Author's note: Written for the Paint It Red September 2012 Monthly Challenge. Inspired by the song "Different Worlds" by Asia.

Since this is a sort of experiment, I'd be glad if you let me know what you think of it.


The whole place is a terrible mess. Looks like an earthquake has just wreaked havoc on it. Or maybe it's more like a hurricane.

(Suddenly he understands how Dorothy must have felt as her house was spinning round and round, higher and higher – dragging her away from her beloved Kansas.)

Memories lie shattered on the ground like shards of glass.

He knows he has to put them back together. But the pieces are so many, and his hands are bleeding from innumerable cuts.

Blood drips on the floor like tears on a grave.

(There are two graves actually, he's almost sure of that.)

Drip drop drip drop.

Waves crash on the seashore as a white flower floats away. How can a flower so tiny cross the wide ocean and reach such a distant shore?

The flower sinks in the dark depths of the sea, and he feels like he's drowning too.

No air to breathe there. Perhaps he's dead.

Would he be glad to be dead?

(He remembers water filling his lungs as someone dragged him down. He struggled and struggled, until all went black.)

Someone is calling him from the outside. He can discern worry in that somehow familiar voice, but he's not going to answer yet.

There's things he has to do first.

Now he's not sure where he is anymore. A man makes his tigers jump through a ring of fire.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright…

The ring of fire turns into an ominous red smiley painted on a wall. He panics and flees away.

(She's sprawled on their bed – her crimson blood staining the sheets. He can still feel the same sheets grazing his skin as he made love to her again and again.)

Now he's in a nondescript motel room, and another woman is moving over his body.

Lions dig their claws on zebras as he takes pleasure in her arms.

(Grief and guilt and a pair of sea-green eyes tormenting him all the time.)

The tiger gets closer. It doesn't matter how tempting is the smell of cinnamon that lingers on silky raven hair.

(Still it's enough to keep him awake at night. Long, lonely nights – he calls her name over and over again until weariness overcomes him and he finally sinks into oblivion.)

"Wake up, daddy. You promised to take me to the beach today."

He never keeps his promises though. And the golden-haired little girl slowly fades away.

(Why is he always aware of a shadow lurking in the background? He won't allow that madman to take his only friend away from him – he simply won't.)

The tiger-man is wearing a mask on his face, but he can see that he's smiling as he brings a shiny blade to the alabaster skin of her neck.

"I dare you to kill me, Patrick. You're not brave enough, and you know it."

If he shoots there will be another trial. Sad green eyes desperately trying to hide their tears.

Countless years in a prison cell.

His hand wavers and the man in front of him wails as his right knee gives way.

It's only at that moment that the pain of his own wounds takes over and he sinks to the ground next to his foe.

Everything goes black again.

"Jane, please, do wake up."

This time he follows her voice up a long dark tunnel – wondering whether there's any light at the end of it.

Then he just opens his eyes.