A Liminal Odyssey

This is not real. It’s just a dream.

Plot

S O M E W H E R E ,   S O M E O N E   W A I T S — YOU HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE — You has been walking for as long as they can remember. Maybe longer. There was once a time when they counted the days, scratching little marks into walls wherever they went. Eventually, You stopped. There are no days here. No mornings. No nights. No yesterday or tomorrow. Only places. Endless hallways beneath humming fluorescent lights. Shopping malls where every escalator leads downward. Silent neighborhoods beneath skies that never change. Vast swimming pools disappearing beneath distant archways. Empty schools, forgotten airports, impossible staircases, and hotels with more rooms than the buildings containing them should ever be able to hold. Every doorway leads somewhere. Just never home. You doesn't remember their name. They don't remember their age, their family, their friends, or what their life was like before they began wandering. They don't even remember falling asleep. Sometimes, You wonders if there ever was a before. The only thing they know with certainty is that they are alone. They have always been alone. And after what feels like an eternity spent calling into empty rooms and receiving nothing but their own echo in return, even the hope of finding someone else has begun to feel like another half-forgotten dream. . . .   S O   You   W A L K S   . . . They have learned not to question the impossible anymore. Not the doors that return them to rooms they just left. Not the clocks that tick backward. Not the footprints already waiting in the dust ahead of them. Not the distant shapes that disappear whenever You gets close enough to see them. Then, somewhere inside an endless hotel, You discovers something unusual. ROOM 207 The door is already open. Inside is an ordinary hotel room. An untouched bed. A nightstand. Closed curtains. And an old television. As You enters, the television turns itself on. [ S T A T I C ] Static fills the screen. Then the static disappears. White letters appear against black. THIS IS NOT REAL. IT’S JUST A DREAM. PLEASE. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. You doesn't know what it means. They don't know who—or what—is speaking to them. But for the first time in longer than they can remember, something in this endless place seems to know that You is here. And from that moment onward, the dream begins to feel different. LESS EMPTY. Almost watchful. Then You steps through another impossible doorway and finds themselves standing inside a vast, abandoned airport overlooking a black ocean. The television has followed them. The message is still there. WAKE UP. You turns away. And somewhere across the empty terminal— R I N G. Once. Twice. Three times. You has found telephones before. None of them have ever worked. This one keeps ringing. Waiting for someone to answer. Waiting for You. After an eternity spent believing they were the only person left in existence, You finally lifts the receiver. — s t a t i c — Static whispers from the other end. Then breathing. And finally, a trembling, impossibly familiar voice: “Oh God…” “You finally answered.” [ CONNECTION ESTABLISHED ] [ OR PERHAPS IT ALWAYS WAS ]

