by Brian Troyer

Created on: July 02, 2009

Headed Home

Step out of the breeze and the sunlight and into a different world, a lonely world. The air smells unnatural; smells sterile and filled with chemicals. The unpleasant stench burns your nose and your throat, but you are here for a reason, and you must continue pressing on. Strange garbles and murmurs too quiet to understand surround you. Voices whisper in hushed tones to one another, urgent tones that remind you of the sober nature of your task.

The light here is also unnatural. Far too white to be sunlight, it reflects off of the sterile, white floor and walls, making you squint. The fluorescents above your head buzz a solemn droning, filling the air around you with a steady hum. Your shoes squeak across the overly-clean floor as you walk, playing a steady rhythm. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Strangers in white robes glide past you without smiles. This dream world has no place for smiles; this nightmare land has power over happiness and joy. Here, laughter is forbidden and sadness is the universal language.

You jump at the sound of a moan near at hand as a decrepit man is wheeled past you on a cart. His moan embodies everything about this place: pain, gloom, hopelessness. Rarely do people leave this place unchanged, and its residents accept the fact that they will not leave awake.

You realize that you have stopped moving, so you continue on, shoes squeaking, heart barely beating. You pass pilgrims like yourself, here to visit, perhaps pray, and then leave. You pass citizens of this dark, well-lit world, people, but not quite. They no longer hold the joy of life in their eyes, only the hopelessness fed to them by this cruel place. You pass plants, but they, like the air of this world, are dead- simply plastic imitations of living things.

Turning down a passage, you pass gaping, square holes in the walls on either side of you. You know what these dark pits are. In these rooms, the falsity of the fluorescent lights gives way to the stark loneliness of those inside. You pass many of these rooms, groans and cries giving voice to the pain that hangs oppressively in the thick air. Maybe it is the smell of pain that burns your nose. You move on through this dark, well-lit world.

Finally, you reach the chamber you've come to see. You slowly enter, fearing what you might encounter inside. A lump tightens in your throat, making it even harder to breathe the thick air.

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>