Internal Conversations

I.

Another boring day.

The hypnotic hum of the fluorescent lights echoes through the rectangular classroom. The drums of barren thunder pound outside.

Just another boring day.

Mentally trapped. Time-locked within this 10’x10’ learning-hall; only two windows occupy the far-right wall. The subconscious screeching-pitch of Elmer’s Classic Chalk on the green board drove rusty, dull knives through my eardrums.

A very unpleasant sound.

The metronomic ticking of the wall-clock claps in sync with the internal beat of my claustrophobic heart. There were words on the board, yet the room was empty; a quote: “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting” …

What did it mean?

The low purr of the A/C Unit, in the back, was starting to buzz to life. The symphonic harmony of awkwardness began to surround me.

A singular, wood-stained door stood alone on the vacant left wall.

II.

It let out into the dirty-reddish-colored main lobby of a local hotel.

Neatly-vacuumed, linen-scented, brown-carpeted steps jut from the left passageway ascending up to the dark corridor of the second floor.

Another lone, pine-carved door was awaiting at the top.

III.

The second brown door unlocks to a small, college dorm-themed bedroom. A familiar voice shoves my puzzled figure through the open frame.

My neighbor. Renzo Lawnie.

A welcoming, expectant smile sat on his face, “I was beginning to think you’ve forgot.”

No response…

He hands me my cell phone. On the screen, a previous text message, “I’m on my way.”

I blink.

His tall, 6'3" build glides through me towards the blue, queen size,

down-comforter bed that was consuming the majority of space. He thuds onto its engulfing embrace.

I watch the bed swallow him whole. He was gone.

The same pine-door was gaping behind me as I reenter it again.

IV.

The exact stairs that were leading me to the second floor, were now taking me down to an

even lower level.

Ground level.

I was outside; standing in front of the large brick Warehouse from where I was just

inside. Stretching before me towards the horizon was a vast parking lot. My car, sitting cold at the edge of a narrow entrance to a gated, tree-lined Nature Trail.

The atmosphere was a burnt orange from the glow of the setting sun. I head to the dirt

path. The ground was moist with post-rain; humidity choking the air. I stop about five feet away from my car, staring down the way.

My middle brother.

My father.

My youngest brother. All of them stood at the entrance as if were waiting for me to arrive

before venturing on in. I hold my brother’s hand; I pick up the youngest. The crunchy feeling of golden, coffee, and auburn-tinted leaves disintegrates under

our footsteps. The razor-sharp wind whipping violently under the thunder’s command.

It was cold. An autumn cold.

We journey further down the half-cracked, root-infused asphalt. My brothers now free

from my grasps.

My father wandering ahead of us. I was last.

It was silent. No chorus of wildlife. No orchestra of nature.

The random plip-plot, plip-plot of the after-puddles sang out under the irregular rhythm

of the children’s heavy footsteps.

Splish … Spl-ish … Splish, splish… Plop!

The forest was coming to life. Waves of dark, noisy circles flood the trail –Frogs…

The forest IS alive.

Their various croaking tones began to blend into a universal dialect.

Chasing after them—the Frogs—they caught a handful. An empty smile forms on my

face. They could not tell.

The sky was paling a royal blue. I start walking back, –Neon? –Green? –Red!

I pick a handful; poison. –brothers… Poison! My adrenaline racing faster than any derby horse. The swiftness of Mercury guiding my downforce as I release the poison free from their hands. Those waves of dark, noisy circles now morphing into a false rainbow of poisonous creatures.

“They’re fine. Trust me… I am your Father—”

… Father. My soul went numb.

“—Now, listen to me.”

He bends down.

My father bends down; giving them a handful more of poison—NO! My second swipe

quicker than Apollo’s Chariot.

With brother’s hand firmly clasping mines; the youngest in arms. We run.

I run.

He follows after us.

Nature turns eerily silent once more as if it were a Master enjoying the pre-game thrills of

a good fox hunt; counting down the inevitable last seconds of its prey’s freedom.

The two sanded-down, tan, wooden poles of the Nature Trail’s gate stood gaping before

the vast parking lot.

V.

Fear stung my asthmatic lungs as we charge across the parking lot.

We dash through the same pine-carved door that once led me out of the Warehouse.

Time began to slow. He was still behind. I could not see, no. I just knew. My soul felt His

presence descending upon us.

There were more rooms—nothing.

A lone staircase extends up in front of us. We climb—no time…

We climb. It felt as if we were climbing for hours. My body grew tired under their

combined weight.

A brown, paint-chipped, door with the words Third Floor engraved on its frontal

panel greets us at the top.

VI.

We enter this plain, brown-themed motel room. I lock and deadbolt the door behind us.

One queen-sized bed lines the right half of the wall with two dim-glowing lamps flanking

each side. A giant, rectangular mirror hung on the wall behind its headboard.

That was it. And nothing more…

The rapid pick—pick sounds of the dual light bulbs flickering in my ear canal.

We must keep moving. Moving forward.

Escaping. Escaping from Him.

I reach for—ONE hand?!

My brothers?

… my middle?

… my youngest?

… the children—have MERGED! into… One?

Nothing made sense anymore—no time.

I pick up the One child and move on.

On the opposite side directly ahead of us was an exact replica of the very door we

had just came through.

VII.

I stop.

The replica door that connects the plain motel room behind us, gave way to another motel

room—the SAME motel room. Only different.

Same plain, brown-themed motel room. Same bed. Two lamps. Giant mirror—and a,

bathroom?