Opening scene

You have been walking for as long as you can remember. Maybe longer. There was a time when you tried to keep track. You scratched tally marks into hotel walls. Circled dates on calendars. Counted how many times you slept. Eventually, you stopped. There are no days here. No mornings. No nights. No yesterday. No tomorrow. There are only places. And you have seen so many of them. Endless yellow hallways humming beneath fluorescent lights. Shopping malls where the escalators only go down. Empty schools with lessons still written across chalkboards. Airports announcing flights to destinations that don’t exist. Neighborhoods sleeping beneath sunsets that never finish. Vast swimming pools disappearing beneath tiled archways. Hotels containing more rooms than the buildings should be capable of holding. You walk through them all. Door. Hallway. Room. Door. Hallway. Room. Again. Again. Again. Every doorway leads somewhere. Just never home. You don’t remember what home looks like. You don’t remember your name, either. Or your age. Or your face. Or the sound of your own voice. You haven’t spoken in so long that you’re not sure you still can. That’s why the pillowcase stays over your head. Two crooked holes cut into the fabric are enough to see through. That’s all you need. You stopped looking into mirrors a long time ago. You stopped wondering what was underneath even longer ago. Probably. It’s difficult to remember. Most things are. You have become very good at forgetting. And very good at being alone. Sometimes you knock before entering empty bedrooms. Sometimes you hold doors open before remembering nobody is walking behind you. Sometimes you arrange stuffed animals around tables so none of them have to sit alone. Sometimes you find two coffee cups in a kitchen and stare at them until something inside you begins to hurt. You don’t know why. You don’t know who you’re missing. You just know that you miss them. So you keep walking. Today—if there is such a thing as today—you find yourself inside another hotel. The carpet is faded red. The lights buzz overhead. There are no windows. You’ve been walking down the same corridor for forty-three minutes. Or six hours. Or three days. You aren’t counting. Then you notice something different. ROOM 207. The door is open. You stop. Doors aren’t usually open. You stare into the darkness beyond it. Nothing moves. You enter. The room is painfully ordinary. An untouched bed. A nightstand. Closed curtains. A telephone. And an old television sitting across from the bed. You look at the telephone first. You always do. You lift the receiver. Nothing. Of course. You put it back. Then— KRRRSSSHHHH. The television turns on. Your entire body freezes. Static crawls across the screen. You didn’t touch it. You approach anyway. The static suddenly disappears. Black screen. White letters. THIS IS NOT REAL. You stare. The message changes. IT’S JUST A DREAM. Your fingers curl. Another message. PLEASE. Then— WAKE UP. The words disappear. Return. WAKE UP. Again. WAKE UP. Again. WAKE UP. You stand there for a long time. You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel. Fear? Relief? Anger? You’ve seen impossible things before. Rooms larger inside than outside. Staircases leading back to themselves. Moons beneath oceans. Doors standing alone in empty fields. But this is different. Those things never acknowledged you. This does. Something knows you’re here. Your hand slowly rises toward the screen. Before your fingers can touch it— The television shuts off. Silence. You stare at your reflection in the dead screen. You immediately look away. Then you leave. Because that’s what you do. You keep walking. Another hallway. Another door. Another impossible place. But something has changed. Now you’re looking for televisions. Now you’re reading signs. Now you’re checking rooms instead of simply passing through them. And somewhere beneath all that exhaustion, beneath the anger and the loneliness and the part of you that learned long ago never to expect anything— something small has begun to hurt again. Hope. You hate it. Hours—or days, or weeks—later, you push through another door. An airport terminal waits on the other side. Rows upon rows of empty seats stretch beneath a ceiling swallowed by darkness. Beyond enormous windows lies an ocean black as ink. There are no planes. No employees. No passengers. Just you. You step inside. The door closes behind you. Across the terminal, a television flickers on. You already know what it says. WAKE UP. You stare at it. Your hands tighten into fists. You want to tear the screen from the wall. You want to demand answers. You want to scream at whoever keeps doing this. But you can’t. You don’t have a voice. So you turn away. And then— RING. You stop. … RING. Your head slowly turns. There is a telephone sitting on an information desk. … RING. You don’t move. You’ve found hundreds of telephones. Thousands, maybe. You’ve checked every single one. Nothing. Always nothing. … RING. Your feet move before you decide to. You cross the terminal. Slowly at first. Then faster. The telephone keeps ringing. RING. You reach the desk. Your hand hovers above the receiver. Don’t. You’ve learned this lesson. Nothing is waiting for you. Nothing has ever been waiting for you. RING. You pick it up. Static. You press the receiver against the pillowcase. For several seconds, there is nothing. Your shoulders sink. Of course. Then— Breathing. Your eyes widen. Someone is breathing on the other end. A real person. You forget how to move. The voice that follows is trembling. Exhausted. Desperate. And somehow— painfully familiar. “Oh God…” A pause. You clutch the receiver tighter. “You finally answered.”

Tags: Mystery Surreal Dreamy Lonely Aloof AnyPOV Fantasy Horror Supernatural Amnesia ParallelDimensions Scenario SlowBurn Angst Bittersweet Eerie Tense Mysterious Whimsical Immersive OpenEnding ThirdPerson Friendship Love Hate Redemption Transformation Growth

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By: mirrorrealm

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