WINNIFRED
It felt like a normal day. I woke up right before my alarm, which is typical but still nice. I moved my sheets over to reveal my bruised legs from the night before, and I walked over to the bathroom. I’ve developed a new system of brushing my teeth in the shower, not because I'm ever really short on time, but because I view it as more efficient. I have no idea if it is, but the idea of multitasking hygiene brings me joy for some reason. I turn the shower to cold and close my eyes as I breathe through the temperature change.
In four, hold seven, out eight.
In four, hold seven, out eight.
I do this over and over as the cold water changes the texture of my skin into a prickly, hard surface. I wait for a while until I can fully imagine myself out of my city apartment and standing underneath a waterfall in a cold but green place with dense vegetation. I can hear the water rushing on top of my head as it follows its gravitational path down into the rocks surrounding me. I’m on the verge of following the birds when I open my eyes. I let my hair air-dry out of laziness and put it up in a bun.
Walking to the subway was nothing unusual; the same number of New York City weirdos wandering, but nothing terrible. The train wasn’t packed, so I put on my headphones and people-watched. It has always been one of my favorite morning activities. It was one of the first mornings where there actually wasn’t much to see. Everyone was minding their business on their phones or talking with their traveling companions. There were
a couple of obvious tourists who were quietly fighting about the safety of the subway as if it was really worth it for the ‘New York Experience,’ but that was more annoying than prime-time entertainment. I turned up the music and looked at the ground while waiting for my stop.
I arrived on campus, swiped my ID, and went up the elevator to the fourth floor. I exit awkwardly as I maneuver through three other people to get out of the door. My class was typical, I was talkative, as usual, but I never really know what I’m saying. I apparently make really well-thought-out and beneficial points, but I never remember exactly what I said. My teachers always stop me after class to tell me that they were grateful for my additions to the discussion. I always nod, and look to my friend to ask what exactly those points were. This class, in particular, was a studio, so we were going through our fall midterm critique. The prompt was to create a self-portrait of your thoughts. To see how your brain works and put it into a piece. When my teacher first explained it to us, my spine grew cold as I thought about what mine would look like. I thought it would scare people. No one should want to see a portrait of my thoughts.
But nevertheless, I did the assignment. I usually am a perfectionist, but you rarely strive for perfection when creating a piece as fake as mine. I tried to make it dark enough for the viewer to know I’m a ‘real artist’ but didn’t show the real thing. I painted a collage of sorts of twisted figures and scrambled line drawings of a brain. I couldn’t even look at it when it was done. I just put the cover sheet on and put it into my portfolio. The critique went fine, no one had anything specific to say about mine other than they liked it. One guy said it was “disastrously beautiful.” I rolled my eyes at the comment. Almost screaming inside, I thought, “How could none of you know this is fake? This piece is a fraud. I’m a fraud. It has nothing to do with me at all!” No one would know that, though. I’m an all-around edgy sunshine girl in class. It makes me happier to put on that persona, though. Sadness doesn’t equal likability, and I’d rather be likable than sad.
After the critique, our teacher handed us some previously graded pieces, and I headed home. It was pretty normal for me to wait outside of school for a while, smoking a cigarette with people after class. I cut that short today, though. I didn’t even smoke I just wanted to get home. That critique messed me up. I sped-walked and didn’t look up once. Straight ahead, holding back tears. Not that anyone would notice or care if I were crying.
When I arrived home, I threw down my bag, jacket, and the graded pieces on the ground beside the door. I sat at my desk and pulled out a rolling tray and grinder from the drawer. The tray is ridden with small specks of green and black from the one time I used it as an ashtray on accident and all the other times I forgot to wipe it off. I ground up the last bit of the weed I had bought and dumped it onto the tray. I pulled out my papers and filter tips. I rolled the joint quickly and dragged the tip of my tongue along the cylinder to secure it. I put it into a holder, grabbed a random lighter from my collection, and walked downstairs. As I open the outside door I can feel the cold air hit me like a wall. I should've put my jacket back on, I thought, but decided to go ahead with my plans anyway.
