The Waking World
Kiera
ran down a corridor. Black walls. Light stole its way through the sliver of
space between the black ceiling and walls. Just enough to see a few paces
ahead. She ran faster without the sensation of velocity. A room opened up. Dark
with two white chairs. Stacked. She spun around the room. Black room. White
chairs. Black. White. Repeated. A doppler effect. Her clothing white. She
looked down. Her hands black. She lifted the top chair and sat down in the
dining car of a moving train.
It
was dark outside the train car window. Art-deco interior. Her face and hair reflected
the time. Her dark eyes stared into the void. No sound. Uphill, the gradient
increased. More and more the train screamed uphill. Silent scream. She
screamed. The roar of the engine broke the silence in a violent wave. She
closed her mouth. The train was silent again. All was silent. She screamed
again. The train joined her. Scream. Silence. Repeated. An echo in reverse.
Uphill. Uphill until the tracks looped back in on themselves.
Conductor
with spectacles of perfectly round lenses shouted, “Tickets!”
She
looked down at her white dress. Black hands. Pearls draped. She said, “I’ve
been here before,” her hands moved across the table of the dining car. She did
not command her muscles. Glass in hand. No movement. Should she draw the glass
to her lips? But could not. She willed herself. She took a sip. Nothing. Returned
the glass. Pick it up. Repeated. Slowly she stood. Walked. Forced each step.
Walked passed each window. Sun. Tree. Sun. Tree. Repeated. She reached the end
of the train car. Feet like stone. Door opened. Color. Trees. Sun. Grass. Roads.
She saw color! But she didn’t recognize it as color – green, yellow, and blue. Her
recollection was rudely interrupted. Her groomed black hair exploded into the
wind. Should she throw herself from the train? She could not make her muscles
move. She struggled. A small step. Her flight was stopped. She turned. The
conductor faced her. Together they walked back to her seat. She closed her mahogany
brown eyes. She lost control again.
On
Les Champs-Elysees, Keira sat quietly. The monochromatic world returned. She waited
quietly. Hundreds of people passed by. Cars, up and down the boulevard on a
late afternoon. Waiter provided her another glass of wine. A man with an
unfamiliar face sat down at the adjacent table and ordered a café latte. He
drank his beverage; his pale face altered in a slow progression. Eventually, he
looked exactly like her publisher, Jean-Marco. Curly hair. Bright sun set
behind him. Color emerged. Yellow, orange sun. He said the strangest thing,
“I’ve been here before.”
She
mimicked the last two words with him, “—here before,” in unison. Film noir
black-and-white world returned. He stood and walked away. Color faded to
black-and-white. His shadow didn’t follow but he remained to finish the drink.
Angle of the shadow caused the glass to appear two feet in height and the
publisher eighteen feet tall. She tried to stand. To walk. But her muscles
disobeyed. She tried. And tried. Slowly stood. Her stride immediately fired
like a rocket. She caught up to Jean-Marco. She couldn’t slow down. Walked
right through him. She stopped. He walked through her. He stopped. She walked
through him. Repeated. Until she turned into his shadow. He turned into her
shadow. Repeated.
Sun
set quickly. Darkness. City lights. Arch de Triumph replaced the moonless sky
in splendor. Brighter. Brighter. And brighter still. Shadows blurred. Suddenly
indoors.
Through
his dark eyes Jean-Marco looked at his hands, suddenly they were small like a
child’s hands. He sat with legs crossed. Family room flickered from an old
sci-fi on the black-and-white television. Aliens and space-ships. People ran.
People fought. It was late. He fell asleep. He saw the TV screen filled with
static. His heart was filled with fear. He stood in the middle of the room. He
placed his hand over the screen. The further he backed up the more his hand
covered the screen. He backed up all the way to the empty fireplace, “I’ve been
here before,” he muttered, but ignored. He sat in the fire place. Hand down.
