The Windmills Of Your Mind

Author: RosaQuartz

Rated: M to be safe (mostly for possible language)

Warning: I'm not really sure where this is going to lead. It might get slash-y, it might get violent, it might get just plain confusing.

Disclaimer: Wouldn't I just love to make money on Inception? Well, since life's not fair, I don't. The only thing belonging to me is the way the words link together and most of these combinations have already been used by someone else before me. I have no choice but to acknowledge that.

A slightly more legal exploration of Robert Fischer's consciousness. The pieces will basically be scattered around the movie storyline.

1. Like the circles that you find

Thirty seconds ago there were two people in the room. Now, only one. Realizing a truth like that sends an empty jolt in your stomach, as if you all of a sudden found yourself standing on the edge of something too endless for you to endure. Or as if you were falling in a dream, just before waking up – there's a word for that, right? If there is, I've forgotten.

Suddenly alone, I feel almost relieved. Almost. It's surprisingly easy to know your father just died. To comprehend – that's the difficult part. It requires too much thinking, going too deep, trying to understand death. If there is a concept more fiendish to try and think through, I hope I'll never be introduced to it.

I've spent many fruitless hours of my life trying to wrap my sorry limited head around another death that happened years ago. I've rubbed my temples and thought of my mother like Albert Camus' L'étranger. Her presence in nothingness drills through my skull and into my brain – quite literally, since I'm prone to mind-shattering migraines. I've always connected these things. Too much thinking with too little knowing must lead to something.

I see myself standing there, looking at him, the thing that once – it already seems ages ago – was him. We look strange together, two shard-like creatures in a small room, more literally disconnected than ever, yet hardly anything has changed. I'm still talking, looking, trying hard. He's still so-close-so-far, not hearing, ignoring my desperate efforts to reach him. I feel like a man who has suddenly noticed he's spent years doing everything imaginable to impress a brick wall. Stupid as hell. A street-clown playing his best tricks to a cynic who walks on by holding onto his mobile phone as hard as he can. A stuffed animal in a souvenir shop, sitting on a stand, smiling its best and cutest for someone who would never ever waste his money on a fucking tacky toy dog.

A nurse comes in and looks at me as if I were to burst into tears any moment. I wonder if it's expected of me or if I just look like a fool about to cry. I say nothing. I don't want to stay here any longer. I know this is the moment I should start having my own private burial, finally giving him what he has deserved all these years – the same he has given me. Instead, I slip the abandoned picture off of its broken frame and put it into my wallet. The eleven-year-old boy in me is falling on his knees by the bed, barely smothering the violent sobs shaking his body. The man is walking towards the door, shoulders stiff and face perfectly composed. You couldn't tell it's the boy whose mind is inside the man's head now. The man doesn't think. If he did, he would realize what he is doing to himself.

The people come. I keep my composure, take the empathetic looks and condolences with short nods and half-broken smiles. Some faces turn a little downwards seeing my official coolness. It's not proper – I should at least be a tiny little bit shaken and bloodshed. Why bother, I almost want to ask them. Why should I lay on the ground scattering ashes in my hair when everybody knows the truth anyway? Besides, I'm practically doing myself a favor. They've begun to think Robert Fischer Jr. might be a heartless man after all. That's good for business.

I go to my hotel room, make the last call to my secretary and then just sit by the window looking at the benighted city of Sidney until three A.M, which is when I realize I should probably get some sleep before my early start. Sleeping is not high on my agenda, has never been, and in my dreams I'm usually prosecuted, chased and end up getting shot by someone whose face I can't see. I nearly call room service for coffee, but stop in time to remember I don't want to talk to anybody. So I kick off my shoes, loosen my tie and lay down on the bed for a moment, staring at the cream-colored ceiling. I imagine being someone else and telling myself "Well, you could always sleep through the flight, you know." Except I know I've never slept on a plane and don't plan to start tomorrow. Or, today.

There are so many things to be organized, attended and taken care of. Uncle Peter will probably deal with some of them. Most of them if I appear miserable enough. Is that what my father would do, whine like a child and let others do his job? Of course not. And I know I won't do it, I'm just entertaining myself with the idea because it's late and the world is a rather lonely place to be for a little boy. Why can't someone just take control, be in charge of everything and let me rest for a while?

Everything. It makes me remember something, a word or two, a vague scene in the past, like a dream or a memory so memorized it's not real anymore. Me lying on a bed a bit like this, a hand holding my wrist and a face close to mine. Face that I've forgotten; it has disappeared under layers of forgetting and trying to remember, so deep I couldn't dig it out anymore. But the words are still there, tattooed on the skin of my mind as a reminder of a time when I was held close and not pushed away. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything. We'll go together."

Wouldn't you just go anywhere if you were promised you wouldn't have to be there alone? Anywhere, scary places, dark places, desolate places, easily forgotten places? If someone was holding your hand and following you there? You would go.

I was once told to explore my own sub-conscience -

Maybe I fell asleep. It's very bright when I open my eyes, my cell phone is ringing and the world is quite ordinary today. I get up, shed my ever-so-slightly rumpled clothes and head for a long hot shower. The soap in the hotel room smells like a piece of furniture made of teak. I suppose that's unisex enough for all the possible soap-users but I only suppose that to keep my mind away from things. I wash and dry my hair, dress with unnecessary concentration and pack my briefcase. Every second the thought of my father being dead, non-existent, and put in a box becomes a bit stronger, a bit louder and a bit more disturbing until I find myself moving restlessly around, shaking my head and twisting my hands like a hysterical woman. That's it, no more postponing of the social interactions; I'll go crazy here. I call my driver. It's time to go.

Sitting on the back seat, I can see my face in the rear mirror. Shades of white and gray blend on my skin, signs of an uneasy night and long-lasting stress. I crook my fingers to tousle my hair a little, cringe at the result and smooth it again. My driver meets my eyes but knows enough not to say anything. We do this every now and then, "Mr. Fischer puts on a normal face", and we never comment the process. I throw my head back and breathe as deep as I can.

"You know what, just drive back to the hotel. I don't want to go."

"Can we stop here, please? I feel like eating a cheese-burger."

"What if we crashed into that wall there? Let's just get it over and done with."

"Have you ever driven really really fast through the city center and killed a few pedestrians while you were at it?"

"Here, have my passport, get into that plane and pretend to be me for the rest of your – I mean my – life, okay? Should be simple enough."

"I changed my mind, I just want to dump my father's body into the Pacific. Can you arrange that?"

Things I would like to say but don't. The normal face is on. We chat about the weather conditions and traffic and I'm completely balanced and aware of my responsibilities. I talk to my secretary about numbers and press releases when she calls me, promise to write my name on Important Papers, don't make a fuss when there's a problem with the private plane, order a cup of bad coffee at the airport, play my part perfectly hiding behind my mask and stand very still under the inquisitive glances of the people who obviously recognize my face. Perhaps this day is nothing but yet another episode – Robert flies home with the corpse of his father, part I – of the show, of this performance I've had going on since I don't remember when. Perhaps it doesn't even have to be very hard. Perhaps I can stop caring.

The plane sets off.

I try not to make too many boring author's notes explaining the story to death, but since this the first chapter I'm publishing here ever, I'd like to take this liberty. All kinds of reviews would be GREATLY appreciated. If there's something to nit-pick about my grammar etc., please do! The story is about to continue (I've managed to channel all the energy reserved for my summer studies into this).

BTW, the title of the fic and the title of this chapter are from the Dusty Springfield song The Windmills OF Your Mind. I think it somehow suits the story.