My memory is littered with Lilliputian anchors that uproot themselves

Like trees in a storm triggered landslide.

Walkers. A packet of foil wrapped potato chips. Crisps really, but chipped potatoes remind me of fake casino tokens, made from spuds but worth less than the soil they were buried in. But I would have to make them do, after all you did what you could with what you got right?

It was the beginning of my way out. By threatening nothing more than dropping the walkers to the floor or manipulating the window frames between night and day, some way of exiting the labyrinth began to tug at my uprooted and occluded mental state.

I had been offered a pillow, but I was too afraid of dying in the small cells to accept sleep that first night. I ended up throwing out my decision to deny the existence of live streaming in this world, so I had this as my comforter the first night. After all, the cell was engineered to have no areas of privacy, so it was ideal for a video feed with an unknown or known camera source. The distorting mirror offered extra visibility for those gifted with sight. But who really were my captors?

Food had to be brought in by my family while I was ill. Because the food left was for Walkers. Being a vegetarian left me no choice yet walking, as much as I’d prefer it was not an option.

The next service came with the blanket and M____. But that would not come yet. First were the cleaners, the grubby quick little eraser particles that flew like thoughts from the other side or from deeper within the complex. There were certainly wilder things in the deep.

The winch cable drops my conscious mind up towards level five of the hospital before the transfer, before the righting of gravity, when an excursion to the end of the ward was looked on as a triumph and the cleaners did the rails above the beds and even the clocks and whiteboards.

The time moved differently here. But the day night cycle still held terrible sounds and the creatures beyond in the rooms I could not reach certainly did try to work out if the plot to this reality would pass muster for the discerning readers. But we cannot stay here for long. The reel will snap or my bones will give out again.

I am recovering, retracing the frame. The walker will remember though. I would that it released at least a fraction of my contact with it, but I fear again that relying on it for more than physical support will only unlock everyone else’s terrors too.

So anyway I asked for it to be cleaned once I was let out of the cell during the day. I would like to know the difference neurologically between recollecting a distant memory and recalling a dream. For it is not a cell now, but  a room. The contract cleaners sprayed my frame with a tracer, scrubbing my underarms with a towel or rag that felt more like a scouring pad. Like smart water, so the tracer was, to be detected by the sensitive and the sighted.


The Blanket and M____.

She spoke to me and implored me to eat. But I knew I could not trust the manufacturing process of the food; dry, fried, or otherwise. I trusted her to spin me a tale but unfortunately for her, each time the fabric knotted, I sought out what seemed her weak points and unravelled it. I felt sad for her because she really tried. I guess I respected her gutsy ways, despite her fishy love. At least enough to trust speaking with her as an intermediary.

There was a way out. On wheels, frame would follow somehow. At least M____ believed it when I tasted her toasted bread with pumpkin seed spread. I would eat from her and the kitchen cooks. In return, she would not spin against me, she spun for me. Of course she was quicker, I was ill and slow. But the surface had water and fresh air and grass and fruit and more air. It circulated fresh sun and light rays penetrated the panes here.

The card game with the occupational therapist reminded me of the later medication guidelines. I lost that game, but there is a while yet to go with me before I fully surface as opposed to simple interfacing.


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