The static replaced by an alien. Egg-shaped head. Black almond eyes. It stared
at him. It reached up. Its hand stretched beyond the top of the screen but
remained within the tube. Suddenly, through the chimney, he felt the alien’s
hand touch his shoulder. He leaped, screamed, and bolted out of the fireplace.
He dove for the power button on the TV. It went dead. He rushed to the light
switch on the wall and instantly woke up. He trembled. He wiped the sweat from
his face. He was an adult again. His breath slowly calmed.
Shortly,
Jean-Marco ran down a corridor. Walls black. Light stole its way through the
sliver of space between the black ceiling and walls. Just enough to see a few
paces ahead. He ran faster without the sensation of velocity. A room opened up.
Black with two white chairs. Stacked. He spun around the room. Black room.
White chairs. A doppler effect. Black. White. Repeated. His clothing black. He
looked down. His hands white. Gloves. He lifted the top chair and sat. Three
men in black grabbed the other chair. They quickly placed it on him. It pressed
down on his shoulders. He tried to push back. Room spun. Black. White. Black.
White. Repeated. In between the black and white he saw – in color – the lobby of
a bank. He didn’t understand color. Three men in black robbed the bank. Masks
dawned. They turned and glared at him and others in the lobby. Through the
masks. They glared at Keira. He hadn’t noticed her beforehand. Distracted. As
swift as a passing train, they were gone. He yelled. He flung his arms into the
air. And soon he was in his bed. Blankets on the floor. He immediately wrote
down what he saw. Pen down. He exclaimed, “I’ve – been – there – before,” –
curious; his hands rubbed his face.
Next
morning. Phone rang. Jean-Marco. Keira. Spoke. Respective, similar experiences
shared. Silent. Each hung up their receiver. Each stood in disbelief. Curious.
Wonder. They met at the café. Boulevard. Cars passed. Cobblestones rose and
fell like the lights of an equalizer. To the sounds around them. To their
voices. Trees whispered reminders. Like static they whispered. Reminders of
past experiences. Shared experiences. But neither were with the other.
“The
similarities are too coincidental,” Jean-Marco said.
“Especially
the black room,” she exclaimed in a raised whisper.
Silence. Starred
into cups. No answers.
“But what about
the déjà vu?” he asked.
“Déjà vu?” she replied.
“Yes! The feeling
of having already experienced the present situation.”
“I know what it
is. I was more curious about experiencing the same thing.”
“But – but—” he
evaluated, “they’re both interconnected!” he urged.
She stopped to
think, “Perhaps. You might be right. But – but so frequent too,” she stated.
More like a question. She blurted, “I was in that bank! Yesterday.”
“Weird,” he
replied, “but more than weird. What
do you think it means?”
“Well,
I don’t believe in metaphysics, but—”
“Why
not?” he interrupted.
She
flashed him an obstinate glare, “But,” the syllable elongated, “I’ve had this
experience once before,” she paused. Regained his completed attention, “My
sister. We—” a breath skipped, “—were twins. At least that’s what I was told. I
was too little to remember.”
Sympathy,
“You never told me.” His eyes widened.
“Does
it matter?” past emotion crept into her skull like stale frigid air from a
crypt.
“You
know I lost a brother,” he reminded her, “also, many years ago. I don’t
remember him, but I was told we looked alike.”
Keira
stared at him. A train on a circular track derailed in her mind, “No. No,” she
backed away from him.
He
clasped onto her arm. A firm grip. But not forceful. Concerned. His grip ended,
“We need answers.”
She
blurted, “I need to go!”
Jean-Marco
persisted, “But—”
“No!
I’m not ready for—" she reached out for the crosswalk button. Pressed it.
Repeatedly as if firing a gun.
“Tomorrow
maybe,” he said.
Walk
symbol illuminated. Keira stepped off the curb. A ninety degree difference in
direction awaited him. An illuminated hand indicated stop, but for reasons
unknown Jean-Marco mirrored her action away from her. A bus. Ten feet. Two feet
from a collision. Keira screamed. Her hand accelerated. She caught his arm.
