TIME BEING Chapter 5. SORT OF A NIGHTMARE
Chapter 5. SORT OF A NIGHTMARE
A dying woman travels through time to significant points in her life, but things are not as she remembers them. Accompanied by a handsome young stranger and her childhood cat, the fate of both past and future now lies in her aged hands.
Sylvan had been in those rooms before. Many times. She knew them well, the vast, cluttered chambers with their vibrantly painted walls and high windows, arranged one after the other like a string of boxy beads.
Each room was separated by short flights of steps, climbing ever upward. Each was totally unlike any other. A room furnished in pink chintz with a ceiling that sloped like an attic; an artist’s den, large as a warehouse and glowing with light and color. Many were bedrooms or bed-sitting rooms, and though they appeared lived-in, no human was ever present. At least not in Sylvan’s dreams, for that’s what they were—scenes from a recurring dream.
The place had haunted Sylvan’s sleep for as far back as she could remember. Dubbing it the long apartment, she’d become familiar with the maze-like structure and reveled in its surprising wonders. Nothing bad ever happened in the long apartment. It was a good place, a place that answered her needs.
But something was different this time—Sylvan felt it the moment she opened her eyes. There was none of that misty, morphing sensation that accompanied her nocturnal visits. Staring up at the ceiling, she could now pick out every detail, every crack and chip in the faded yellow paint. And through the window, behind the lace curtain, was a scene she had never beheld before—the outside.
Sylvan tore her eyes from the square of landscape to take in the room again—clothes strewn across comfortably worn furniture, a rack of vinyl records, a ceramic jug, a poster of a folksinger, a classical guitar. On the bedside table lay the red diary. She raised a hand to knock on the tabletop—rap rap rap—solid wood.
Suddenly she caught sight of the hand itself. No longer that of a child, but not her true, old-woman self either. Pearly fingernails, pretty, smooth skin. No wrinkles or blemishes—the hands of a young woman.
Sylvan was out of bed in a heartbeat, searching for a mirror. She found one—an antique full-length type in the far corner. Ripping away a shawl that was draped over the frame, she stared.
She had no idea what she’d expected, but it wasn’t what greeted her eye. Everything was there—the room, the clutter, the records, the jug, poster, and guitar, the cracked ceiling and the shard of sunlight streaming in through the window. Everything but Sylvan herself. Of the woman, there was not a single glimmer.
This must be a dream after all, she thought with some disappointment.
“Not a dream,” came a voice from directly behind her, though the mirror showed no sign of the speaker either.
“Aron!”
Sylvan rushed to the man and threw her arms around his neck. Now that she was no longer a little girl, she was tall enough to hug him properly. She could feel the strength in his muscles, the warmth of his embrace. Something stirred inside the young woman, a sensation she’d not felt in a very long time.
Quickly she pulled away, her eyes seeking the floor. The carpet was red with a complex design. She preferred to lose her gaze in that crazy pattern rather than look up into Aron’s strange and captivating eyes.
“Purrumph,” said Brie as she sauntered down from the next room. “Don’t forget about me.”
Sylvan’s heart softened. “I could never forget you,” she whispered, kneeling to caress the gray cat. It no longer seemed strange that the cat could talk. Would anything seem truly strange, she wondered to herself, ever again?
“We have to go,” Aron charged. “Bring her with us.”
Sylvan didn’t move—she’d heard this line before. Last time, Aron led her on a curious journey to her birth—what did he have in mind now?
“Come on, Sylvan.”
The man was visibly anxious—whatever drove his need to run was acute. But was it real? Was any of it real? Sylvan suspected not.
She scooped Brie into her arms but stood her ground. “And what if I don’t?”
Aron’s angelic face fell. “You have to come. I mean, why wouldn’t you?”
“Why would I?” she countered stubbornly.
“Because that’s where the future lies,” he began in all seriousness. “Where the wild things are, where the sidewalk ends, where the heart is, where the crawdads sing…”
Sylvan’s brow scrunched in confusion as Aron continued the non sequiturs.
“…where the ocean meets the shore, where the streets have no name, where the heather grows…”
“Stop! Okay I get it. And are any of those things relevant to this place you’re taking me?”
Aron considered. “I don’t think so.” He sighed, his bravado deflating. “Just trust me and come along. It’s meant to be.”
“So you’re some sort of dream guide?”
He shot her a disappointed look. “When will you get it through your head, this is not a dream?”
Sylvan gave a passive shrug. “Prove it.”
“All right, if that will get you moving.”
Grabbing her hand, he pulled her to the door. In all her dream visits to the long apartment, Sylvan had never been through the door before, hadn’t even registered that there was one. The only passage was into the next room, and the one after that, and the one after that, with nothing outside the windows save for the bedazzling white of light.
“Wait!” she commanded.
Running back, she plucked her red diary from the bedside table, then with a mix of resignation and excitement, she followed Aron into the unknown.
Chapter 6. A NEW PLACE IN TIME coming next Saturday.
For previous chapters, look here.