As I walked, I noticed the noise from the bar at the end of my block. Fuck. I’d forgotten it was Friday. The days seemed to blend together that way recently. Now, I had to walk past groups of drunk kids waiting in line to get in or on a smoke break. It’s a very small but popular bar. I’ve gotten to know the bouncer there as my walks frequently pass him. I’ve only been inside once, on my twenty-first birthday, where I got a free shot in an empty bar at 3 AM. I don’t think I’ll ever go inside again, at least not unless no one is there. I wave hello to the bouncers, who match with a reciprocal nod, and proceed. The noise is concealed by the music from my headphones, but an annoying run-in with exceedingly drunk finance bros at 10 PM was unavoidable. I cross the street, and the noise slowly starts to dissipate into the quiet Manhattan I like; not quite quiet at all, but it all blends together like a city symphony, and the infrequent annoying sounds have quieted to a whisper. I chose this neighborhood because of it. Besides the bar, my block is surprisingly quiet. In the center of the next street is an even quieter courtyard, I’m not sure who it belongs to, truly, but it belongs to me when I’m there. I sit down at my normal table overlooking the tall apartment building in the center, a theatre to the left, and a school building to the right. I pull out the joint and the bright red clipper from my jean pocket. The wind is starting to pick up, so I put the joint to my lips, pull it underneath my hoodie, and maneuver my hand underneath to light it. I sit there for a minute with my legs up on the adjacent chair slowly inhaling and exhaling. I look up at the field of cement I find myself in. There are a few trees put into cement circles and are placed so separate from one another that it doesn’t do anything to change the landscape.
Everything seems so artificial: the ground, the sides of the buildings, the windows. I try to stare at the trees to maybe remind me that nature exists, but I end up feeling so deeply sad for them. They should’ve been in the forest with the other trees, swaying in the wind and expanding their root systems to join in the collective of other trees, plants, and fungi. These trees don’t belong here. They’ve been subjected to such a sad life, and won’t know they can expand their roots past the cement. So very, very sad, I think. Through all of the thinking of the sad cemented trees, I let the flame go out. I spark the lighter and bring it to my lips.
Inhale, exhale.
I start to examine the individual windows and try to make out what the far-away people are doing.
Inhale, exhale.
I wonder what it is exactly that other people do.
Inhale, exhale.
The number of windows is so vast that hundreds of people do hundreds of things. Only thirty-two windows have their lights on, and twenty of those have blinds, so I decide to make up my own stories of a couple cooking dinner or people chatting, arguing, celebrating. I look down at my hand, and the joint is almost gone.
Inhale, exhale.
I put it out on the table and collected my things to walk back. I throw the roach into the bin and find myself outside the bar again. There’s almost no one in there now, which is strange for 11 o’clock on a Friday night. I look to the bouncer to signal a symbolic shrug of the shoulders, a “Why isn’t anyone inside?” type of shoulder shrug. He seems confused. “Are you going in?” “No, no, just walking back, have a good night.” He nods, and I walk past and don’t think much of it.
I walk half a block up and see myself in the reflection of my building's glass door. I haven’t yet put my key inside. I’m just staring. My face looks different. I don’t know if I’m just different. I tend to only look at my body in the mirror and wear makeup during the day. I didn’t have anything on. My pale skin and black hair looked brighter to me. My cheekbones looked more defined, my nose perfectly straight. What the hell? I don’t look like this. I struggle there for a minute as I move my hands in various unpredictable ways trying to see if this was me at all. I finally open the door, “it’s fucking cold, I’ll look at myself inside,” I thought. I run up the stairs and fidget the lock open.
