For me, escape from the prison of consciousness meant, in a cruel irony, captivity in the world of unconsciousness. Such dreams I had, dreams as vivid and static as to be of no difference to the waking world. My favored world, the gray metallic vault, was, though cheerless and somber, of more novel stimulus than the monotonous tedium of the dolefully cognizant world.
Of course, I couldn’t endure in the state forever, and I decided never to return for longer than was needed for continuation in the land in which I now write this. This decision I prevaricated for a length, but what triggered my final verdict was what follows; the evidence that my mind was turning on me by maliciously clever means, that it wanted escape from my endless slumbers. This that I will presently print is the evidence.
In my chimaeras I would keep in a gloomy and odorous cell; concrete entombed me save for the thick rusted door from which I would seldom emerge. The plain solemn chamber within my skull allowed me finally to ponder and enjoy existence without the paltry distractions of the waking earth.
Homeostatic procedures unmercifully but inescapably pulled me from my real world on occasion; during which I would eat and drink with what little funds I could pinch. Afterwards, I would administer a potent hypnotic to which I had prescriptive access and return to my bed, and through there to my life.
Recently, however, I have been given progressively more harsh treatment by my own mind in its attempt to end my unnatural living. Such minor annoyances as opening my door or providing metallic crashes outside of my cell were experienced, but the final terror that I underwent ended my life there once and for all.
I was impulsed to exit my cell and amble through the rest of the land. Exiting, I surveyed the area for any interesting formations, but finding only the catwalk upon which I stood and beyond that pure darkness, I reasoned that there was no other option than to walk by the other cells.
It wasn’t a few minutes later that the cacophonic crash I heard from within a cell. A clear and feminine "help!" Was the next sound exhumed from the darkness. I attempted the door, but the lock was set. "What’s wrong?" I asked nervously. "Where am I?" The voice asked me. Telling her that she was in my mind would probably only exacerbate her already likely unbearable terror, so I responded instead with "Don’t worry, I’ll get you out!"
"I think my leg is broken, I can’t move!" she yelled out. "Just stay put, I’m going to try and get the door open!" I replied. I searched my immediate surroundings for a tool I could unhook the latch with. Finding nothing, I notified her, "I’m going to look for something I can open the door with, but I’ll be back!" I made sure to remember the cell number: 20-18.
I returned to my cell, frantically scouring the rusty room for any object I could use to unlock the simple hook and loop. I could hear from afar the woman still talking, though of what was muffled by distance. I gave it little thought; the woman was likely baffled by her black surroundings and overwhelmed by her leg pain to enjoy the same lucidity that I was.
Finding nothing of import, I returned to the woman’s cell. She continued her pleas in a manner that would suggest that she didn’t hear me return. They got more pathetic by the minute, and pity nearly overwhelmed me while I wildly searched for anything to open the tightly barred door.
"My leg!" she cried. "Please," I responded, "I’m going to get you out!" At this point I was attempting to unscrew a piece of the metal railing to use against the portal. Where I say ‘unscrew’, ‘tear’ would be more accurate.
Tiny shards of rust burrowed into my white-numb fingers when finally I managed to pull loose a metal pole from its fixture. Returning to my challenge, I brought the pole at the door, but before I could do any damage, ultimate pain took my hands. The rust, it looked like, had been more than mere rust, from the looks of my greening fingers. Ignoring the agony as best I could, I made the effort to wrap my hands around the pole, and bashed it against the bars. The resounding cacophony echoed so thoroughly that I could hear it still minutes later. I bashed the bars again, this time with a weakened blow, and one last time, closer to a tap than a drive.
I checked the bars for weakening, and found, to my glee, that one had been loosened and chipped, being more rust than anything else. I targeted that one for my next blows, and soon cracked open the bar. My ears pounding in increasing pain, I felt around the inside of the door, the woman still howling in fear and pain, while I simultaneously attempted to comfort her.
The door, I found, was locked inside and out, and my last humanistic idea involved the removal of the doornails. The damned things were fused to the hinges, and it was then that I lost it.
I pounded the red and brown hinges with the pole, destroying only one of the three. I frustratedly and foolishly launched the pole into the unfathomable abysm behind me and tried to kick down the door in my animalistic fervor. After only the first few kicks, I felt blood pour out of my broken toes, and all that I had to show for it was a weakened bottom hinge.
The woman had then resorted to screaming at a volume that rivaled the pole against the bars, and I then resorted to ramming myself against the invincible door. My ears were throbbing, my shoulders were bruised, my head was bleeding, my fingers were stuck in an arthritic claw, and my feet were nearly unusable, but finally and gloriously the door caved into my maniacal beatings. I switched on the light and to my surprise and ultimate dismay, I found sitting on a stool a tape recorder that was playing the voice of a frightened woman.