These Dreams of Truth

The Dream

I slam the door shut behind me and proceed to turn around. I first examine the walls around me and notice their odd blue color, almost fading into an odd shade of purple. Finally, I noticed another door about twenty feet in front of me. Curious, I walk towards it. "Weird," I think to myself as I continue to walk towards it without it seeming to get any closer, just staying the same distance away. In fact, it wasn't getting any closer. I glanced behind me and look at the door I had previously came through. At least it appeared this way, but the door stayed in the same spot. Skeptical but unfazed, I walked on until I found a hole in the wall to my left. Stepping in, I find an all-white room, with a staircase leading up. As I climbed up the few steps, a voice greeted me. I was instantly startled at its familiarity.  

"Cynder," said the voice of a boy, standing in front me, hand on the knob of yet another door. "Please don't go to the land beyond." It was short and to the point. Just that.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, the puzzlement clear in my voice. He turned around, but I couldn't match his face with the voice I remembered.

"Just promise me," was all he said, and then stepped through the door. 

I wake up with a short gasp, sitting up completely straight.

"Good girl," my nurse says. She is sitting on the edge of my bed, hand outstretched and prompting me with a bowl of pills. "I was just about to wake you. It's time to take your medicine."

I force a smile. "Thank you, Silvia." I grabbed the medications as well as the small cup of water in her other hand. A small crease forms between her neat eyebrows. "Are you alright?" she asks me, "You look a bit shaken. Was it a dream?"

I was about to tell her that yes, it was, but my doctor cut me off, saying, "Of course, what else would it be?" while walking through the door left ajar. He sat down in his usual chair beside my bed."Cynder?" he asked me, "What was your dream about?" 

I tell him, Doctor Jackson, about my dream. While I explained it as I would have explained any other dream, in painfully vivid detail, I left out my odd feeling of recognition at the boy's voice. He typed exactly what I said on his laptop, as usual and without emotion to his face. When I finished, though, He looked at me funny. "That's it?" He asked simply. "Your expression tells me that there was something more."

I just shook my head, my curly auburn hair swishing around me like waves. "I'm just confused. It doesn't make sense." Impossibly, he looked even more puzzled.

"Well, what do you mean? You have lucid dreams, they never make sense.  Do you mean to tell me that they usually make sense to you?

"No, I - never mind. You're right, I'm sorry." I smiled to sell my point, and he returned it while getting up to leave.

Silvia, who'd been drying her hands at the small counter next to the sink in my room, said, "Alright, Cynder, I'll leave you to prepare yourself and come fetch you in about ten minutes for breakfast." She turned to follow Doctor Jackson out, gingerly closing the door in her wake. 

I lift myself out of bed, the familiar feeling of protest in  my legs, as if I had been walking all night. My knee length slightly-more-comfortable-than-a-hospital-gown dress billowed around my petite  frame, accentuating how my paranoia had taken a toll on my eating habits. I grabbed my hair brush and attempted to tame the curly nest referred to as "hair," but gave up after a few minutes. 

I sighed to myself, pondering why Silvia had such a job. I wasn't supposed to know this, but the curiosity taking over my fourteen year old mind lead me to find out that her entire job was scripted. All of the Wards were living by a specific text that told them everything - even how many paces to take between destinations.

The job seemed so limiting it made me angry and I wondered if it had always been like this. For as long as I could remember, Silvia seemed unhappy with her work. I made up my bed and relieved myself in the small corner room when she returned.   

I finished washing my hands as she asked "Are you ready to go?" and we left for breakfast.

It's been twelve years since I last saw my parents and I can't even picture them in my mind. I've always been grateful that  my condition is considered "Orange" on a scale of Green to Yellow to Orange to Red. It wasn't life threatening or harmful to others, per Red standards, but I suppose it was deemed more concerning than the partially responsive test results I had heard about in Yellow.

I spent most of my time in my room or hooked up to a machine that's trying to explain my dreams. I've never been concerned about my dreams, but apparently at two years of age I used to ramble on and on about car crashes and broken bridges to my aunt, who died a week later in car crash across a broken bridge. My mother, who had been very superstitious, was astonished to find I had had a dream about her death before it happened. A month and a half later, I told my mom I had convinced my father's boss to fire him, and guess what? He came home early that day, because he had lost his job.

Doing as any concerned parent would, she took me to many doctors and specialists who determined that my lucid prophetic dreaming was to be examined by the specialist of the specialists. I was moved to a facility in a small country to be tested. I've had plenty of dreams, almost every night is a new one, but none seem to make any sense or be prophetic to our knowledge. 

I ponder this all again while heading to breakfast with the other Oranges, who all seem to be around my age. My simple gym shoes are silent as I make my way towards the increasingly louder sound of children who've had their childhood deprived, enjoying the only time they are allowed to act like children.