My bathroom is at the end of my apartment, and I trip over all of the various art materials I needed out for my midterms that were still scattered around the floor. I get to the mirror, and there it is. Me again, but it wasn’t really me at all. What the actual fuck was in that joint? My whole face was perfectly symmetrical; my lips were plump, and my face was perfectly defined. I immediately took off my clothes to see if anything had changed. I was already skinny, not tiny waist skinny, but skinny nonetheless. My body’s different. Everything has changed: my butt and breasts got bigger, my waist was smaller than ever. A scar on my thigh from childhood that I've always been self-concious about was just gone. I looked like a Sports-Illustrated model- a Playboy Bunny, a Victoria’s Secret Angel, a model in Vogue. I could be anyone. I stare at the mirror, slowly growing closer and closer towards it. It starts to shimmer as I approach it. I was enchanted by the glistening, and I had to touch it. I put my finger on the mirror ever so slightly. When the tip of my finger touched the glass, a ripple formed around it and circled out. I stumbled back. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Is this mirror liquid? How is this possible? I touched it again, this time going deeper. I wanted to see how far it went. As my hand goes inside the mirror, my feet start to feel lighter. I can’t touch the ground. I’m stuck. I’m up to my forearm in this mirror and stuck. It feels like a giant finger trap, but if I push in, I just get sucked in deeper. Do I want to look? Do I want to go? I’m starting to realize this isn’t the weed. This is real. How the fuck is this real? My only options are to stay like this forever or go through. I mean, what’s going for me now? I have school and friends, but not real ones. I don’t remember most of my days. I don’t feel anything anymore. I look around my apartment and see my journal on my desk beside the mirror. Nothing else seemed important to me then. So, I reach for the book and pen and push myself through the glass.
I can’t breathe—a thick silver liquid coats my entire body and down my throat. I’m drowning in a cocoon of mucusy silver. As I try to breathe in my breath gets caught throug the thin flexible shell. Just as I think I am going to die of suffocation, it stops. The thick coating drops to the ground as I collapse, and again, I can breathe. After taking loud strenuous breathes I bring my hands from the ground to my eyes to wipe off the residual goo, and once again, I can see. I continue wiping down my body as I start to look around me; it’s my apartment. Almost identical, the same chaotic mess as before with pens and brushes and charcoal smushed into the carpet, but now everything shimmers. It almost looks frozen, but it’s not particularly cold.
I keep looking around until I catch a glimpse out of my window. I immediately grab my keys and rush out the door to go downstairs, but there is no downstairs. My apartment was by itself in the middle of the not-particularly-cold glimmer. Outside the window are grass and trees at eye level. I couldn’t fathom it so I decided to explore. I bring my keys, despite not knowing if this place is still my home, nor if keys would be completely obsolete, and walk outside. There's what looks like a path maybe twenty or thirty feet left from my detached apartment, so I decide to follow it. Everything is so green. There are trees over fifty feet tall everywhere. Everything is dense and glimmers in the light. I can hear birds singing as their crystal voices turn into their own symphony, far different than the city’s. I look down at my baggy jeans and tight-fitted long-sleeve still coated in goo. It feels like I could shatter this world with my dullness.
I follow the path for about half an hour before seeing an opening. It’s not a part of the path but is the only other thing that looks man-made. I can’t make out much from the path other than seeing an unusually large patch of grass in this dense forest. I’m intrigued, so I step through the glistening trees and hide behind them as I look for other people. The sun is swimming between the trees creating a beautiful golden river in the sky. The longer I looked, the more abandoned this place felt. It gave me courage: thinking no one would come.
The opening is a large circular field with five doors, with a center table adorning the star the doors created. The doors all make large triangles on the back, insinuating that these lead underground, “but why five bunkers? Why here? What could someone possibly need with five bunkers all in the same place?” Without realizing I had let my solitude bring me to speak to myself. “Oh, but they’re yours, darling,” I hear from behind me. It’s a raspy, deep male voice, but I’m too stunned to turn around to see who he is. “You made them, don’t you remember?” My feet are planted, I can’t move. I hear his footsteps move closer and encompass me as he walks to face me. “How do you not remember? You made them!” My face winces, and I see him standing before me when I open my eyes. He’s handsome. Tall, tan, with beautiful teeth and fluffy brown hair. His face glimmers, but his eyes look like the clearest water you’ve ever seen. I go to speak, but he puts his fingers to my lips “One more thing,” I nod. “Win, why’d you come back here? You can’t even remember your creations. Why’d you come back?” He moves his fingers from my lips and starts to shake his head. “Oh, Winnie, why’d you have to come back?” My feet have now stuck themselves to the grass. My really name is Gwendolyn, but I went my Winnie until I switched schools my senior year of high school, where I thought a more ‘adulty’ nickname would be Gwen. I can’t remember the last time someone called me Winnie. I’ve never met this man in my life—his tailored dark sage green suit glimmers and matches the dark tops of the trees. I start to look down at my clothes again. The goo has disappeared, leaving me with a harsher dullness than before. I am clearly an alien here, so how does he know my name?
