Harmony

Exploring

Pixie was woken by her own scream. It was mostly dark, and she was on the plain but comfortable couch in the strange house she had arrived in the day before. The early morning light had illuminated enough of the room she was in such that she recognised it from the day before. Thankfully, she had only been experiencing a lengthy and vivid dream. Her life was once again peaceful, and she had no bodily pain. Her actual waking reality was here in this unusual world, and the prison life was simply a passing trick that the dream state had played on her mind.

Calmness came over her in waves much greater than before. It washed away all of the residue of panic, physical pain and despair. The only thing left was memory fragments, including the nagging, lingering notion she'd been there before. These were only thoughts to be puzzled through rather than anything distressing. The waves of peace had taken over and she was caring less and less about the dream as the moments passed.

Nonetheless, she wanted to try to understand the dream, if not now then some time later. Writing down some details might help. She got up off the couch and searched around the house for some paper and a pen. Nothing at all in the kitchen, nor the front bedroom. It was then that she discovered that the room in the back-left corner of the house was not actually a bedroom, but some sort of study. It was furnished with a desk, a red and green patterned swivel chair, a two-seater couch, some empty shelving and a side table. She found paper and pens in one of the drawers of the desk. She sat down on the swivel chair and began to write.

The paper was soft and gentle, with a firmness to it, and the pencil she had picked up was vastly different to pencils in her knowledge bank, like pretty much everything else in this unusual place. It wasn't made of wood, but of some sort of firm plastic with a soft grip that enabled her to hold it easily. The writing point might be lead but probably not; it seemed much stronger. She marvelled once again at the advanced world she had found herself in. Then her thoughts returned to why she wanted the pen and paper in the first place. Recalling the details of the dream wasn't much fun, though.

Having it fully register on her consciousness again made her shudder at its dark and depressing imagery. The dirty and sparse prison cell, her aches and pains, the attitudes and appearance of the other prisoners, the strange outdoor market, the lack of walls around the prison, and finally the terrifying guards. She didn't think she had the capacity to effectively analyse her dream, but if she could find someone somewhere, somehow, maybe they could help her understand it.

When she'd finished writing, she left the notes on the desk. She yawned and felt like laying down again for more sleep. The dream had woken her too early. However, slipping back into that horrible environment was not something she wanted to risk. Although it had been a dream, it was a vivid one and it still puzzled her. How could people voluntarily allow themselves to be imprisoned? It made no sense, but then she thought it might be symbolic of something. Was it perhaps a repressed memory? It did seem very much real to her when it was occurring.

Time to move on. She was hungry again, and breakfast was on her mind. She could now go back and enjoy finding something nice to eat on the menus in the food machine. The image of perusing the meal options and having the machine craft something delicious for her considerably brightened her mood.

The first thing she made was a cappuccino. It was wonderfully frothy and had the perfect amount of powdered chocolate on top. She then created a plate of scrambled eggs on sourdough toast. The meal was immensely satisfying, and she was so grateful for the machine's ability to create seemingly anything she wanted. All troublesome thoughts from her dream had faded and she was looking forward to the day.

However, she had a small problem: what to do with the dishes and silver cutlery items that were beginning to pile up in the sink. The plates and cups created by the food machine were green and appeared as if they'd been constructed from plant material. They could probably be composted, although she didn't know how. The cutlery was made of metal, though, and would have to be washed. The previous night and this morning, distracted by the food machine, she had not properly examined the kitchen. There must be a way to deal with her dishes. Especially in a house so advanced as to have a machine that created food out of nothing.