TAI: Unknown


As you begin to wake from a hazy and confusing dream, you are dimly aware of a low mumble somewhere behind you. White light streams into your face through the window, increasing your nasty headache. It's a throb that feels like it's settled in for life. You struggle to remember the events of the night before. You're pretty sure you went to a bar and talked to Doctor... You can't remember his name. Something about a "lifetime opportunity" opening up at a hospital a little farther south. The hospital... The word fills you with dread, you don't want to go to work today.

You blearily open your eyes to the harsh red light of a digital clock. Your brow furrows in confusion. When had you bought a digital clock with a red display? Yesterday, you had woken up to the dim blue glow of your alarm clock glaring 6:15. Your eyes widen in horror as you register the time on the clock; 8:03. Forgetting about the mystery of the alarm clock, you shoot up in bed. An unwise choice on your part. The world spirals around you, making you sick. The sudden flush of blood from your head makes it pulse even worse. You clamp your eyes shut and wait out the vertigo.

"Shit," you curse softly while massaging your forehead with your hand. The morning was starting off on a terrible note. The mumbling you had heard earlier focused and formed words. It was a news reporter relaying the reasons why today is going to be a dreadful day. The world stops it's gyrating movement, and you cautiously open your eyes. Your jaw drops, and your eyes bug out in what must be a comical expression for any onlooker.

This isn't your house. The off-white walls and standard mahogany chest tell you it's a hotel room. The bed has starched sheets and a twin to the left. You move your hand over to flip on the lights for an enhanced view when you notice your clothes. They aren't yours. Sure, they fit well, and feel familiar, but you don't remember buying them. You hardly ever go out shopping, and you have a remarkable memory for what you spend money on. They aren't even pajamas and yet you slept in the ragged jeans and slightly tattered royal blue sweater. Underneath the rips are mild scratches and lacerations that have scabbed over and are aching dully.

You rub furiously at your eyes, thinking it's just some hallucination or dream. Lucid dreaming, they call it. Words catch your eye on the palm of your hand. It's clearly your handwriting, despite how smudged the text has become. You squint to make it out. Your headache definitely isn't helping the situation. Slowly, you are able to decipher the writing. It says Go to PPTH.

"PPTH?" you ask out loud. You've never heard of such a place. Maybe you meant something else. "Path? Go to path? Go to... Prih? No, that doesn't make sense..." The words sound wrong as you play with them. Every combination of the letters you think of makes less and less sense. It has to be PPTH, wherever and whatever that is. Your thoughts are interrupted as the news cast comes into sharp focus, like your subconscious picked up on something you didn't.

"More news on the crash in the JFK International Airport. According to sources, it was a pilot error that created the crash which killed all passengers but ten. Captain Roger Yurmin, age 31, was a fresh pilot and made the turn to the main airstrip too quickly, causing the wings to tip over and crash, creating the explosion of the engine..."

The voice is overlaying a picture of a downed airplane with smoke billowing out of it. It has a gaping hole in the side where the wing should be. It's like someone took a bite out of it. The picture seems so familiar. The time stamp at the corner is blurred, so you move until your nose is basically touching the screen to make it out. Despite the glare from the TV feeling like it's killing your eyes, you make out the cabin through the smoke and smoldering remains.

"...All ten survivors are listed in good condition and some were released from the hospital last night. Back to you, Heather."

You stare transfixed at the glowing screen, unable to tear your eyes away. Your headache reaches a crescendo, the thumping of your heart can be heard in your ears. You screw your face up in a crumpled expression, bursting pain forcing you to bow over slightly. Your breathing becomes panting and your stomach rolls sickeningly. Your eyes close in an effort to shut everything out, but instead of the world being engulfed in a black blanket, it merely fades away. The sounds around you drain and the world focuses into a picture of some sort. Your pain goes away momentarily as you absorb the picture.

Like melting ice, parts of the picture starts to move, swirling to make a semi-coherent scene. You can see orange and yellow flickers of something surrounding a figure on the ground. The picture moves closer, through the swirling patches of yellow and orange, until you're staring at the person on the ground. Her eyes are opened toward the ceiling with blank stare, mouth slack, and her face is red. It runs down her face and onto the floor sickeningly. A hand shoots out- yours, you dimly register- and feels her neck for a pulse. There's none. Blood taints your hands crimson. You try to wipe it off your left hand, but it won't come off. The red spreads until it soaks the sleeves of your jacket. You stumble back into another row of chairs in horror. The flickering lights grow closer and closer. They are like a living being, rearing up to attack you. You run to the left in panic, every breath labored with the effort. Your feet lose their grip and you feel the world slip from under your feet.

You're brought back to the world with a jolt, and a gasp of shock. You had fallen over, and you were five feet away from the TV set. The news reporter droned on. Nothing had happened. You were still in the unfamiliar room with unfamiliar clothes. Your heart beats out a erratic rhythm, making hard to breathe.

"What the hell?" you murmur.