I open my mouth to speak, but only a sigh comes out. Not a relieving one, a short breathy uh sound. He looks at me with his crystal eyes, waiting for more syllables, but I don’t think I can make them. “Winnie, why are you here?” I start to look at him closer and see true concern in his eyes. I go to speak and succeed in bringing words to my lips, “Who are you? What is this place? How do you know who I am?” He sounds more frantic now, “Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, how could you not remember me?” He shrinks into the grass and starts to cry. How could I have made this beautiful man cry? I sit beside him in the grass and remove his hands from his face. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” I say faintly.
He looks up at me, and I can see his tear-stained, beautiful light blue eyes staring at me. I begin to wipe away his tears with my thumbs. He moves his head more fully into my hand, and I can feel the comfort it brings him. His cries turn into a soft whimper when I go to speak again, “What’s your name?” He gently raises his head from my hand to answer, “Bear. Well, Orson, I guess. You used to call me Bear.” “Because Orson means bear cub in Latin?” “Yeah.” He lets out a small chuckle, “I loved it when you did that. Told me where words came from.”
I put my hand back to his cheekbones and feel my hand mold to the side of his face. I rub my thumb along his cheeks. “Can I still call you Bear?” He nods. “Bear, when was the last time I was here?” He lifts his head from my hand again, “The days start to melt together now. I don’t know. A year, a couple of years, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m so happy you’re here, but what did I wait for if you can’t remember me?” “Bear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If I could choose to remember, I would. Can you tell me what we used to do here? Why I came here?” “I don’t know why you used to come here, but you would stay for a few days or weeks at a time. One time you stayed with me for three months. I was so happy then, Winnie. I loved when you stayed with me.” “What was the thing you enjoyed most about my visits?” He looks at me with a little grin. He giggles and answers, “We used to explore. Explore the wood. Explore the Egress. Explore…uh, well… each other.” I stop for a second before speaking. “Oh, I see.”
I was unsure how to respond, so I tried to ignore the comment in its entirety. I pause for a moment, “What’s the Egress?” “Well it’s…um…this.” He gestures back towards the star of doors and the centering table. I had forgotten until now that we were sitting in such a strange place. “Where do the doors lead to?” I ask. “To your worlds. Your dreams I think. I’ve seen you there more recently than here.” I get up and walk towards the nearest door. It’s a weathered cherry red with the number 610 plated in silver on the top. The 0 had fallen off and left a stain with the number’s impression on the wood. I reach my hand to the knob and slowly turn it to reveal a dark staircase. I look back at Bear, still sitting in the grass, “You coming?” He gets up slowly and walks towards me, “Win, are you sure you want me to come? You don’t know me anymore.” I put my hand back on his cheek. He’s about a head taller than me now, but he looks softer than he does before. I feel like I know him, which I guess is the right feeling to have since he thinks I do. I’m not sure what to believe in this not-particularly cold frost.
There is a pull-down light switch a few steps down. I quickly pull the string to have it collapse onto my shoulder. “I guess we're going in blind,” I say to Bear. He chuckles, “Winnie, you can’t ‘go in blind’ in your own home.” “Bear, I strongly disagree.” I begin walking down. The stairs looked so vast from the ground, but I had no idea just how deep. After a few steps, I heard a rumbling sound from the concrete steps. A break in the formation, I thought. My breathing increases, and my heart races. I try to run back up, but Bear stops me before I reach the step above him. “Win, it’s okay.” I’m skeptical but find comfort in his hand on my chest, and my heart reverts to its rhythm. The ground begins to shift; the stairs become steeper and steeper until we have gone completely upside down. I’m holding on to the cracks in the cement as I hear Bear say, “let go.”
