Normally, I would have some sort of feeling that I shouldn't be doing this, that I should just stay put in one place and wait this out, whatever this is, but there's something about Nick that feels like calm in a storm, and I realize that I'm following him before I've even had a chance to think about it.
We don't go far, but as we walk, it occurs to me that I'm still shuffling my feet like I'm in chains. Even my freedom isn't entirely free.
The room is plain, sterile, normal, and utterly different from the room I just left. I wonder if this is a conscious choice by the hotel, to make every room a different style, or if there's something else going on. I don't know what that something else would be, though, so I ignore it for the time being once I realize that Nick is waiting for me to sit.
I lower myself down onto the desk chair, posture straight and rigid; I am tense, my body whipcord tight as I perch on the edge of the chair. My hands are wrapped tight around the edges of the seat, knuckles white. It keeps my hands from shaking, keeps me grounded in place, so I don't care that I can feel the rough underside of the wood chafing against my fingers. It makes this real.
"Water would be nice, thank you," I say after reading Nick's note. "I'm still a little concerned that this is all -- well, I wasn't exactly, per se, well for a long while, and I'm just thinking -- this isn't real. It can't be real."
All signs point to that being a false statement. It must mean something that I am hoping more that this is another hallucination, perhaps a psychotic break, than something real. At least the former makes sense, given prior history. The latter -- there's no explanation, and that makes me uncomfortable.
no subject
We don't go far, but as we walk, it occurs to me that I'm still shuffling my feet like I'm in chains. Even my freedom isn't entirely free.
The room is plain, sterile, normal, and utterly different from the room I just left. I wonder if this is a conscious choice by the hotel, to make every room a different style, or if there's something else going on. I don't know what that something else would be, though, so I ignore it for the time being once I realize that Nick is waiting for me to sit.
I lower myself down onto the desk chair, posture straight and rigid; I am tense, my body whipcord tight as I perch on the edge of the chair. My hands are wrapped tight around the edges of the seat, knuckles white. It keeps my hands from shaking, keeps me grounded in place, so I don't care that I can feel the rough underside of the wood chafing against my fingers. It makes this real.
"Water would be nice, thank you," I say after reading Nick's note. "I'm still a little concerned that this is all -- well, I wasn't exactly, per se, well for a long while, and I'm just thinking -- this isn't real. It can't be real."
All signs point to that being a false statement. It must mean something that I am hoping more that this is another hallucination, perhaps a psychotic break, than something real. At least the former makes sense, given prior history. The latter -- there's no explanation, and that makes me uncomfortable.