Pandemonium: Chapter Three

'I' & Eyes

By: Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)


I'm writing in what must be the early hours of the morning, though time here is confused, for there are no timepieces, digital or otherwise, and I have yet to see the light of day. Two days have passed, and those two days are the only memories that I possess.

In this windswept ruined house, where I sit, surrounded by sleeping forms, I, nameless as the rest, search for answers, but answers refuse to come.

The only thing that I know for sure, is that I think, therefore I am. My mind exists, and because it does, so do I.

I don’t know who I am, but today when I gazed into a cracked mirror in this ruined house, I could at least see the exterior face that holds this relentlessly questioning mind.

That face was neither young, nor elderly, but the exact age was impossible to tell. Am I in my thirties, forties, or perhaps even early fifties?

I do not know.

I have a mop of thick, black unruly hair, and my deep blue/grey weary eyes peer out of a pale, gaunt bearded face. My beard is dense and sprinkled with dashes of distinguished grey, strands of wisdom in a still youthful face. My nose bends slightly to the right, like it has been broken, and inexpertly reformed, and my jaw-line is strong, the jaw-line of a fighter, a man who can take a punch.

I like my face. It is a strong determined face, the face of a fighter, confirmed by the thick bull-neck that is attached to the body of an athlete, a man of action, not words. My arms are heavily muscled, scarred, but not tattooed, and my shoulders are broad and strong. I do not know who I was in my previous life, but I know that I was a physical man, a man with a body that speaks of strength and determination.

With my mind on my physical form, I think back to yesterday, when fear evaporated, something clicked, and my body exploded into action, with a speed that surprised me, and I begin to speculate on my previous life.

I look at my clothing for further clues, and see that I am wearing loose khaki trousers (dark blue) a red T-shirt (sporty?) a blue sweater (no-logo) and a black zip up jacket that has a high neck to protect me from the cold. I check my pockets, but there’s nothing, no wallet, photographs or any other clues as to my life before.

The clothes are practical, informal and loose, and do not hinder my physical movements at all. Was this a deliberate choice that I made before? My missing shoes could have perhaps given me another clue, but at the moment I have to make do with some old white tennis shoes that I was lucky to find in this derelict old building. My feet still hurt, but they are tough and callused, and the damage was merely superficial. My body is tough, and used to physical discomfort. Is that another clue to my identity in a previous life?

I clench my fists, feel my biceps contract, and continue to speculate about that life, and what I did on a daily basis. I think about the status that I did or did not enjoy, my work, my family, my hobbies, my personality itself, and then spin-back and marvel at the contradictions in my mind.

How is it possible for me to theorise and speculate about work, family, and hobbies, when I should have no idea about what any of these concepts mean? How can I write? Was I writer? How do I know of family? How do I know of a career? It doesn't make sense that I can speculate on anything at all, but confusion and contradiction is the norm here, and in that delirium is there somehow a deeper meaning?

I do not know, but in the not knowing, is there a key? Something has to make sense. There has to be answers here, there simply has to be answers.

In searching for those answers I have attempted to engage in various conversations with the people here, but they do not last for very long. They appear lost in their own minds, and talk in single sentences, with closed statements of safety and suspicion. The impression is of isolated individuals living in their own personal vortex, tormented by secret problems, thinking only of themselves, running, hiding, but deliberately shutting themselves off from their fellow travellers.

I suspect that the confusion and isolation that dominates can only exist because in this world of isolation and silence, nothing is being recorded and so therefore nothing can be known. If nobody talks, and nobody writes, what is there to ever know? There is humanity here. I am certain of that, as I benefited from it myself on the first day that I awoke here. I was warned, and helped, and if one person here cared, surely there are others that feel the same way?

The question, of course, is why don’t they? Why do people seem so shut off from each other? Why do I sit here (this morning?) having endured a day of limited human interaction, even though I am surrounded by people who suffer just as greatly as myself?

My working theory, at the moment, is that the people here are stuck in an endless cycle of run, hide, repeat, and lessons are not learnt, as nothing is communicated, and nothing is written down. The people care only about themselves because they think only of themselves. Empathy is lacking, as the people do not see themselves as people at all.