It felt like a normal day. I woke up right before my alarm, which is typical but still nice. I moved my sheets over to reveal my bruised legs from the night before, and I walked over to the bathroom. I’ve developed a new system of brushing my teeth in the shower, not because I'm ever really short on time, but because I view it as more efficient. I have no idea if it is, but the idea of multitasking hygiene brings me joy for some reason. I turn the shower to cold and close my eyes as I breathe through the temperature change.
In four, hold seven, out eight.
In four, hold seven, out eight.
I do this over and over as the cold water changes the texture of my skin into a prickly, hard surface. I wait for a while until I can fully imagine myself out of my city apartment and standing underneath a waterfall in a cold but green place with dense vegetation. I can hear the water rushing on top of my head as it follows its gravitational path down into the rocks surrounding me. I’m on the verge of following the birds when I open my eyes. I let my hair air-dry out of laziness and put it up in a bun.
Walking to the subway was nothing unusual; the same number of New York City weirdos wandering, but nothing terrible. The train wasn’t packed, so I put on my headphones and people-watched. It has always been one of my favorite morning activities. It was one of the first mornings where there actually wasn’t much to see. Everyone was minding their business on their phones or talking with their traveling companions. There were
a couple of obvious tourists who were quietly fighting about the safety of the subway as if it was really worth it for the ‘New York Experience,’ but that was more annoying than prime-time entertainment. I turned up the music and looked at the ground while waiting for my stop.
I arrived on campus, swiped my ID, and went up the elevator to the fourth floor. I exit awkwardly as I maneuver through three other people to get out of the door. My class was typical, I was talkative, as usual, but I never really know what I’m saying. I apparently make really well-thought-out and beneficial points, but I never remember exactly what I said. My teachers always stop me after class to tell me that they were grateful for my additions to the discussion. I always nod, and look to my friend to ask what exactly those points were. This class, in particular, was a studio, so we were going through our fall midterm critique. The prompt was to create a self-portrait of your thoughts. To see how your brain works and put it into a piece. When my teacher first explained it to us, my spine grew cold as I thought about what mine would look like. I thought it would scare people. No one should want to see a portrait of my thoughts.
But nevertheless, I did the assignment. I usually am a perfectionist, but you rarely strive for perfection when creating a piece as fake as mine. I tried to make it dark enough for the viewer to know I’m a ‘real artist’ but didn’t show the real thing. I painted a collage of sorts of twisted figures and scrambled line drawings of a brain. I couldn’t even look at it when it was done. I just put the cover sheet on and put it into my portfolio. The critique went fine, no one had anything specific to say about mine other than they liked it. One guy said it was “disastrously beautiful.” I rolled my eyes at the comment. Almost screaming inside, I thought, “How could none of you know this is fake? This piece is a fraud. I’m a fraud. It has nothing to do with me at all!” No one would know that, though. I’m an all-around edgy sunshine girl in class. It makes me happier to put on that persona, though. Sadness doesn’t equal likability, and I’d rather be likable than sad.
After the critique, our teacher handed us some previously graded pieces, and I headed home. It was pretty normal for me to wait outside of school for a while, smoking a cigarette with people after class. I cut that short today, though. I didn’t even smoke I just wanted to get home. That critique messed me up. I sped-walked and didn’t look up once. Straight ahead, holding back tears. Not that anyone would notice or care if I were crying.
When I arrived home, I threw down my bag, jacket, and the graded pieces on the ground beside the door. I sat at my desk and pulled out a rolling tray and grinder from the drawer. The tray is ridden with small specks of green and black from the one time I used it as an ashtray on accident and all the other times I forgot to wipe it off. I ground up the last bit of the weed I had bought and dumped it onto the tray. I pulled out my papers and filter tips. I rolled the joint quickly and dragged the tip of my tongue along the cylinder to secure it. I put it into a holder, grabbed a random lighter from my collection, and walked downstairs. As I open the outside door I can feel the cold air hit me like a wall. I should've put my jacket back on, I thought, but decided to go ahead with my plans anyway.
