Falling Awake

It feels as though I’m falling, almost. The unnerving absence of sensation makes it difficult to tell. Somehow, the explosive bombardment of wind and noise that should accompany a fall is missing. The atmosphere is gone; it has no voice to scream its protests, and no tendrils to grasp at me to slow my descent. Descent through what, exactly? I see only darkness, interrupted by bright flashes of light, like flying white bullets that pass me in long streaks and escape into black nothingness, as if they never existed. I notice a rising anxiety, creeping like hot mercury throughout every panicked atom of my mind. The lights and my proverbial mercury are the only two things I am aware of. The sound of my own breath would be deafening, if I were able to hear it at all, but the windless expanse around me has stolen every inkling of understanding or perception. I imagine myself shouting, flailing, doing anything, but these thoughts fall out of me and disappear. There isn’t anything physical for them to connect to; it’s like my consciousness has been completely severed from my body. 

Wait. That thought stokes a flame in me, lighting up some familiar memory. Severed from my body… It’s a shockingly familiar thought and yet I don’t know why. I try to follow the lights shooting upwards around me, but my focus can’t latch onto them. The memory continues to evade me. The feeling is like waking up from a dream, knowing you had a dream, even being able to picture it, but there’s no way you’d ever be able to describe it. Or when you can’t think of the exact word you want to say. It feels like I’m trapped. Has every facet of mine failed? I cannot move, or think, or die, and yet I remain fully aware of my helplessness.

The anxiety begins to replace itself with frustration when the falling and the streaking lights stop. There is no impact. I exhale fully and suck in a long breath through my face–wait. Face? Nose. That word feels right, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m distracted from my faltering memory by the relief that I am breathing again. And I can sense my own weight, sunk into the depression of something soft and draped over with something warm. The streaks of light are replaced with a stationary sheet of darkness, pockmarked with fuzzy sparks, popping indistinctly. It’s not vast like the darkness before–there’s something claustrophobic about it, not comforting. My eyes are closed. The thought comes as if it doesn’t belong to me. Again, the phrase itself means nothing, but it feels like I’ve been saying it my whole life.

My eyes are closed. I open them.

After seeing light in only sparks and flashes, suddenly being hit with a wall of it feels like an attack. And it hurts! My face–no, my eyes–sting like they are being pierced. I close and open them several times until slowly the stinging ebbs and the wall of light begins to take shape. It reveals that I’m in a small room, my soft platform raised in the middle of it. The walls are something like the color of skin surrounding an infected wound, and covered in dust. Yellow. I guess that’s what they named that color. I hate it. Looking to the edges of my vision, there is an ominous and darkly-colored prism in one corner, and what I’m guessing is two doors on the other side of the room. A large black rectangle is suspended weightlessly on the wall before me. At least I recognize that color. 

The jaundiced room is lit by a square hole cut out of the middle of one wall. The hole is obscured by horizontal slats, directing the incoming light into slices and pooling it on the floor in front of me. Window. Sunlight. My mind gradually informs me of the words as I observe my new surroundings. I try again to imagine myself moving, and this time the thoughts actually seem to connect to something. It’s sluggish, though, like my synapses are trying to fire through glue. Is this always what it’s like waking up on this planet?

Soon, this body begins to tingle, and I feel movement in limbs with names that I don’t know. Something of mine far away moves and my mind says, Toe. I flex that appendage. Ankle. Foot, it says. I’m gaining more control now. I stretch and curl my fingers, tugging on the material covering my body. Turning my head, I stare at a small white box, inches away from my face. Three symbols jeer at me in the color of a dying star. Red. I don’t know what they mean, but they have some significance to this foreign mind. 

I turn over to the other side of this platform, which I’ve now learned is called a bed. There is something else there. It is breathing, like I am. A collection of dark, thread-like wisps drape across its face, which is almost like the color of rust. Some of the wisps seem to float aimlessly, like they have a mind of their own. It is turned towards me, both arms tucked below its chin. It looks peaceful, eyes closed, lips parted slightly. I wonder if I look like that.

Isabel. Ah. What is that, a species? A name? Don’t hurt her. 

What? 

That was strange. The thought doesn’t match with the other information that this mind has been giving me. Unlike the other thoughts, I actually know those words–but I still don’t understand what the phrase is supposed to mean. Don’t hurt her? The thing on the bed? I can’t imagine why it would be coming to me now. It could mean something different here, like a classification or some form of direction, or maybe…

Was this mind trying to communicate with me?

I stop. It’s sudden, like a slap, but in a moment, I start to remember things. Things that don’t just belong to this body; things that belong to me. The real me. I remember that I am something else. I was sent here, and I’ve been here before. This body is just a vessel for me, and I am its consciousness. Whatever was there before is gone now. 

 It’s almost funny, in a sad and pitiful kind of way. Still, I have to keep myself from laughing. Don’t hurt her. Huh. That thought had belonged to something else; the last plea of a dying mind, losing its agency. It’s gone now. But, I should be thankful. It has been rather helpful so far. 

I stand up, happy to discover that this body is bipedal, and walk past the ominous dark thing that is now called a wardrobe and the black rectangle that is now a T.V. to go into the bathroom. After looking at Isabel, I am eager to see what I look like myself. That, and I’m afraid of waking her. Speaking in another body can be dangerous at first, I recall. I’ll need some practice first. Although this mind has been willfully giving me information so far, I’d rather not put it to the test just yet, in case it should falter.

The bathroom is differently colored than the offensive yellow of the bedroom; the walls remain blank, roughly the color of ash. A mirror spans the upper half of a whole wall, which catches my attention. It’s shocking–I look into the face of a stranger that perfectly follows my movements, and have to remind myself that it’s me. And surprisingly, the next thing that I notice is my apparel.

I want to cry out. What am I wearing? The appearance is almost painful. The garment covering my legs is long, brushing the cold floor past my ankles. All over it, it has designs of a small creature that looks somewhat like a bug, with large, black eyes and an oval-shaped head. Long, pointed ears extend outwards in both directions. Star Wars pajamas, I’m informed.

The top half is even worse. The article is covered in a myriad of colors, all spiraling together. More yellow, like liquid excrement, mixes with the color of bruises, blood, and vomit. It makes me sick to look at. Tie-dye. Disgusting.

Whoever this person was, they certainly wore strange clothes. Not that it matters. I walk part way out of the bathroom and look at Isabel, who shifts slightly on the bed. Still not awake, fortunately. It feels good to be back in a body, relearning how to move again. I’ll need to do my best to blend in, of course, but this mind should be willing to help with that. In a couple of days, no one will ever notice a difference in this body who sleeps in Star Wars and tie-dye.

Still staring at Isabel, I begin to smile.

Don’t hurt her. 

Don’t worry. I won’t.