So it begins, Again

Our main character finds himself in a familiar setting with a lot on his mind. His old dreams are coming back to haunt him, and he can only think of one way to figure out why.

Those words were still there, those chilling words I wrote on the walls. I remember them clearly, making the cold concrete warehouse seem all too familiar. New York, cold as hell, and there I was, still there since Christmas, and the end of January had crept its ugly head in, and no progress, nothing. I think those words were starting to mock me.

 I couldn't stand it anymore, I couldn't bear to be in my own company. Sitting there mocking myself, while the half-finished blue prints on the desk stared back like a piece of unfinished art. "This is why I'm not making any progress! I can't think in here!" I sat there baffled at my ability to drive myself mad. "As If I had been in a state of sanity before all this started." I scoffed at my own words. "Sanity is overrated."

The plans had been in the making for a long time. The longer I looked at them the angrier I became. Why bother with plans at all? I never worried with them before. "Because, this time will be different!" I flung the papers off the desk in anger as I yelled, trying to catch my breath. "This time, will make all the difference."

The words echoed in my head as I stood there looking at the now bare desk. I could feel the laughter building inside me. I couldn't contain myself, it belted out of me in loud, painful bursts. "This time will be different!” I fell to my knees in joy and agony. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and it was then that I realized what I was doing. "No, I need to concentrate, work now, play later." I was talking to myself again, but that was okay, I enjoyed it. So it was back to my desk again to finish what I had started.

Several hours passed until the sound of raindrops pouring down on the roof caught my attention distracting me from my work. With tired eyes I shifted the papers aside and raised my head. Long locks of red fell against my shoulders as I stretched my neck, allowing it to crack.  It seemed the rain had broken my concentration. I tried in vain to build up the energy to continue working, but it seemed my streak of energy was over.

I was angry, no matter what I did I could no longer concentrate. I ended up drifting off, or moving to other tasks, occasionally looking down to find I had invaded my blue prints with drawings of him. He knew how to get to me, even in my seclusion.

The hands on the clock above me seemed to be moving too fast. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, it liked to do that. Once again I found myself losing interest, focusing my time on how well the clock did its job, instead of doing mine.

Forcing myself to concentrate was really taking its toll on me. Even through the hair which hung over my face, I was certain, the bags were visible. That night was the first time in a long time I found myself making use of the bed in the other room. The weeks of sleeping at my desk were finally catching up to me.

That night I had a dream. It was the first dream I had in a long time. I could see his face as clear as day. He smiled at me and I knew I smiled back. I gently kissed his lips and his eyes met mine. My beard tickled his cheek as we embraced and he chuckled.

Perhaps it was a memory rather than a dream. It had crossed my mind many times, each encounter with it seemed more vivid. It was times like that when I wished I could tell the difference. When I wished that my own body hadn’t turned on me so harshly. I had just been released from the asylum six months prior. Schizophrenia, bi polar disorder; before then, they were just words. It wasn’t until they started taking their toll on me did I realize the situation I was in.

Was the man in my dreams someone I once knew, or was he simply another figure of my imagination? In my dreams I heard him calling my name. He’d whisper to me, “I love you Marcus.”

I would always smile, sigh, and look into his eyes, then I would whisper “I love you too.” For the rest of the night I would dream of him. The further from my mind I tried to keep him, the closer he was able to get. Even once morning came and I returned to my desk my tired eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of him smiling at me from across the room.

There was never a name, I knew him only as the beautiful blonde man in my dreams. As much as he knew me, I knew nothing beyond the feel of his skin, and the look in his eyes as they met mine. When I was in the asylum they told me I spoke to him in my dreams. They’d ask me who he was, but I never could tell them. It’s impossible to tell a truth, that you, yourself are not even aware of.

That is where the blue prints were to come in. Two months in the making, and all for what? Simply put, “To find an answer.” I looked at them for the first time that morning and laughed to myself. “All this to find a man that may not even exist, you’re a fool.” I slammed my fist on the desk and sighed. “He does exist, I know he does,” but as always myself answered back, “What if you’re wrong?”

The plan was simple; I would draw up the blueprints of the Asylum as well as I could remember it, I would use every memory I had to make it as accurate as possible, when that was done it would be time to choose the point of entrance. From there I would use the blue prints to help me sneak inside, and make my way to the file room. From there I would locate my interviews, my recordings, every one from every doctor. I would gather everything they made me leave behind, and take what was rightfully mine. Maybe I left myself a clue, or maybe I was really as crazy as they said.

The issue stretched far beyond my issue with concentration. Sometimes I could not tell if my memories were truths I remembered about my past, or they were simply thoughts conjured up in my mess of a mind. How hard should it be to sketch the inner workings of a single building that I had called home for nearly two years?  Ever stroke of my pencil seemed to take me in the wrong direction. As hard as I tried I could never tell if I were drawing from memory or imagination.

My issues with memory were not the only thing delaying my actions. The security was tight, there were guards in every hall, locked doors around every corner, cameras in every nook and cranny. The blueprints were the only way I could see, the only way I could visualize what I was trying to do, and the easiest part of what I was trying to accomplish, was the only thing I couldn’t wrap my head around.

 “Why does it have to be this hard!” I screamed. I turned my head and looked at the words on the wall once again, there they were, there they had been for so many years, a constant memory of why I come back to this place. If ever there was a bigger reason to understand the man in my dreams, there it sat, a constant reminder of why I’m doing this. Maybe one day to hear those words outside of my dream, to know the one who speaks them so clearly when I sleep. “I love you Marcus.”

           

 

 

 

Author's Note

<3

Reviews

[GreenIvy]

Wow. This is really interesting. Personally, i really don't like to read but as soon as i started reading this, i couldn't stop. Your words of choice painted pictures in my head. Now i'm hooked. I'm really looking forward to the next chapter. Great write. Well done. :)

[Nikki Cobbler]

The hope is that I get the next chapter up this weekend. Thank you for the wonderful review.

[Dez H.]

I love this, it's so deep and the way you expressed your feelings in it was pure genius
I would love to read this as a book because i can see how deep it would be. i'm a fan already. good s**t ms lady.

[Nikki Cobbler]

Thank you so much, I'm glad you enjoyed it!