Before begin reading this, there is something I must tell you. No, stop, wait. I have to tell you this, before you choose to read onwards.
This is your last chance to turn back.
Stop reading. Skip over this story. Never come back. For this is your last chance to leave and live a happy, normal life in the relative safety of your world.
No, please, you must stop. If you continue, you will know things that they don't want you to know. And they will find you. You can run, and you can hide, but they will always catch up to you. No matter what you do.
So turn back. For your own sake, turn back.
Okay, then. Have it your way. But be forewarned, what waits for you is not a life of adventure. No. That is somewhere else. Not here.
Alright, fine. You've made you're choice. Nothing I can do to stop you.
Good luck, my friend. You'll need it.
Dreams. What are they, exactly? Figments of imagination? Divine prophecies from heaven? Messages from otherworldly beings? Nobody knows for sure.
The New Oxford American Dictionary defines the word 'dream' as 'series of thoughts, images and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep.'
Well, it's a little more than that actually, but I won't give any spoilers.
All we know is that dreaming occurs during REM sleep, and you experience 90-120 minutes of REM sleep every night. Dreaming also seems to take a lot longer than actual time in the real world. My speculation is that without real-life distractions to hinder your brain's progress, it can work much faster, simulating an entire new world in the blink of an eye. We stay in that world for about 19 minutes for every 1 real minute.
So technically speaking, 10 minutes of REM could lead to three hours of dreaming.
An hour of REM could lead to 19 hours of dream.
The full capacity of REM could lead to about, let's say...
38 hours.
- 38 Hours -
I open my eyes to darkness. Darkness blacker than night, enveloping blackness closing in on me, trapping me beneath blankets of shadow. Panic erupts within me, and I scream. I try to raise my arms and protect myself from the overwhelming darkness, but they are restrained, at my sides. My heart accelerates as sickening fear spreads through me like a virus. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I gasp, taking in a lungful of air. Sweat runs down my forehead, as I force myself to calm down and think logically. The darkness was just darkness. It couldn't harm me, it couldn't trap me. It was just the dark. My racing heart begins to slow, as feelings of claustrophobia begin to recede.
Opening my eyes once more, I took a few deep breaths. Feelings of fear were replaced by feelings of tranquility. I cleared my head and began to analyze the situation.
I was standing upright, with my back against some sort of containment device. My arms, legs and waist were restrained by metal bands. I was wearing something on my head; it seemed to be buzzing with electricity. I assumed it was some kind of restraining helmet, to prevent me from moving my head around. The air was silent, save the beating of my heart. I was wearing loose clothing made of some material I did not quite recognize. It felt like silk, but sturdier, less likely to rip.
I rack my brain for memories. It felt as if someone had ripped chunks of it from my head, leaving blank, empty spaces. Who was I? How did I get here? What was I doing before this happened? No answers came to me.
I began to realize how stuffy it was in the compartment. I inhaled, but no air seemed to be able to enter my lungs. I supposed that whatever respiratory mechanisms this compartment must've had were broken, wires long dead. It could also be that the compartment had minimal respiration, just enough to maintain healthy oxygen levels of a sleeping patient.
I paused. Where had that information come from? The answer was obvious. My memories were bound to be coming back to me, especially since I was only subject of temporary memory loss. That kind of amnesia usually suggested a traumatizing or shocking event that had occurred recently in one's life, maybe big change that had occurred without warning.
I attempted to shift my body into a more comfortable position, but the metal band around my waist prevented me from doing so. I strained against it, but it seemed that all my efforts combined could not move it at all. I gave up and fell back, surprisingly exhausted from the minimal task.
The air began to feel thick and stuffy. I called out, hoping that someone might come by to release me. I called louder and louder, and eventually resorted to screaming. My cries were left unanswered. My voice began to feel hoarse, and I stopped.
I tried to think of a way to escape this place. I could keep calling for someone, but by what my previous efforts had yielded, that would probably be of little help. I couldn't move my body at all, restrained by the seemingly unbreakable cuffs. My muscles began to ache, from so long of keeping my body upright on whatever I was lying back on.
The air was noticeably thicker than before; I was having trouble breathing. It seemed that no matter how deep of a breath I took, no air came to me. I gasped, unable to draw breath. It occurred to me that I was going to die, a meaningless death in this tiny compartment. I would never even know who I was, or how I got here. I would never know if there was anyone out there, waiting for me in the outside world.
I began to feel dizzy, my brain deprived of oxygen. Something deep inside of me screamed at me to stay awake, that if I fell asleep I would never see the world again. I fought the drowsiness, but it seemed like fighting the restraints all over again. With the last of my breath, I gasped out the words that were bound to be my last.