Everybody is I, rather than we. Does that make sense? It sounds like a strange thing to write down, but there is truth there, even though the truth seems very odd indeed.

I will record my experiences in this journal, and in doing so hope to break the cycle of I, rather than we. These words are not for me, but for those that come after, those yet to experience the same feelings of confusion that I have felt, and continue to feel today.

‘I’ must become ‘We.’

This journal then is for tomorrow, and the intent is to break the isolated cycle of today.

Reclining upon the same damp mattress where I composed the previous chapter of this journal, tiredness begins to assail me, but before I surrender to it’s pull, I feel duty bound to record my first experience of sleep in this strange realm of isolated confusion.

Why write about sleep? Because in sleep there are dreams, and the dream that I want to record was too strange to ignore. On the first night, when I woke with such a fright, my only concern was for bodily protection. Did I dream? I do not know, but if I did, it was lost in the terror of the night. On the second night, however, I dreamt, and that dream is still fresh in my mind.

Here are the fragments that remain.

I see light blue eyes of liquid purity, flowing auburn hair, and a countenance that beams with the optimism of spring. The beautiful girl smiles at me, kindly, not because I have said or done anything to deserve this blissful reward, but simply because I am there.

A jolt of happiness shoots through me, and I don’t know what to say, but I feel perfectly okay, and I understand that silence is not isolation here, as there is a bond beyond verbal communication, a bond that ties everyone together, in the shared warmth of human contact.

Shivering in the cold of my nightmarish waking world, the warmth of the dream makes me wince in comparison, and all I want is to return to that infinitely better place.

Thinking hard on the details, trembling in the darkness of this derelict house, I start to recall a feeling of weightlessness. I am walking in the dream, but when my feet touch the ground it’s like there is no ground at all.

Perhaps it is the pain still emanating from my bruised and bleeding feet, but the memory of painlessly walking on weightless ground makes me long even more to fall back into the realm of dreams.

Why do I have to be here, in this dark place of loneliness and fear, where it is cold and scary and dangerous, where people are huddled together, but there is no connection, and no warmth? This is not where I want to be. Why am I here? Why do I have to be here?

Oh, to dream again, and walk on weightless ground, that’s where I long to be. I want warmth. I miss the warmth.

Longing overcomes me, and I feel, for a moment, reconnecting to that realm, as sleep again tempts me away.

Warm, so warm, walking, with no destination, for the destination is already here. Independent, but not apart, feeling overwhelmed with bliss, unconditionally belonging to a fraternity of humanity, no more I, just we, and a connectivity that can only be described, as love.

The dream pops, and I awake again, reclined, sore feet, with pencil in hand, staring at the words on this thick notepad, sentences scrawled out, confusion overwhelming me again, and my eyes begin to well with tears.

I miss the dream. I want to live there, in the dream, forever. This reality is too cold, too harsh, too painful, too lonely, and far too horribly real.

I’m weeping as I write these words down.

I want the dream. I want the dream. I want the dream.

A cruel wind howls through the cracks in the broken panes of glass, whipping through the room, obliterating the dream entirely, and reminding me of this harsh isolating reality that I cannot escape from.

It’s ominously quiet here, everyone sleeps, and I count their sleeping forms, jealously wishing that sleep will once again take me away.

Thirty souls I count, sleeping amongst towels blankets, rugs, bags and coats. Some snore, occasionally a cough breaks out amidst the silence, but overall the impression is of blissful escape, like each and every sleeping form is attempting to connect with the warmth of the dream that I myself had experienced.

Is this the case? I do not know, though I hope that it is, for these people, quiet as they are, isolated from each other as they are, share one common experience, and that experience is to exist in a world that none of them want to be a part of.

I don’t want to be here, and they don’t want to be here either. In sharing that one fact, I guess we have something in common after all?

As my feeling of empathy grows, and I start to identify more and more with the isolated people around me, a flicker of movement warns me of a danger lurking outside.

There is something stirring in the window.

Eyes.

I can see eyes, yellow eyes of cold predatory hunger.

Do they know that I have seen them?

I watch, silently, as they multiply, two, three, four sets of eyes now.

Danger!

No more time.

I have to do something.

Now!