Your Way Out

The Tethered Wings of Birds

        Carl Jung saw Hermes, the messenger God, as a mediator between the conscious and unconscious parts of the mind. In college, I'd sometimes imagine Hermes carrying me to and from realms. Sometimes my morning passage to the waking world was simple as opening my eyes. Shrinking at the bright morning light as it ushered me awake. Other times, it felt like the fleet-footed god dropped me on my ass.

That morning was one of those times. It felt like falling. Stumbling down a pitch-black abyss as I reached my hand for something, anything, to hold on to. I didn't want to wake up. My bed felt like cement. When I awoke, I was sprawled out like a chalk outline. My limbs displayed every-which-way. I was sore. Stretching towards the ceiling, my muscles felt like taut rubber bands on the verge of snapping. Slowly rising, it felt like there were little pebbles wedged between each vertebra of my spine. I wanted to lay back down, but it was like my mattress was full of stones.

I clumsily pulled myself out of bed and got ready for the day. Checking the clock, I was early for once. I was able to shower and enjoy it. It was strange. Coming from such a vivid dream, where the water was perfect and scented with luxurious oils, it made the standard shower seem bland. The water ran cold too soon. The small cubicle of space given made me feel claustrophobic. Worst of all, I was lonely. I pressed my back against the cold checkered tiles and let the frigid water cascade over me. White soap and conditioner circled the drain. I watched them mingle and dance before slipping into the darkness.

While the shower was refreshing, it did nothing for all the knocks and aches that riddled my body. I approached Loki's door, accompanied by new guards, all while feeling like a bruise. The new guards we quiet. They didn't bother to introduce themselves or even speak. At my door, they simply tilted their heads to say, "Let's go," and walked on without me. They also wore dark reflective visors over their eyes. I couldn't identify them even if I tried. Not that I knew the names of many people here.

I was given a revised dossier before they unlocked the door. It was half the size of the original. No Nordic mythology, no profile on Loki's psychology, or history of sightings. They even took out the bits about the Battle of New York. From the quick scan I was able to process, it was solely developed with Asgardian tech in mind. Notes about longevity, near immortality, and science disguised as sorcery. Thor's hammer and other relics we've been able to gain some knowledge on. Things that could advance the human race by centuries. They felt more like talking points and less like psychology. I thought my job was to understand Loki's psyche, not pitch him ideas on how he could benefit us. More concerning, there was nothing on Thor. In the old file, there were at least clues about his last known locations, people he spoke to, and hypothesis of potential whereabouts. I made a mental note to talk to Banner later about it.

When the door opened, I was surprised to see Loki sitting so carefree in his bed. No handcuffs, no collar, and no chains to tether him down. There were two brand new bookshelves, black and sleek, packed frame to frame with books. A metal rack with wheels held six hangers, each with displaying a variety of civilian outfits. They all looked brand new. Fresh and clean. The air inside was so light. It felt like spring. It was nice to breathe, even the circulated air felt fresh.

He was flipping through an old, cracked tome, bound in some old pine colored fabric that was wrinkled and shredded in parts. The pages were thought, like handmade parchment, and yellowed with age. His finger slipped under one of them with nimble care. His dark brows pressed, nearly touching, as he focused intently on the symbols in front of him. It felt wrong to break his concentration. He didn't even notice when the door slammed shut, clanging loudly with all those locks. He licked a fingertip and flicked the page, caressing the next like a lover's curves. Eyeing the characters, as if searching for something special.