Luke's Story

Denial

Light. Flashes of light. Shots of pitch-black blindness of the dark and the blinding brightness of light pass through his eyes.

     And people. Do not know which kind. Although his mind was set to a single flash of thought - enemy. No, plural. Enemies. Calling his name, like he was a dog. A misbehaved dog of sorts, in a need of training - however impossible to train.

     Though he feels something normal. Pain. Pain that is simply unbearable to the point that suicide seemed to be, suffice to say, the easy way out.

     Though he felt nothing. More so, he felt desensitized in tranquil state. Despite all the raucous which seemed to flash in shots of light in front of his eyes, he has felt peace no one has ever experienced - blinding peace, though a pleasant one at that. He has seemingly reached nirvana.

     And then he saw darkness. And saw himself to unconsciousness.

     Dream states. Felt more frequent these days. The monotony of it all pisses him off as far as he is concerned; masked cults, a kidnapping, running... running - like it reminded him of something...

     Just as he began to question his status quo, blazing light saw him to consciousness, with a single flash of thought currently in his mind.

     Denial.

     He is sitting in a room, slowly gaining consciousness. And he revolves his sight around what appears to be someplace claustrophobic. Looking down, he realizes - he is free of handcuffs.

     Handcuffs - like he had those before, for him to think that yes, he is indeed free of handcuffs and that is a good thing. Like he had those before...

     Dismiss the thought, he thought, as he began to examine his surroundings; table, chair - both metal he noticed; speakers on top of a mirror - a two way; his finger met the surface of the mirror - no gap between the finger and its reflection. Look around for a couple more moments and it arrives to his thought that alas, he was to be interrogated.

     But for what? And why alas, he thought. As if interrogation meant something unfortunate, that he didn't feel like it was right for him to be in this situation of being questioned...

     "Lukas John," the voice spoke. "Mister Haqeem will speak to you shortly."

     Haqeem. African, Arab, probably even an Indian for all he would care - but why bother. His face, his train of thought - it all screams inquisitiveness. And his inert disdain for ignorance drives him insane. Who is Haqeem? What am I doing here? Where am I? When will this period of pure confusion conclude and for how long will it last? Why is he here? Call him insane, but he felt like he was. Or maybe he is.

Or maybe he was just in denial.