Bookmark #41

I often see myself standing in a hallway that stretches infinitely, dimly lit from an array of those eerie halogen bulbs often found in science fiction movies. The hallway is grey all over. The ceiling is steel blue. The floor is a shade of grey. On the right and left of me are shelves, for as far as I can see. These shelves are filled with equally sized vials, corks on them, each with a label. Labels, oddly drawn in pencil, then some in the blue of the pen, then as the font becomes legible, it turns to typed text. I find myself running through the hallway, hoping it comes to an end, but I quickly realise it’s a circle I’m running through. I find myself facing the same label etched in the graphite. Illegible. The paper has turned yellow. Perhaps, it’s been a while. I close my eyes; I take a deep breath. The hallway is nowhere to be seen when I open them. I can’t see anything. All I see is a desk, a laptop on it, a blank screen. There’s a void between the light that ends at the feet of the desk and my own. I try to walk over it; I try. I fail. I close my eyes again, returning to the hallway. This time, I don’t read a label. I grab a vial, and I pop it open. The array of off-white halogens turns red, a sort of alarm is triggered. A state of emergency, perhaps, inside my own self. I gulp down whatever is in the vial. Instinct tells me this shall fix things. The taste is disappointing; the contents burn my throat as they start to unnerve my mind in the most myriad of ways. I close my eyes as I try to adjust to the sensation. I open my eyes again, I’m sitting at the desk. An off-white halogen light hanging over my head. Music plays faintly in the background. My hands are on the keyboard; I’m writing.

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