As I walked, I noticed the noise from the bar at the end of my block. Fuck. I’d forgotten it was Friday. The days seemed to blend together that way recently. Now, I had to walk past groups of drunk kids waiting in line to get in or on a smoke break. It’s a very small but popular bar. I’ve gotten to know the bouncer there as my walks frequently pass him. I’ve only been inside once, on my twenty-first birthday, where I got a free shot in an empty bar at 3 AM. I don’t think I’ll ever go inside again, at least not unless no one is there. I wave hello to the bouncers, who match with a reciprocal nod, and proceed. The noise is concealed by the music from my headphones, but an annoying run-in with exceedingly drunk finance bros at 10 PM was unavoidable. I cross the street, and the noise slowly starts to dissipate into the quiet Manhattan I like; not quite quiet at all, but it all blends together like a city symphony, and the infrequent annoying sounds have quieted to a whisper. I chose this neighborhood because of it. Besides the bar, my block is surprisingly quiet. In the center of the next street is an even quieter courtyard, I’m not sure who it belongs to, truly, but it belongs to me when I’m there. I sit down at my normal table overlooking the tall apartment building in the center, a theatre to the left, and a school building to the right. I pull out the joint and the bright red clipper from my jean pocket. The wind is starting to pick up, so I put the joint to my lips, pull it underneath my hoodie, and maneuver my hand underneath to light it. I sit there for a minute with my legs up on the adjacent chair slowly inhaling and exhaling. I look up at the field of cement I find myself in. There are a few trees put into cement circles and are placed so separate from one another that it doesn’t do anything to change the landscape.
Everything seems so artificial: the ground, the sides of the buildings, the windows. I try to stare at the trees to maybe remind me that nature exists, but I end up feeling so deeply sad for them. They should’ve been in the forest with the other trees, swaying in the wind and expanding their root systems to join in the collective of other trees, plants, and fungi. These trees don’t belong here. They’ve been subjected to such a sad life, and won’t know they can expand their roots past the cement. So very, very sad, I think. Through all of the thinking of the sad cemented trees, I let the flame go out. I spark the lighter and bring it to my lips.
Inhale, exhale.
I start to examine the individual windows and try to make out what the far-away people are doing.
Inhale, exhale.
I wonder what it is exactly that other people do.
Inhale, exhale.
The number of windows is so vast that hundreds of people do hundreds of things. Only thirty-two windows have their lights on, and twenty of those have blinds, so I decide to make up my own stories of a couple cooking dinner or people chatting, arguing, celebrating. I look down at my hand, and the joint is almost gone.
Inhale, exhale.
I put it out on the table and collected my things to walk back. I throw the roach into the bin and find myself outside the bar again. There’s almost no one in there now, which is strange for 11 o’clock on a Friday night. I look to the bouncer to signal a symbolic shrug of the shoulders, a “Why isn’t anyone inside?” type of shoulder shrug. He seems confused. “Are you going in?” “No, no, just walking back, have a good night.” He nods, and I walk past and don’t think much of it.
I walk half a block up and see myself in the reflection of my building's glass door. I haven’t yet put my key inside. I’m just staring. My face looks different. I don’t know if I’m just different. I tend to only look at my body in the mirror and wear makeup during the day. I didn’t have anything on. My pale skin and black hair looked brighter to me. My cheekbones looked more defined, my nose perfectly straight. What the hell? I don’t look like this. I struggle there for a minute as I move my hands in various unpredictable ways trying to see if this was me at all. I finally open the door, “it’s fucking cold, I’ll look at myself inside,” I thought. I run up the stairs and fidget the lock open.