Shoulder. The two fell backward. Pain came with the impact. Safety on the
sidewalk. A split second later and both would have been dead. The cars and
buses rose and fell like the lights of an equalizer. Heartbeats. Synchronized.
Breath.
Caught, “What in the world were you—?”
Jean-Marco,
“I – I don’t know.”
They
stopped. Stood. Looked around. Without warning, the sidewalk tilted a quarter from
level. Street remained; cobbles still in motion – up, down, repeated. The
incline was too great. They slid down the sidewalk. It started to rain. Further
they slid. The crowds on the sidewalk were unaffected, as were those in the
shops and cafés. Keira and Jean-Marco turned small. Further smaller. Slid into
the grate of a gutter. Slashed! Walls of grime. Grey and white neon lights.
Shaped, or painted on the walls. Keira saw her sister. Jean-Marco saw a little
boy. Walls moved and bulged with rats. Lights and shapes of a little girl, and
the little boy disappeared into the black and grime and rats. They fell.
Stopped by the plunge of a sewer pool. Returned to normal size. What is normal
size?
Like
a dream, soon they forgot. Soon they forgot once above ground. Above the swirls
of nightmare. The rain washed their memories. Rain hid their tears. Tears
became the rain. Keira softly spoke; they spoke simultaneously, “I’ve been here
before.”
“Wait!”
Keira exclaimed, “Was that my sister?”
The
same surprise, “Was that my brother?” the same tone. Jean-Marco added, “How?” a
full circle examination of the street, the sidewalk, “What is this?”
“We’ve
been here before,” Keira remarked.
Jean-Marco
nodded in disbelief but agreement, “But not exactly – here.”
“No,”
she thought for a moment, “It’s – different.”
They
looked around. Looked at each other. They stood for minutes but felt like
hours. Jean-Marco looked at his watch, “I have a deadline.”
“Of
course,” Keira said reluctantly, yet understood. The cobblestones settled. Silent.
After dinner, bed. Soon she sat in an empty field. Wall of
trees bordered. Dark forest. She was little. Played with another little girl.
Looked like her. A boy in a white shirt, same age played with them. He was also
with another boy. Looked like him. The other girl and the other boy played near
the edge of the field. Keira and the boy in a grey shirt looked up. The other
girl and boy were gone. A cloud. Dark and ominous, reached down. Rain. Heavy
rain. Field turned to mud. They slid down a muddy hill. Slid. And slid until
they stopped. A well, circular with stone stopped them. Tears blended with the
rain. Cries for the other two – unheard. Keira screamed. Cried out again,
“Jean-Marco!” Keira woke. Her heart pounded. On the edge, the foot of her bed.
Sweat dripped from all over her body. She grabbed the sheet and cried. Her
heart pumped out tears. Tears blended with sweat. Sweat blended with tears. She
wiped her eyes from the sting of salt. Darkness. Her eyes closed. She sat on
the edge of her bed. Desperate to remove the wound increased by the pain of
salt. The salt of memory.
Blur.
Blur replaced darkness. Slowly her vision returned. Her heart slowed. She sat
on the edge of a pier. Water below. A lake. Trees, a forest surrounded the
lake. A gigantic head, and another emerged from the water – shaped by water.
Shoulders. The figures stopped at a bust. A girl. A boy. The girl spoke, “You
can stop crying for us.”
The
boy smiled, “We are in a beautiful place.”
Slowly,
they returned to the lake. The lake drained. Empty. But the memory filled
Keira. A happy memory. Happy memories. Soon, they began to fade. She awoke in
her apartment in Paris. A flood of half-memory lifted her. No tears.
Dressed.
She walked to her study. Walls of her study changed one a time to the walls of
her favorite café. She preferred pen and paper. At a small round table she
wrote. Quickly she wrote her recent experience, “Wait!” she blurted – whispered
to herself, “I’ve been here before.” Not because of her frequency to the café.
Not because of the table in the corner window – she preferred. A specific
motion. A certain sequence. She couldn’t place it. She placed pen to paper and
wrote it down. She felt pulled. Compelled. Pulled toward the adjacent corner.
