To Name The Dark

semblance of sanity

My mind is nebulous sometimes, and inky. I can picture what it must look like: a galaxy of inaccessible ideas, fragile connections like spun sugar attempting to link them. A cosmic game of join-the-dots, only the pen is running out and the dots keep disappearing.
Today, however, I am lucid! Thoughts pierce my mind accurately, through sugar and daydreams and ink that spirals lazily through water and shadows that swell from the depths, climbing and climbing and climbing and closer swirling in front of my eyes and closer a-

I throw myself out of bed onto the uncaring floor. Even though there is not much difference between the mattress and the floor (both are padded, both are soulless white), the rigidity of it shocks me, the unfeeling shove against my shoulder. Pain arrows through me and I inhale crisp air, backing into my favourite corner. It is not much different to the other corners, but this way I can watch the bed. Specifically underneath the bed. Don't laugh, but... you never know where the monsters could be hiding. Not that I am going to think about monsters, because... well, I am just not going to think about monsters. The spirals are not allowed in. No. Nope. Not a chance. Today I am lucid! Lucid. What a comforting word. It stands proud, a fortress, all stone edges and heavy wooden doors. Lucid. Which means I can swerve away from the shadows. I am omnipotent, all-controlling. Over my own thoughts, at least.

I, Thea- Thea... oh. I can't remember my last name. That is bad, isn't it. Now I feel... untethered. Did I feel a slight sense of loss when the memory of it slipped my mind? I knew my last name once. I knew a lot of things once. Before... well.

Thea, a girl who likely had a last name once, is omnipresent over her own thoughts. Bold words coming from a frail girl curled in a corner, scribbling frantically in a book, but still.
The writing helps, even if it is illegibly shaky in places and often ignores the disciplined lines. I flip through the book and the pages blur. I breathe in. My book is the only thing here (Where? Where am I?) that does not smell of emptiness, cold hard lostness. Of antiseptic.

I turn the pages slower now, stroke the smooth skin of the spine. Some pages are ordered. The words stand up straight- soldiers on patrol. Most, however, are black scribbles. Some are torn apart from the nib of my pen mauling then to shreds. If I look at this too long I will start to... fall, though, so I close the book resoundingly. You may be thinking I am crazy. Most of the time... you would be right. Today I am lucid, but tomorrow I may be deadly. That's why I am in a cell, and to be honest, I would rather this than the alternative- which features a lot more screaming. From both them and me. Which is something I am not going to think about, so, let's change the subject, switch the channel. Dance around the truth.

I am being vague, I know. But there is nothing you can do about it. For once, I am in control. This fragile universe may be ripping, a cobweb at the mercy of the breeze, but we will pretend we are safe, that these metal walls can protect me from the threat within. That if we close our eyes the monster will not see us. We can stick our fingers in our ears and sing as the world crumbles. If nothing else, at least we will have some semblance of sanity. Something which, at present, I often lack.

I lie on the floor on my back, and stare at the blank white ceiling. So far, I have not spotted a single imperfection on it, a blemish or speck of dust. But there are limited ways to entertain myself here, and I need the distraction. When I die (if?) I hope they will leave the book for the next inhabitant of the cell. Whoever it is. Whatever demon lurks within them.

There was no book waiting for me when I first opened my eyes to this blankness. When no one arrived I thought I would dehydrate, tongue swollen, on the smooth white floor. After the initial stage of screaming and launching myself at the padded walls, I began to accept my confinement. Do I remember what happened before this? Yes. But I don't have to write it down, do I? I don't have to do anything.

Anyway. So long passed in this cell and nothing changed. I became convinced I was dead, or dreaming. Or that maybe it had been minutes, not weeks. That possibility worried me most- any length of time seeming like an eternity. Then, one day (night?) I couldn't wake up. Wrong choice of words? I was awake, but... not. It was like watching a film from the shelter of my own eye sockets. I spectated as the room... exploded. Yes, really. Maybe I am mad, but... Look, I have to believe what I saw, don't I? If I can't, then there is NOTHING left. Just... assume it was all real for now, okay? Okay.

After the room was blown apart and I was kneeling in a pile of (very real seeming) rubble, the power left me. I slumped unconscious on the floor. Blackout. The next day... I woke up in a blank white room. Exactly the same as the old one. It was pretty creepy, let me tell you. Some time passed, and the same thing happened, over and over. The watching and the exploding and the waking and the waiting and the watching and the exploding- and then I woke in a room with a book in it.

In hindsight, I think they (whoever they are) were tired of me blowing up rooms. So they tried something new. It has worked (so far). I write. Sometimes I write about writing. Sometimes I write about writing about- Too far? I don't have much control anymore. You might have noticed. Anyway, what were we talking about? The book. Oh, the book. You know what? The book deserves a chapter of its own.

Vote if you like it! Or if you hate it. Or if you are ambiguous towards it. Also comment! Don't be a silent reader. That sounded slightly threatening. Oh well. You know what I mean.