My bathroom is at the end of my apartment, and I trip over all of the various art materials I needed out for my midterms that were still scattered around the floor. I get to the mirror, and there it is. Me again, but it wasn’t really me at all. What the actual fuck was in that joint? My whole face was perfectly symmetrical; my lips were plump, and my face was perfectly defined. I immediately took off my clothes to see if anything had changed. I was already skinny, not tiny waist skinny, but skinny nonetheless. My body’s different. Everything has changed: my butt and breasts got bigger, my waist was smaller than ever. A scar on my thigh from childhood that I've always been self-concious about was just gone. I looked like a Sports-Illustrated model- a Playboy Bunny, a Victoria’s Secret Angel, a model in Vogue. I could be anyone. I stare at the mirror, slowly growing closer and closer towards it. It starts to shimmer as I approach it. I was enchanted by the glistening, and I had to touch it. I put my finger on the mirror ever so slightly. When the tip of my finger touched the glass, a ripple formed around it and circled out. I stumbled back. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Is this mirror liquid? How is this possible? I touched it again, this time going deeper. I wanted to see how far it went. As my hand goes inside the mirror, my feet start to feel lighter. I can’t touch the ground. I’m stuck. I’m up to my forearm in this mirror and stuck. It feels like a giant finger trap, but if I push in, I just get sucked in deeper. Do I want to look? Do I want to go? I’m starting to realize this isn’t the weed. This is real. How the fuck is this real? My only options are to stay like this forever or go through. I mean, what’s going for me now? I have school and friends, but not real ones. I don’t remember most of my days. I don’t feel anything anymore. I look around my apartment and see my journal on my desk beside the mirror. Nothing else seemed important to me then. So, I reach for the book and pen and push myself through the glass.
I can’t breathe—a thick silver liquid coats my entire body and down my throat. I’m drowning in a cocoon of mucusy silver. As I try to breathe in my breath gets caught throug the thin flexible shell. Just as I think I am going to die of suffocation, it stops. The thick coating drops to the ground as I collapse, and again, I can breathe. After taking loud strenuous breathes I bring my hands from the ground to my eyes to wipe off the residual goo, and once again, I can see. I continue wiping down my body as I start to look around me; it’s my apartment. Almost identical, the same chaotic mess as before with pens and brushes and charcoal smushed into the carpet, but now everything shimmers. It almost looks frozen, but it’s not particularly cold.
I keep looking around until I catch a glimpse out of my window. I immediately grab my keys and rush out the door to go downstairs, but there is no downstairs. My apartment was by itself in the middle of the not-particularly-cold glimmer. Outside the window are grass and trees at eye level. I couldn’t fathom it so I decided to explore. I bring my keys, despite not knowing if this place is still my home, nor if keys would be completely obsolete, and walk outside. There's what looks like a path maybe twenty or thirty feet left from my detached apartment, so I decide to follow it. Everything is so green. There are trees over fifty feet tall everywhere. Everything is dense and glimmers in the light. I can hear birds singing as their crystal voices turn into their own symphony, far different than the city’s. I look down at my baggy jeans and tight-fitted long-sleeve still coated in goo. It feels like I could shatter this world with my dullness.
I follow the path for about half an hour before seeing an opening. It’s not a part of the path but is the only other thing that looks man-made. I can’t make out much from the path other than seeing an unusually large patch of grass in this dense forest. I’m intrigued, so I step through the glistening trees and hide behind them as I look for other people. The sun is swimming between the trees creating a beautiful golden river in the sky. The longer I looked, the more abandoned this place felt. It gave me courage: thinking no one would come.
The opening is a large circular field with five doors, with a center table adorning the star the doors created. The doors all make large triangles on the back, insinuating that these lead underground, “but why five bunkers? Why here? What could someone possibly need with five bunkers all in the same place?” Without realizing I had let my solitude bring me to speak to myself. “Oh, but they’re yours, darling,” I hear from behind me. It’s a raspy, deep male voice, but I’m too stunned to turn around to see who he is. “You made them, don’t you remember?” My feet are planted, I can’t move. I hear his footsteps move closer and encompass me as he walks to face me. “How do you not remember? You made them!” My face winces, and I see him standing before me when I open my eyes. He’s handsome. Tall, tan, with beautiful teeth and fluffy brown hair. His face glimmers, but his eyes look like the clearest water you’ve ever seen. I go to speak, but he puts his fingers to my lips “One more thing,” I nod. “Win, why’d you come back here? You can’t even remember your creations. Why’d you come back?” He moves his fingers from my lips and starts to shake his head. “Oh, Winnie, why’d you have to come back?” My feet have now stuck themselves to the grass. My really name is Gwendolyn, but I went my Winnie until I switched schools my senior year of high school, where I thought a more ‘adulty’ nickname would be Gwen. I can’t remember the last time someone called me Winnie. I’ve never met this man in my life—his tailored dark sage green suit glimmers and matches the dark tops of the trees. I start to look down at my clothes again. The goo has disappeared, leaving me with a harsher dullness than before. I am clearly an alien here, so how does he know my name?
