In the Cage of a Dream's Lament

It was the perfect life.

Trella lived for the moments when she stood in a ballroom, hushed voices rising over the music that provided an ambiance absent from ordinary life. Even when she was not dancing, she liked to close her eyes and just bask in the soft percussion and the trill of a violin. And, no matter how much she wandered or frolicked among the gathered guests, her feet never ached.

“My little mischief maker,” her father said, tweaking her on the cheek, “don’t cause any trouble.”

“Never, Father,” she crooned, even as her eyes followed a number of gentlemen whose eyes lingered on her when she wasn’t looking their way.

It was so easy to live this life. She never wanted it to end.

She should have known that good things didn’t last.

*

“Test subject is experiencing high REM patterns. Should we proceed?”

“Let it go for a little longer. There’s no point if she wakes up now.”

“Do you think that’s wise, sir? Her brain could become overstimulated—”

“Do you think it’s wise to question me? No? Then carry on with the analysis.”

“...yes, sir.”

*

The evening air lit up her senses in a way few things did.

Trella retreated from the ballroom and looked up at the moon. Its light spilled over the garden, casting everything in a silver sheen, and she laughed as she twirled around and around. She didn’t even get dizzy.

But she stopped abruptly when she saw someone watching her—one of the gentlemen from inside the mansion.

“Hello,” she said, feeling a bit shy, “are you enjoying yourself?”

The man didn’t answer her right away, instead gazing upon a patch of white roses. “It’s almost real,” he murmured, and she cocked her head, not certain she had heard the words right.

“What’s real?” she asked, curious. Her father always had warned her that curiosity would be the thing that did her in—“Don’t be like your mother,” she could imagine him saying—but she crept closer to peer at the man’s face.

She almost stumbled back and gasped when she saw the jagged scar running from his forehead and slashing straight through a puckered eyelid.

For the man’s part, he didn’t look offended by what he saw on her face. His lips curved in amusement. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone sincere. “I guess I can’t control things here as well as you can.”

“Control?” Trella frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s all right,” he said, his voice lingering like an echo in the air. “Maybe it's best.”

*

“Test subject is showing distress. Should we intervene?”

“What do you think?”

“I think we have to abort while her brain still shows normal function.”

“I haven’t given those orders.”

“Sir, I must insist—”

“I am the one in charge. You listen to me. Are we clear?”

“...clear as day, sir.”

*

“Tell me,” Trella said, licking her lips, “do I know you from somewhere?”

The man’s head swiveled, his good eye focusing on her. “What would make you think that?”

“You look familiar,” she said, though her voice sounded unsure even to her own ears. “Like something from a long-ago dream.”

Something passed across the man’s face—pain?—before his expression returned to a blank slate. So strange, she thought. “I think you’re mistaken,” he said. “This is my first night here.”

“Do you have family here then?” she pressed. “Maybe I know one of your brothers, or a sister, or perhaps your parents?”

“That’s impossible,” the man said. “They’re all dead.”

Dead. A pang of sorrow made her heart feel tight in her chest. Somehow, the idea of death never crossed paths with her here, but she supposed everyone lost someone at some point in life. But—she bit her lip as her thoughts raced—why did she feel like she was forgetting something?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” the man said. “It was a long time ago. You couldn’t have known.”

But, as Trella studied the man beside her, she couldn’t help feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling her.

So, so strange, her mind’s refrain continued. Now her thoughts felt as thick as mud—and just as hard to wade through.

*

“Sir, this goes against all protocols.”

“I don’t see any danger. She looks fine now.”

“But for how long? This is the longest she’s been under.”

“We don’t stop until I give the order.”

“I fail to see this as anything but torture, sir.”

“Dreams never hurt anyone.”

“This is a forced sleep. She may have a mental break if we persist, and there’s no coming back from that.”

“Then let her break. We’ll just find another. She’s not special.”

“Are you letting your personal feelings get in the way, sir? We are supposed to do no harm.”

“I gave no such vow. My loyalty is to humanity at large. One girl will not stop us from finding a cure for the Malady.”

“I don’t understand why we’re putting her through this. Why her?”

“Why not her? It has to be someone. Or do you want to see all our women go mad and kill themselves from the Malady? Do you want humanity to go extinct?”

“There have to be other ways, sir.”

“I won’t hear another word. Proceed as directed.”

“Sir—”

“If you had lost a wife and child to the Malady, then you might understand. Until that day, you will not judge me. Now, are you going to leave this room if you can’t bring yourself to do your duty?”

“I want to end the Malady as well, sir. Believe me, I do.”

“Then do your job. This girl gave her free will up the moment she signed herself over to experimentation. Scouring her every thought and dream are the least of what we could do to find out how her father created the Malady.”

