirsty, scared and confused. The last thing that ought to be on my mind is my manners.
My meal is cut short by a sour stomach. Another forkful comes to my lips, I turn my head away. She stands and begins grabbing handfuls forcing them into my face, actually getting some in my mouth which I reject. After this spree of aggression, she calmly sits and gently lifts the juice to my lips, which I drink, wishing it was water. She covers the rest, not having touched the tea, returns her chair to the original place and carries the tray back to where she first appeared from. The door opens and closes and I am alone once again.
…to be continued…