The Room

He opened the door.

As he surveyed the room, he had a sense that he had been here before. And yet, he had never seen anything like it.

The room was mostly white as if he were in a hospital or a mental institution. It was also sparse. In the far left corner from where he stood, there was a chair. As he approached the chair, he could hear the echos of his footsteps. The chair was a dark green, nearly black, the fabric worn and faded. The fabric was torn, predominantly along the arms of the chair, as if somebody had been sitting there scratching at it. It made him shudder.

He turned towards the window, to the left of the chair. He could have sworn there wasn't a window when he walked in. The white window frame against the white wall created a strange illusion as if blended together. His footsteps echoed as he got closer to the window. Outside was a park - green grass, billowing trees, a small lake, a wooden bench. The colors seemed paler than normal, washed out. He rubbed his eyes, but the view didn't change. If he couldn't see the depths and dimensions, he would have thought he was looking at a painting.

The door opened. A woman with a plain face entered the room, smiling. He had never seen her before, but she felt familiar. Her shoulder-length dark hair and business attire gave her an aura of authority. She carried a clipboard, holding it loosely. He could see there was nothing on the clipboard, not even a blank piece of paper to take notes. "Welcome," she said, her voice almost robotic. "Do you know where you are?"

He surveyed the room once more, the chair, the window, the door. He shook his head. "But I feel like I've been here before," he said. 

The woman chuckled. "You haven't. Please, take a seat." She gestured towards the chair. He eyed it and then turned back to look at her as if to ask about its disheveled state. She nodded at the chair again. He sat down. Though he did not know where he was or how he got here, his mind felt mostly empty. He knew he should be concerned, but he felt at ease.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions if that's alright," the woman told him. It was not a question, but he nodded anyway. She was now sitting on a stool. He did not know where the stool had come from. She hadn't brought it in with her and it hadn't been here when he entered the room. The woman placed her clipboard in her lap. She did not look at it. There was still nothing on it.

"How are you feeling?" she asked and tilted her head. Her voice still sounded robotic but her eyebrows furrowed and her smile slipped, showing concern.

"I feel good, a little lost," the man replied.

"That's normal," she told him. "Do you feel any pain?"

"Pain?" he asked and she nodded. He tried to get a sense of his body. He looked down at his limbs, his torso, trying to find any visible proof that he should be in pain. He looked fine. In fact, he looked better than fine. He seemed fitter, more toned, his skin clear of any imperfections. He could have sworn he had a freckle on his left hand normally, but it was not there. He must be thinking of somebody else's hand. "No pain."

"Good. What about sickness? Any nausea? Headaches?" she continued, looking down at the clipboard. She was now holding it towards her, so he could no longer see its blankness. Why was she looking at the blank clipboard, he wondered.

"No nausea," he stated. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, but he did not feel full or hungry. He certainly did not feel nauseous. His head, though? Something felt off about his head. It wasn't a headache. It felt heavy and light at the same time. He was suddenly having a hard time holding it centered. It seemed to want to topple over and float away all at once. "My head feels funny. Why does my head feel funny?" He was starting to get nervous. He still couldn't remember why he was here. 

"It's ok," she reassured him, looking up at him again. "What do you mean by funny?"

Why was she looking at him like that? She was smiling, but her eyes seemed empty. Her voice still sounded robotic. "It feels...." He was struggling to find the words. "I don't..." He started to feel his body tense. The lightness and heaviness in his head were making him dizzy. "What's wrong with me? Why am I here?" His breathing was starting to pick up. His heart was beating faster.

"How does your head feel?" the woman asked calmly. Her smile faded. She was looking back at the clipboard. He grabbed onto the arms of the chair. His nails started digging into the fabric. Who had made these scratches? His shoulders raised up. He was sinking down into the chair. Why did he feel like this? He looked behind the woman, eyeing the door he had entered. He needed to get out of here, but he felt too heavy to move.

The woman looked back up at him. "I need to know how your head feels." Her voice was stern. Her mouth was tense. Her eyes were still empty.

A thud hit the window. The woman turned her head quickly. The image outside still seemed blurry. The man was certain now that it was not real. The thud was his chance. He pushed off the chair and rushed towards the door. He could not run, only walk swiftly. His head felt too strange for him to do otherwise.

"Sir, wait!" The woman called after him. She did not move from her stool. "I just need to know how your head feels!"

He reached for the doorknob, taking one last look at the woman behind him before he turned the knob.

He opened the door.

As he surveyed the room, he had a sense that he had been here before. And yet, he had never seen anything like it.