Her head turned. Jean-Marco stood at the glass door several windows down from
the corner window. But he didn’t enter. The windows displayed images. Sequences
of images. Her days at university. Lycée school. Family.
Suddenly, Jean-Marco entered the
café. Sat across from her. Silent at first, “A dream—I had a dream,” stunned
face. As if uncontrolled, the words came out of him, “You are my sister!”
“But how?” her eyes widened.
Unbelievable became more believable.
The table slowly spun. Like a
gentle carousel. The people around them transformed. Turned into various
animals. Motionless animals and absent of riders. Keira and Jean-Marco sat
where the adults normally reside – on a bench within the carousel. A mirror
reflected their faces, although they faced away from the mirror. Keira’s lips
within the mirror moved, “How?”
“’How?’ is a good question,” the
reflection of Jean-Marco replied – added, “I had the craziest dream last
night.”
Keira’s eyes reflected his as if to
mirror the same.
“I saw a little girl – two girls. I
didn’t recognize them, but I felt as I they were you. Well, not both of them.
Then I saw a little boy who liked me,” he saw Keira’s eyes nod again in kind.
“We were all in a field of
wildflowers.”
“Yes!”
Keira altered her expression
simultaneously with Jean-Marco’s, “They were taken. But they didn’t appear sad.”
“Jean-Marco added, “But I felt sad
about it. Then, they told me—”
“— to stop crying for them,” she
finished his sentence as he nodded in agreement. Keira asked, “Who were they?”
Jean-Marco and Keira’s reflections
disappeared. But they remained seated. Jean-Marco looked closely into Keira’s
eyes, “I don’t know,” he raised both eyebrows. Sighed, “We,” he pointed at
Keira and himself, “I do know we have the same dark eyes.”
Keira pondered at his inference.
Unlikely. She thought for a moment, “But we’re a different race.”
“It’s possible. I did some research
before I arrived. Fraternal twins,” he explained in further detail.
Stunned, Keira interjected after a
moment of thought. More thought, until she responded, “Makes sense; but—”
“It’s very rare.”
“Not that,” she smiled at him,” Us.
We connect. How?”
Jean-Marco reflected her smile and
curiosity. The mirror behind them melted. The slow spin of the carousel
stopped. At the same time they asked, “Should we try to prove it?” they
laughed. He continued, “It’s an easy test. And inexpensive these days. We can
have it done tomorrow,” he said as a matter-of-fact.
Keira thought a moment, “I wonder.
I wonder if it will drum up more questions; or worse, more answers?”
He shrugged with a blank face.
After a thought he replied, “What if we get the test? Then, go from there. At
least we’ll know,” he paused, “we’ll know for sure if we’re – brother and
sister!”
“Yes but – I am curious,”
she smirked in a contemplative way, “Alright. Let’s do it.”
“Agreed.”
They both stood to exit, “But what
about our dream recall? And we’re having similar dream!” Keira exclaimed
her question.
“Yes. It’s like this woman in
America I read about. She swore she was living another person’s life. Someone
in her dreams,” his tone lacked confidence in the story.
“But what if the other ‘person’s
life’ was reality? Is reality,” her volume raised and lowered, “And, this
is all a dream?”
“And the other is what? A waking
world?”
“Yes,” she said but in a way which
still required explanation.
Jean-Marco replied, “That’ll be
hard to prove.”
“Besides – well, sometimes I don’t
feel awake,” she laughed, “And the intense shared déjà vu?”
“We are from the same womb. Who
knows, maybe we—” he waved his arms around as is to include the entire world, “—were
meant to connect in more ways – at the original design.”
They both walked off the carousel.
Their next step took them back to the café. They stood on the threshold of the
entrance, “Good reason for coffee, hmm?” they both smiled.
A few mornings later. Keira was
frantic, “I need to see you! I – I see—” she swirled around with phone in hand,
“Dammit!” she slammed her toe in the corner of the wall.
“What?” Jean-Marco asked concerned.