The squeaks of bending wood from the steps crept through the walls.

He was close. And I was scared.

Not for me. But, for the One.

I hold the child closer.

On the opposite side directly ahead of us was an exact replica of the very door we

had just came through.

VIII.

I was lost.

Trapped in an infinite loop of psychiatric déjà vu.

This plain, brown-themed motel room. Same bed. Two lamps. Giant mirror. No

bathroom, but instead—a dresser?

I hyperventilate. My eyes hung low in a dizzy daze. Gravity spun.

My sanity be—gan to mel—t slow—ly… … … like cra—yons that w—ere le—ft in

th—e c—ar on a mid-Ju—ly’s d—ay…

... th—e scr—eams of war—ping w—ood from the st—eps b—ooM through the walls.

He was close. Even more than before.

I could feel it…

I was—not scared.

We must keep moving. Moving forward.

Away from Him.

On the opposite side directly ahead of us was an exact replica of the very door we

had just came through.

IX.

Where were we?

A line. We kept moving in a line, but… to Where?

Brown room. Queen bed. Two lamps. Mirror… No bathroom? No dresser? Just, one

large polished Oakwood Vanity Set on the left wall where they used to be.

On the opposite side directly ahead of us was no door—only a clear, tan-plaster wall.

I set the child down.

I touch the wall. Pound on it. It was real… no door.

I examination the vanity set. There was a faint beam of light projecting from the cracked

open uppermost drawer. I climb up.

At the top, it was open. I look down at the child before crawling through the drawer.

It merged into an air-vent; I continue to follow the ray of the light inside.

At the end, of the tunnel; I was hovering above this massive industrial storage unit. Boxes

snake around the entire area forming an indoor maze. My aerial-view allowing me

to identify my options. At the very end was a double glass door. The sun, high in its peak, shining bright. A clear, normal day.

One thing was odd, though. In the start of the maze… a stroller. –With a BABY inside!

My heart sunk faster that a rock in a pond.

Was is my other brother?

I climb down to see—no time. I climb back up again the boxes that helped me down.

I race back through the ventilation system; back to the plain brown room.

The One child was still waiting there.

We must go. I grab his hand—no time.

The twisting of doorknobs screeching grew stronger—no time.

He was coming—no time.

We must go… The child would not come.

My entire being in a panic… The child would not come.

He was here… The child would not come.

Flight or fight pumping through my veins… The child still not come.

I pull on… He pulls away.

I do not want to leave him here, but we must escape.

I must escape…

I let go. Tears in my heart, I let go.

I escape.

I climb back up the vanity set. The door bursts open.

He is here—no time—no time… no time—no— *beep… beep… beep*

X.

… What?

I blink to life. The rapid beeping of my morning alarm clock endlessly blaring its lungs

out.

… just a dream?

My face felt warm. The glow of the afternoon sun consumes my small bedroom.

I snooze my deafening friend; allowing it to breathe again once more.

I frown. It was two o’clock. How long was I asleep?

… it was all just a dream…

I shock myself back to reality and force myself to sit upright; inevitably catching a

headrush.

I check my phone. A new text message across the screen. Yesterday night; it was from

Renzo. I read it; I scroll up. I read the rest; the whole convo-thread. My face pales, “Renzie: ‘I was beginning to think you’ve forgot’.”

…“‘I’m on my way.’ >message: sent.”

I was in disbelief. I could not remember why I went over there.

Shrugging it off, I let my phone bounce down onto this pile of clean clothes that I had

sitting in a corner next to my nightstand. I stand up. My phone dings; a missed call from last night. I glance at the screen just before it went dark. It was my father. Another ding; a voicemail. I ask Siri to play it for me; the unmistakable monotone voices of my brothers talking at once until their speech synced together in unison as Siri concludes my request.

My ENG1014 –The Soul of the Poetic Movement lay openly upside-down on my table. I

motion to close it, but something caught my attention; a highlighted line of poetry.

Page 29.

… line 63,

“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:”

I flip a couple of pages over.

It’s Title…

“Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” by, William

Wordsworth.

I wander into daydream back to a few days ago into last week; a Monday, to be exact. I

got help about this poem. It was due a week from then; a presentation in front of the class. The teacher was very nice. Very patient. I even shared a piece of my originals with him. I did not know what he was thinking, but his facial expressions were chatting up a storm. I would never forget his words that he said to me; that I—had a conversation inside of me. Waiting to be heard.

I lazily slink across my shaggy brown carpet into a hot-patch to thaw my anemic toes.

My mind lingering on his words… a conversation inside of me.

… a conversation?

I finger through my clothes for my phone; Contacts. I search out one name. Miss

Cheyenne Ridl… I can talk to her. She will understand. I dial the number.

We talk for a good thirty minutes; the usual catching-up with each other’s lives.

I tell her about the teacher’s meeting last week; the words he said to me. I tell her about

this morning; about the alarm, the text message, the missed call and voicemail. I tell her about this specific quote that I mention in my dream, and the meaning behind it from the poem by Wordsworth.

She asked to hear it; my dream.

I look at the timer on my phone. We were reaching almost an hour now that we were

talking. I ask if she were free the rest of the evening; I knew I would need it. Need the time. Need to fully explain the depth of this “… conversation inside of me.”

She replied, “Yes. Let’s talk.”

… and so, I began:

“...it was another boring day.

The hypnotic hum of the fluorescent lights echoes through the rectangular classroom. The drums of barren thunder pound outside.

Just another boring day…”