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A dizziness spins throughout my head. I blink, realizing he wasn't gone, I was. The room dissolved to a much smaller, much darker room. A bedroom. One second we were together in a sitting room. The next second, I'm alone in a dim bedroom. I glance halfway behind me, confused.
Did...he...teleport me?
In front of me a window takes the center of the wall. No glass or curtains on the odd window, just the wood growing away from itself to created a sloppy square in the wall, like the ones in the sitting room. A large bed sits to my left, it's headboard against the center of the wall. A rocking chair by the foot of it. Directly across from the bed, sits a sad dresser with a big, shiny mirror on top it. Scanning the room I spot a door that hangs on the wall beside the dresser. I run for it, grasping the handle and yanking it open. I exhale to see the disappointing closet. Then looking back to the wall that was behind me when I showed up in here, I see another door I hadn't notice. I quickly waddle to it, afraid of another closet.
I pull it open, hard, to see just darkness. Pitch black, but it doesn't stop me from running through it. My head buzzes intensely, knocking me senseless for a second. I'm facing the room when I blink away the dizziness. Even more confused, I turn around anyway back through the door, only to get dizzy again and face the room. I stare at the room I just walked out of twice. For a third time I turn to the door running through the threshold again, only to step back into the room, the dizziness doubling up and knocking me to my knees.
"The fuck! Again?" I shout out all the rage building up since I left the cell. Trapped. A-fucking-gain! I can't leave. When I step out, I just step back in. How is that possible? What? More magic? I can't leave. I'm trapped. I can't leave.
I sit on my knees, blinking away the angry tears that rise without consent. I wonder back to the thought of imagining everything. Imagining the door that leads into the same room and the root doors that don't really open or close. Maybe there is no spirit, no Pan, no beach to land on, and maybe I'm still in the asylum, high on the forced drugs. The thought of the possibility that drugs could be making me hallucinate this badly only pisses me off more.
It's the memory of blasting all those boys away with anger that I took from Pan that brings me back to the decision that it isn't just my imagination. This is all happening. After the decision is made, I gather myself to focus on the problem at hand. Escaping. Wiping tears, and cleaning my face with the two white spots left on my shirt, I straighten my hair and push it behind my ears, leaving the pity party.
The door isn't going to be an option, so I look to the window. One last sniffle and I slowly get up off the floor walking to the window even slower, dreading anymore tricks. As walk passed the bed I slide my fingers over the soft fabric. Dirt smudges onto the pretty linen and I withdrawal my fingers. Then I hear it. The music.
The instrument I heard the first night, the one I followed into the woods. A pipe or flute playing. Instead of the soft and peaceful song, it's an upbeat and exciting tempo. Hearing it causes me to run to the window. My palms thump on the wooden window sill and I become sick at what I see.