"Help… Someone… please…"
- 38 Hours -
0:26
Somewhere in a deep underground complex, a man with a briefcase strode tersely along hallways with walls of stone, illuminated by redstone lamps. The man looked to be about in his late thirties, streaks of gray upon his jet-black hair. He wore a black suit and a matching black tie.
The man was nervous, but his expression was completely neutral, as if he had his emotions removed from him surgically. He walked like a man who knew what was in store for him, and just wanted to get it over with. His hand clutching the briefcase tightened.
Inside, the man was a turmoil of raging emotions. Fear, apprehension, excitement, acceptance, all mingled into one large ball inside of him.
It was much the same with all the other men who had gone to meet with the Professor.
The man had never actually seen the Professor in person before. The few people who had met with the Professor all said the same thing about him. He was definitely not a man to cross lightly.
The man arrived at an intersection. He turned left automatically, almost robotically. Before him stood a plain wooden door, made of a dark brown wood. He swallowed, ran his hand through his hair. The man knocked three times, paused, then knocked once more. He waited for a response.
A voice from within ushered him to come in. The man with the briefcase entered and closed the door behind him, locking it. He then turned around and surveyed the room.
The walls were made of luxurious jungle wood. Jungle wood was extremely rare and expensive in the modern era, due to mass deforestation. Thick woolen carpet lined the floor, a considerably different feel than the hard cold stone outside. A single lamp hung from the middle of the ceiling, illuminating the entire room.
The only pieces of furniture decorating the room were two exquisite chairs fashioned from jungle wood, and an antique coffee table of the same material. A closet sat in the corner, its door closed. A bald man in a suit awaited him in one of the chairs. The Professor, it had to be. There was no greeting, no exchange of words between the two. The man walked over and sat down in the chair. He eyed the Professor nervously, and opened his briefcase. He withdrew several sheets of paper and began to read them aloud.
"Golden Apple Inc. would like to bring up an ethical issue that has been brought up to us about the usage of the redstone that has been bought by your, ahem, organization. Several parties demand that we withdraw from the contract, that your uses for our products are not suitable for-"
"So they think I'm crazy?" The Professor's voice had a commanding quality to it, despite coming from a smaller man. The man gulped. It was rumored that the Professor was a very straightforward man, but he did not expect him to be so blunt.
"No sir, what we're trying to say is-" the man began, but the Professor silenced him with a raised hand.
"Tell me, do you even understand what we are trying to accomplish here?" The Professor asked. "We are searching for the answers. The answers to questions that nobody else has ever dared to seek out. With these answers, we could fix all the problems the world has. Starvation, pain and warfare would no longer be a problem. Can't you see? The lives of these people are a small price to pay for the greater good."
"Those questions were never answered for a reason, Professor." The man sounded braver than he was. "Our pain is what defines us as humans. I'm afraid I cannot let you take it away."
The Professor laughed. "And just what can you do to stop me? You are a single man, I have an entire organization at my back."
The man took a breath. "I will be informing my superiors that your terms are unacceptable, and that we will be withdrawing from the contract."
The Professor frowned. "I was under the assumption that this contract had already been signed, my friend." He spoke slowly, his voice dripping with venom. The Professor stood up from his chair. He paused, as if for effect. "Your superiors cannot hear the words of a dead man."
"Well, um, sir, I really must get going, I have some work to get to," the man spoke hurriedly, getting up from his seat. "I have another appointment at-"
The Professor reached into his suit and pulled out a handgun. He loaded it and pointed it at the man.
"Well, sir, I really don't see the need for that." The man was terrified now, backing away to the door. Papers from his open suitcase began to spill out, scattering on the soft carpet. "I can always bring back a message to my superiors-"
The bullet hit straight on, punching a hole into the man's forehead. He toppled over like a ragdoll, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The Professor stood up from his own chair and walked over to the man.
He was sprawled at an odd angle, like a broken puppet that had been thrown away and abandoned by its owner. And that's exactly what he was, really. The Professor smiled.
"Ronald," he called. "Take him away and clean up the mess. Gather the papers and burn them."
A big, burly man dressed in the same clothing walked out from behind the closet and scooped up the dead man's body. He looked at the big, ugly bloodstain on the carpet and sighed.
Dumping the corpse on a chair, he retrieved a cloth from his pocket and began to scrub away the evidence.
So that was the first chapter, everybody. We have so many unanswered questions left over. But what do you think? Does this story have potiental? Should I keep working on it?
By the way, I made a relatively big edit to the second part of this chapter, you might want to check it out.
Reviews are greatly appreciated.