I open my mouth to speak, but only a sigh comes out. Not a relieving one, a short breathy uh sound. He looks at me with his crystal eyes, waiting for more syllables, but I don’t think I can make them. “Winnie, why are you here?” I start to look at him closer and see true concern in his eyes. I go to speak and succeed in bringing words to my lips, “Who are you? What is this place? How do you know who I am?” He sounds more frantic now, “Winnie, Winnie, Winnie, how could you not remember me?” He shrinks into the grass and starts to cry. How could I have made this beautiful man cry? I sit beside him in the grass and remove his hands from his face. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” I say faintly.
He looks up at me, and I can see his tear-stained, beautiful light blue eyes staring at me. I begin to wipe away his tears with my thumbs. He moves his head more fully into my hand, and I can feel the comfort it brings him. His cries turn into a soft whimper when I go to speak again, “What’s your name?” He gently raises his head from my hand to answer, “Bear. Well, Orson, I guess. You used to call me Bear.” “Because Orson means bear cub in Latin?” “Yeah.” He lets out a small chuckle, “I loved it when you did that. Told me where words came from.”
I put my hand back to his cheekbones and feel my hand mold to the side of his face. I rub my thumb along his cheeks. “Can I still call you Bear?” He nods. “Bear, when was the last time I was here?” He lifts his head from my hand again, “The days start to melt together now. I don’t know. A year, a couple of years, I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m so happy you’re here, but what did I wait for if you can’t remember me?” “Bear, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. If I could choose to remember, I would. Can you tell me what we used to do here? Why I came here?” “I don’t know why you used to come here, but you would stay for a few days or weeks at a time. One time you stayed with me for three months. I was so happy then, Winnie. I loved when you stayed with me.” “What was the thing you enjoyed most about my visits?” He looks at me with a little grin. He giggles and answers, “We used to explore. Explore the wood. Explore the Egress. Explore…uh, well… each other.” I stop for a second before speaking. “Oh, I see.”
I was unsure how to respond, so I tried to ignore the comment in its entirety. I pause for a moment, “What’s the Egress?” “Well it’s…um…this.” He gestures back towards the star of doors and the centering table. I had forgotten until now that we were sitting in such a strange place. “Where do the doors lead to?” I ask. “To your worlds. Your dreams I think. I’ve seen you there more recently than here.” I get up and walk towards the nearest door. It’s a weathered cherry red with the number 610 plated in silver on the top. The 0 had fallen off and left a stain with the number’s impression on the wood. I reach my hand to the knob and slowly turn it to reveal a dark staircase. I look back at Bear, still sitting in the grass, “You coming?” He gets up slowly and walks towards me, “Win, are you sure you want me to come? You don’t know me anymore.” I put my hand back on his cheek. He’s about a head taller than me now, but he looks softer than he does before. I feel like I know him, which I guess is the right feeling to have since he thinks I do. I’m not sure what to believe in this not-particularly cold frost.
There is a pull-down light switch a few steps down. I quickly pull the string to have it collapse onto my shoulder. “I guess we're going in blind,” I say to Bear. He chuckles, “Winnie, you can’t ‘go in blind’ in your own home.” “Bear, I strongly disagree.” I begin walking down. The stairs looked so vast from the ground, but I had no idea just how deep. After a few steps, I heard a rumbling sound from the concrete steps. A break in the formation, I thought. My breathing increases, and my heart races. I try to run back up, but Bear stops me before I reach the step above him. “Win, it’s okay.” I’m skeptical but find comfort in his hand on my chest, and my heart reverts to its rhythm. The ground begins to shift; the stairs become steeper and steeper until we have gone completely upside down. I’m holding on to the cracks in the cement as I hear Bear say, “let go.”