Intrigue

Published in Trillium, Volume 13

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Dim rainbows ripple across the cinderblock walls and splash together in kaleidoscope shapes. The air hums and moves with the world’s energy, ever living, inexhaustible. I look for my toes and see a blanket instead, brown like a kind forest in warmer autumn. It breathes with me, and I almost cannot bear to shed it. When I finally do slide my legs off the bed, the cement floor grabs my feet with cold tendrils that creep up my calves. I try to stand but am off-put by my own weight and fall on my knees. The walls shiver, then snap back into place.

I try standing again and am immediately distracted by the way the floor is swirling around like marbled paint. The concrete responds to my touch, so I drag it in zigzags like a slithering snake. It shines icy blue, then a soft lavender. I could watch it dance forever in an endless parade of colors and patterns. My snake gains sentience and slithers away of its own accord, disappearing behind the leg of a table. There are feet under the table. Human feet, in heels.

I look up to see the glowing face of an angel staring back at me. Her golden hair flows continuously in an imperceptible breeze. Her nose is soft, but her eyes are piercing, omniscient. When she speaks her voice vibrates through me.

“Are you doing okay?”

I can't find my tongue for a minute—I am lost upon her cheeks. There is a pink heat behind them that calls to me.

“I’m. I’m good. Yeah."

“What have you been doing since I last saw you?” The words jump from her lips in a song.

“I... can’t remember. We’ve met before?”

“I do check on you every few hours or so.”

“Well I’m sure I couldn’t forget you. You’re…” Wait. Should I be calling her beautiful? What’s our relationship? I live here, and she visits me a lot, apparently. It must not be a professional setting. No professional setting is as beautiful as this place. The walls don’t even need decoration— they shimmer and undulate in a perpetual light show.

“I’m what?” The angel is still looking at me.

“Huh?”

“You were saying something.”

“Oh.” Was I? “I must have gotten distracted." How could I focus in such a strange, lively place?

“That’s fine. Tell me, do you remember the last time you slept? Or do you remember ever waking up?” What an odd question.

“I guess not. I must sleep, though. I think... I was laying down before I saw you. Maybe I’d been sleeping.”

“I think it’s been a while since you’ve slept, and I really think you should try. Does that sound okay?”

“Okay.” I let her guide me back onto the bed.

Maybe I am tired, because as soon as I close my eyes, I am lost from the world. I fall into myself, into concentric layers of my silhouette, falling not down, just in. I am shrinking into imagination, which grows larger as I fall, until I reach eternity, and I search through eternity and find only myself, my own soul, alone with thoughts that must only be mine. The thoughts are threads, strings of words, weaving through one another and stretching away into distant vacancy. They spill from my mouth as I think them, white and fresh. The older ones are yellow and fraying, but there aren’t many of those, and they’re mostly too far to read. Some are red— the red ones say things like ‘get off of me,’ and ‘this is bad, I need to get out.’ They worry me, so I tell them to leave; I want all of it to leave. Obediently, it disappears, and I am alone in the dark again. Finally, I have a break from the constant stream of imagery and obnoxious color. I can just breathe until I’m ready to return to the world.

When I find my eyes again and recall how to open them, the rainbow walls are muddy, and the world’s inherent glamor is gone. I force myself upright and scan the room. A woman is watching me from a table not far from the bed, legs crossed, eyes unforgiving.

“How are you feeling?” Her voice is uninterested. Am I boring her?

“I… Where am I?”

“You’re in Lab 307, the same place you’ve been for the last 124 days.”

“One hundred…” A weight fills my body and attempts to drag me through the floor, fingertips first. My head is spinning and reeling, and I struggle to maintain my train of thought. "That long? What am I doing here?”

“You agreed to take part in Subproject 26, an experiment the Office of Scientific Intelligence is running. We have your signed consent.”

“Consent for what?”

“We can talk about that later. It’s been eighteen hours since you last ate, and we need to make sure you get something down.”

“I’m… not hungry.”

“I know, but you need to eat before we administer the next dose.”

“Next…” before I can think to ask the question, a man is in the room with us, holding a tray. He sets it down and is gone; there is a door somewhere, which I imagine he used.

The woman is at my side now. She pulls my arm around her neck and her warmth grows into me. We shuffle across the room and she sits me at the table. A mound of mashed potatoes and an unsettlingly thick drink are waiting for me there; neither look appetizing.

“That’s… disgusting."

“You need to eat.”

“But I—"

“I’m not asking and I’m not taking arguments. Eat.”

I look down at the tray again and cringe. I grab the spoon and scoop up a mouthful of potato. It's like mud on my tongue, and I can hardly convince my throat to accept it. I swallow, but I’m not sure I can do it again.

“Can I be done?”

The woman sighs and drums her glossy fingernails on the table. “If you finish the drink, you can be done.”

I look at the cup and grind my teeth. An aura floats about it that warns me to stay away, but I know I’m stuck here until I swallow it. Reluctantly, I grab it and pour the sludge down the back of my throat, trying not to taste the grit or the weakly masked chemical flavor. I finish, but a lot of the slime is still plastered to the sides of the cup, and there’s no way I’m licking the rest out.

“Okay. I’m done.”

“Alright.” The woman nods to someone behind me. I look— it’s the same man that brought the tray. This time he’s holding a small pipette with a glowing red orb around it that screams danger. The man steps towards me.

“Wait, what is that?”

“It’s your next dose, you need to take it for the experiment to continue.”

“Dose of what?” The room seems to get darker. The room is closing in around us.

“Your medication.” She urges the man forward again. I jump up, clumsily backing away from him.

“Medication for what? What’s in it?” I look at the woman and her eyes glow like a demon’s. Her visage gets closer to crimson with every second.

“Look, if you just—”

“No! He’s not getting anywhere near me until you start talking.” Her expression darkens, but after a minute she concedes.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s talk, then. You’re participating in Subproject 26, do you know what that means?” I shake my head. “It means we’re testing your memory.” Her voice approaches a coo. “We’re giving you a drug that affects your memory, it’s called lysergic acid diethylamide. It’s the reason you’re hallucinating.”

I feel a shadow coming up behind me, but before I can even twitch, an arm comes around my chest and yanks me backwards. The man has both of my arms trapped beneath his. The woman walks over and shoves my chin up with both hands, forcing my head back. I struggle and kick, but my efforts are fruitless. The man shoves the pipette between my lips and back against my clenched molars. He squeezes it, putting a beefy hand over my mouth when I try to spit. After a minute or so, he lets me go and I crumple to the floor, unable to catch my breath.

Everything’s spinning, everything’s dark, but I can feel them standing over me. “Don’t worry,” I hear the woman say, quiet as if she were far away, “it will only take… won’t remember… should go.” Her voice fades in and out. All of my senses are pulsing; I’m sure the drugs are already kicking back up. There’s a hum in the air getting louder and louder, until all of my bones are humming too. I roll onto my back, exhausted, becoming liquid. I am melting, the room is melting, everything melts away. Everything’s better. Everything’s good.