“...I’ll carry on, sir.”

“Very good.”

*

Trella kept staring at the man as if he were a puzzle she was trying to solve.

“Are you sure we haven’t met before? You look like someone—I can’t put my finger on it—”

“I have a common face,” the man said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Trella said. She played with the heart-shaped locket hanging around her neck. It was a habit calling back to the days when—when—

When what? She couldn’t remember. It was as if there was a whole gap in her memory, an emptiness where there should have been a full collection of remembered bits and bobs.

“Did your father give that to you?” the man asked, gesturing to the locket.

“I—I don’t know.” The words stammered out of her lips. “I don’t remember.”

The man’s forehead wrinkled. “Then what do you remember?”

Trella opened her mouth to say something—the very first thing that came to mind—but no sound came out. She realized, with horror, that all she could remember was…

“I remember...being here,” she said, her words coming slow like she was just waking from a heavy sleep. “I remember the ballroom, the dancing, the dresses and cakes and laughter and—and—that’s all. That’s all there is.”

The man was quiet for a long moment. “I think you should go back inside,” he said, moving away, but she reached for his sleeve and caught him before he could leave.

“You know me!” The words burst out of her. “I don’t know why, but—but this isn’t the first time we’ve met, is it? You know something I don’t. Tell me, please, what I’m forgetting.”

The man seemed to hesitate before saying, “It’s not that you’re forgetting. Your base memories are being suppressed. They’re probably searching through your thoughts while keeping your consciousness placated with the same dream.”

“They? Who are they?”

The man shook his head. “Not now, Trella. I’ve told you enough. You have to trust me on this.”

“Trust you? Why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not working for the people who are doing this to me?”

“Because I’m here to try and bring you home, Trella. No matter what they tell you later, I’m your friend.”

The words should have sounded insane—but she believed him.

*

“Test subject is becoming agitated again. What should we do?”

“Put her under again. We’re running out of time.”

“She’s already on the maximum amount of sedative we can give her.”

“Then find something else! She’s nothing to us if she wakes up.”

“I understand, sir, but she may die in the process.”

“Then so be it.”

“Sir—”

“Attention, all units, there has been a breach in security. I repeat, there has been a breach in security.”

“Sir, what should we do?”

“This is a secure unit. We’re safe here for the time being. It’ll be resolved momentarily.”

“I’m not so sure, sir.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Someone’s overriding my commands in the system.”

“What?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said! Get it under control!”

“I—I can’t, sir. The access key is even higher than yours. Whoever’s doing this, they’ve gotten into the top-tier ranks of our units.”

“There has to be something you can do—”

“Sir, I’m trying, but—”

“Imbecile! Get out of my way! I’ll fix it myself!”

“It’s too late, sir. She’s already beginning to wake up.”

*

Trella knew there was something wrong when the pain stabbed through her head. For the first time in so many nights of dreaming, she stumbled and fell to the grass. But it felt...wrong. The texture was all off.

“What’s happening?” she asked. She felt like she was ready to be sick even though her stomach ached with a hollowness that alarmed her.

“You’re waking up,” the man said. “Don’t fight it. We’re coming for you. You won’t be alone anymore.”

“But—how—?”

“Trella, be brave. We’re on our way.”

And, even as her eyes tried to focus on the man in front of her, her vision swam with a blurriness as if she were under high tides in the ocean.

The ocean. In a flash, she remembered a simulation she had played that replicated the feel of an ocean and its sandy beaches.

Simulation. She knew that word. It was something that was not real—like a dream.

Like the perfect life she’d been living in a ballroom world that had been fed to her through dreams.

“I don’t want to wake up,” she said, shaking her head.

My father’s not there anymore. I don’t want to live in a world without him.

“It’s too late, Trella,” the voice said—for there was no longer a man, or a garden, or a mansion. Her eyes blinked open, meeting a searing light that burned straight through any hint of sight.

“Why?” she asked the voice, the one she knew from late nights in her father’s laboratory before it was shut down and overtaken by the government—before the sickness spread to women all over the world.

The Malady.

Her mother was the first victim, driven mad, dancing right off a balcony.

And her father—he was dead too. She had seen him killed right in front of her eyes before her father’s assistant Desmond had hurried her away from the scene.

Desmond.

The voice—

The scar—

The one who had given her the locket containing her mother’s and father’s pictures—

The one who had pleaded with her not to leave and become a test subject—

The one who stared down at her now as her vision began to come back in spots of color—

The one who was smiling like she was the sun after a storm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’ll be safe now, Trella.”

It was a world ridden with the threat of the Malady, a world dying more and more each day, a world that no longer contained her parents, a world she had wanted to escape at all costs—

But she could no longer be in the cage of a sweet dream.

Trella had to try living once more.