Authors note: Ummmmmm. So this turned out far weirder than I expected. But I wanted to try something different to my usual slightly bizarre comedy and instead create a very bizarre not-quite-angsty-but-something-close character study and this is what the deep recesses of my brain came up with.
So i hope you enjoy and, as always, reviews will make me do my special happy go lucky reviews dance (which is a sight to see I'll tell you now)
I own nothing but my own, slightly wonky, mind.
To the Story-mobile!
Real:
Something is different.
Search.
Think.
It is not Room. Room never changes. Room is safe, Room is Real. Real is important, he does not remember why.
"Doesn't matter. Real matters, Room matters, memory doesn't matter"
He remembers little these days. Memories are too confusing, too Un-Real. He can remember Room filled with people. Noises all around, Bright Lights, Voices, young voices, young him. The memories are not Real. Room is empty but for him. Room has always been empty. He has never been young.
"An old man filled with regret."
Sometimes the guards come into Room, when they are Real. Real less often now, They are beginning to replace them.
He knows They are not Real. They are too young, and They smile at him with sadness in Their eyes. He knows Their faces, and when They speak Their voices are memories. Memories of another world. A world where there is Paris, Rain, Laughter.
He remembers other things too. Remembers Airlines, remembers One Last Job. Loud Noise. Panic. Pain. All Un-Real.
"A half remembered dream."
He does not understand Them. They speak a language that is not his, so it is not Real. Somewhere in his head a voice says "English" but he is no longer listening.
Someone is talking to him now. They are not smiling. They have no accent, no scarf, they wear a suit, but it is not a suit. They are Real.
He should talk back, he knows this. Talking is good, even if you talk of things that are Un-Real, the talking itself is Real.
He talks often. To the guards. To himself. To Room.
Sometimes he thinks if he did not talk he would forget how, would forget that he ever spoke at all. He wonders, if he forgot how to talk, would the guards forget too?
Smile.
A foolish idea.
"The most resilient parasite. Your world is not real"
He does not talk to Them. Talking is Real. If he spoke to them, perhaps They would become Real. But they are not from Here. Not from Room or even from Beach. If They are Real, Here is not Real.
He wishes sometimes that They were. That he could see Them every day and hear Their voices and take One Last Job and know that it was all Real. The Pain and The Running and the Laughter. No Laughter Here. Laughter is only inside him.
"Bacteria"
"Virus"
"Intestinal Worm"
It is in his head like memories but stronger. He hears it when he is alone and his heart breaks. But It is Not Real. Real is Room and Beach and Safety and Not Laughter. He cannot let it be Real.
He does not talk to Them.
The guard has put something down.
Look.
Reach.
It is a Gun. He can remember Guns from Not Here, and sometimes when They visit They bring them, but he can also remember Guns from Beach, and from the guards, so they are safe.
But something is not safe. Something is new.
"Not new."
Think.
Remember.
Before.
"A man from a half-remembered dream"
Touch.
It is cool and smooth. He throws it and it spins. Soon it will fall. He knows.
"How?"
He knows it will fall.
The Laughter is back, growing, getting louder.
It spins.
Louder. Hurting now. Too loud. Too Real.
It does not fall.
"Your world is not Real"
Panic. Too much. Laughter. Noise. SO much Noise. Drowning. Real. The world is not Real. Room must be Real. Memories are Un-Real. A trick. Not meant to fall.
"In a dream, it will never fall"
So close. He can feel something. "Truth?" Just out of reach. Important. So Important. So close.
"Your world is not real"
Painful. Memories coming. Drowning again. Loud Noise. Pain. Blood stained shirt. Blood stained snow.
"Whose Shirt?"
"Whose blood?"
His blood. Dream. All in a dream.
"A dream within a dream"
How? Loud Noise. Pain.
Loud Noise. Gunshot. Gun.
The Gun is safe.
The Gun is safe. It does not spin, does not play tricks. The guard on Beach has a gun. The Gun is Real.
Someone is carried past him. He does not look. It is one of Them, and They are not Real. But the Gun is Real. It is Cold and Clean and Safe and oh so Real.
The Laughter is quieter now. Still there, but less. Not painful anymore.
He remembers a Gun that brought pain. That would have brought Death. Death and Waking. Except…
"Except?"
Gone.
Never mind. Doesn't matter. Not Real. Death is Real. He knows Death well, like an old friend. Death has been with him for years now, close behind. Waiting in his shadow. But his shadow is longer Here, so long he thinks that Death may never reach him. May always be trapped in his shadow. Hiding like a trick, like a top that never falls.
He has been waiting for so long.
"An old man. Waiting to die alone."
He does not know why he waits, or who he waits for. He is old now. So old. And his mind is gone. But somewhere there is a memory. A dream memory, but Real.
The Laughter builds.
"Your world is not real."
He looks up. Looks at the man. At one of Them. And he remembers.
"Your world is not real. Death is the only escape."
Smile.
Think.
Speak.
"Have you come to kill me, Mr Cobb?"
...so that happened.
I have no explanation for this one I'm afraid. I just loved the idea of limbo and have always been fascinated by madness and the general degeneration of the mind that comes with it, poor Saito was just an unwilling vessel for my sneaky plans.
but anyway thank you for reading my little adventure into non-comedy *showers reader with love and affection* J'adore tu mon amour!
Reviews free Saito from limbo ;)