“It’s nothing,” she ignored the
pain, “Get over here!”
“Take a breath,” Jean-Marco urged,
“I’ll be right over.”
Keira waited. As patient as a child
in need of a toilet. Finally he arrived, “Took you long enough”
Jean-Marco held both her shoulders,
“Tell me all about it.”
They sat. She stood back up. Paced
the room. Circled the coffee table, “There’s another one!” she saw in his eye
bewilderment. And added more, “Another me.”
“What do you mean?” he remained
calm.
She sat, “In my dreams. Not in my
dreams. But here!” she leaned forward.
“Okay. Okay,” Jean-Marco took a
breath. Urged Keira to take another, “Start from the beginning.”
She was beside herself. Afraid.
Herself beside was she, “I’ve been having dreams about this apartment, my
bedroom. I saw a world painted unlike this one. I don’t know what to call it. I
couldn’t control my arms, my legs. They moved on their own,” she stood and
walked to the entrance of the bedroom. Pointed inside, “I saw a bottle of
pills. I couldn’t read the label – not at first, “I – I walked to the bathroom
and looked into the mirror. But – but oh Jean-Marco!”
“Take your time,” he reassured her.
“I saw me. But I was looking at
myself from the mirror,” she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair
black hair.
“And the label?”
“Yes – yes. I wrote it down,” she
grabbed a scratch piece of paper from the mantle across the room and handed it
to him.
He read her note, “I’m not sure of
the spelling, but I think I’ve heard of it before,” he looked up at Keira, “it
enhances dream recall. Specifically, in the lucid state.”
“But what does it mean?” she
begged.
“Can you tell me more?”
“Yes. Yes, my TV was – she was
watching, I was watching the news; listening to it. The anchor was talking
about us,” she gasped.
“Us?”
“Well, not us. Not you and me. Her
and her brother – the other me. The anchor went on about their reunion after
more than thirty years,” she paused. Sat down. Grabbed Jean-Marco’s hands in
hers, “she said they finally had closure. Authorities had found the remains of
a little boy and girl. They were going to a memorial. All four were siblings –
quadruplets.”
Jean-Marco was engrossed to the
point of sorrow, “Parents?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Like ours. Like us,” he said the
words but in disbelief. Yet belief, “But how do they know?”
“A test. Like ours,” she shook his
hands. Up, down. Repeated. Silence. She finally blurted, “Jean-Marco! Could
there actually be – a ‘waking world’? And the other boy and girl—? How is this
possible?”
Jean-Marco looked intently into
Keira’s eyes, “I wish I knew.” He sat closer to her. He held her as a
comforting brother would. She squeezed him in return. Dark eyes cried.
Suddenly, they were on a train as it approached a stop. Together. They exited
the train but continued to cry. Together.
~
Together, their dark eyes cried as
they held each other in her apartment. They both shared the same mahogany brown
eyes. Keira’s expresso skin was in contrast to her brother’s white skin as they
embraced in mutual comfort. They both wore black in honor of their siblings.
After the long embrace, Keira reached out for a small white box and removed a
crimson red rose. She pinned it to Jean-Marco’s lapel, and gently delivered a
comforting hand to his chest and smiled. He returned the sentiment with a kiss
to her forehead. Both hands gently placed on either side of her head.
“It’s time,” Jean-Marco said, “Are
you ready?”
She nodded.
They stepped out under the blue sky
and walked along a short stone path bordered by green grass. Lights flashed
from cameras as film crews surrounded them with microphones and questions. None
they answered as they stepped into a limousine. The driver shut the door. The
crews’ reflection seen in the tinted windows.
Inside the car, Jean-Marco held his
sister’s hand, “What about the dreams?”
Keira looked up into the rearview
mirror. She acknowledged her reflection. She saw more than herself. She thought
of the words in her dreams, of her siblings who had been found. She imagined
the beauty which surrounded them and smiled. She turned to Jean-Marco, “I
believe I am a peace.”
Jean-Marco replied, “As am I.”
~
