The Trip

Episode 1 -- An Escape

Eric, gasping and drenched in sweat, staggered into his warm, humid apartment, promising himself that he'll be more (careful) next time. He was in his early 30s, worn-out, single and living alone, but satisfied with the solace of solemnity. He turned on the lights, placed his briefcase with excessive care on the desk, and proceeded to sink comfortably, legs spread, head thrown back in his couch. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath of the cold air around him trying to clear his mind, practised what he’d learnt about relaxation; the voices in his head were loud tonight.

He grunted uncomfortably and restlessly sat straight, checked the pocket of his pants and removed a blood red colored small square piece of paper. A gateway to another dimension. Memories of his sister handing him the little blot, suggesting how this one’s special and it may help with his 'voice in the head' problem flashed in his head. Last time was fun, maybe this time too will be an escape from his divine work, afterall he was alone in the safety of his house. He chuckled and ‘dropped the blot’, preparing himself for, hopefully, an enlightening experience.

He put on his favourite classical music to guide him through. Gradually, the euphoria kicked in, as he began to shimmy seated, a wide grin on his face. He looked at his squid hands, and the green walls transition colors in amazement. He shut his weary eyes, to look within and peek into the clusters of dancing neurons in his head.

Flashes of laughing llamas entertained him delightfully, but now his brain was slowing down, entering another plane. His heart began to sink in, he couldn’t tell why. Was he sad? He didn’t feel sad. No, this was guilt. Vengeful guilt for who he was, or who he thought he was. Atleast, the voices were quiet.

His mind began spiralling into a deep and dreadful abyss of guilt and self-doubt. He was doing his best to improve things, but what if it wasn't worth the price he had to pay.

Unable to bear it anymore, he opened his eyes. He had to use the restroom. He opened the door to his room and stared at the bed. The reddish-blue patterns on the bedsheet were forming all forms of fauna – a falcon, a lion, a crocodile even. He sniffed suspiciously as the air began to smell pleasurably sweet. He was obviously hallucinating, but the fragrance of what seemed like cinnamon wine was so beautiful and so strong, he could almost taste it. As he shakily finished his business, the fragrance grew captivatingly stronger. His itchy nose wasn't too happy about it.

He rummaged through his room, scouring it for any broken perfume bottles, but none. As he was mindlessly searching, the scent seemed to have suddenly disappeared. The room was a little too trippy, so he decided to get back to the couch. The moment he opened the door, his eyes widened like canonballs, and his heart began racing as droplets of sweat emerged from his forehead in disbelief. He stood there, frozen. How high was he? His brain didn't feel weird. On the contrary, it felt sober, striving to process the surrealism.

The bright, red sun was shining bright in his face.

The walls and the ceiling? Where...the…fuck…were they? Just sand dunes, stretching as far as the eye could see. He had walked out of his room and into a vast, empty desert. His home, or what was left of it comprised just furniture, partially sunken in a bed of sand; a gentle hot wind warming his cold body. The fragrance was back, and it seemed to be emanating from somewhere in the desert. An inexplicable urge to reach the source of the addictive fragrance slyly crawled into his nerves.

The realisation that this wasn’t a hallucination, was surreptitiously creeping up on him. Should he go back to his room, wait for this madness to end, or should he venture out into the desert, and explore the madness instead.

Naturally, he chose the latter.