Chapter 7 – Reality

The silence in his mind was deafening.

He was a fucking idiot. There was no other way to put it. He’d let them lead him here under false pretenses and he hadn’t seen it coming… again.

How many times did he have to play the victim before he’d get it?

He didn’t turn towards the door. He didn’t pound at it, demanding to be let out, and he didn’t ask if anyone was inside the room with him.

Instead, he moved further into the room until his cane touched a chair, and sat down. He’d wait for whoever it was to come, and God help them when they did, because he wasn’t in the mood to take any prisoners.

A few minutes passed without a sound… not even footsteps coming from outside the room. Perhaps the room was soundproof; it would certainly make sense.

Another minute passed, and he shifted in his chair. Ironically enough, he was beginning to wish Cecelia was here after all.

Tucking his cane away, he took his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one.

The though of Cecelia was distracting as he rifled through his coat pockets for a lighter. He was in a whole new shit-storm now, and it was beginning to become apparent that Cecelia was an increasingly important part of this whole conspiracy.

In his right coat pocket his fingers brushed against something that felt cold and metallic. It also didn’t feel familiar at all.

He pulled the object out of his pocket and examined it. The shape was distinct, and it didn’t take long to figure out that it was a key. But it was no house key, or modern key of any kind; it felt like an antique skeleton key; the sort one would see in the eighteen hundreds used to lock the psychotic family member away in the basement.

Frowning, Sands turned it over in his hand a few more times before dropping it back into his pocket and resuming the hunt for his lighter. He could worry about where it came from later.

He leaned back and sighed as he found the object of his search. Lighting up and taking a deep drag he pondered the current situation he now found himself in.

He did his best thinking while smoking. Perhaps he should never stop.

He was locked in a sanitarium, he felt like shit, and he hadn’t a clue where Cecelia was tucked away… or even who was responsible for this whole mess in the first place.

How did his father fit into all of this? Or was that all part of the game? Did it mean the Company had somehow gotten his evidence from Mexico from dear old dad?

How did Ava’s death tie in? Or did it?

The plucking of a guitar string caught his attention, and he nearly dropped the cigarette from between his fingers in his surprise. It had been short, out of tune, and barely audible.

No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t audible. He didn’t feel like anyone was in the room with him, and it sounded… outside of himself somehow.

Odd.

His stomach cramped up painfully, and he realized his palms were sweaty.

Sick… he was just getting sick, was all. Maybe it was the flu. He needed rest.

The clink of a boot made him stand. He caught his balance, his hand going out to grasp the back of the chair.

The sounds couldn’t be real – had to be in his mind – and that made the situation even more disturbing. It was like what he’d heard in the park, only then it had seemed real. Now, there was an off and somehow unreal quality that was hard to describe.

The knowledge that he was hearing things didn’t make him feel any better, however.

He held a palm to his forehead, realizing how much he’d begun to sweat as his hand pulled away sticky and damp. He fell back down onto the chair as a rush of dizziness hit him and his stomach twisted uneasily again.

He’d always wondered if the room could swim if you couldn’t see it. He was unhappy to report that the answer was yes.

“The window.”

His head tilted to the side.

Window?

Ah yes, perhaps there was a window? He took another hit off his cigarette, standing again, arms outstretched, his cane remaining tucked away in his coat, forgotten.

Sands walked forward until his hands made contact with the wall directly in front of him. He ran his right palm searchingly along its smooth surface until he encountered the corner.

He moved onto the next wall, doing the same thing. Then the next. He found the door he’d entered through; tried it, and found it locked.

Taking his hands off the wall he stood in front of the door for a moment. Sticking the smoldering cigarette between his lips, he dug into his coat pocket and came up with the key he’d found earlier.

Maybe his family wanted him to get out of the basement?

He felt for a keyhole the key would fit into, but came up with nothing. He held it in his hand a moment, still curious as to why the hell he had such an outdated key in his pocket.

Well, only a matter of time before he figured it out…

“It’s only a matter of time…”

Sands felt a chill crawl up his spine. Cecelia had told him that the other day... at the theatre.

No, that wasn’t right.

Sands dropped the key into his pocket and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. That had been a dream. He hadn’t met Cecelia at the theatre in reality. In reality it had been…

Who had it been again?

“Can’t unlock the door if you don’t have the key.” Sands spun around at the sound of Cecelia’s voice behind him.

“Where’s the right key?”

He hadn’t even realized that he wasn’t seeing her until she suddenly appeared in the chair. Darkness surrounded her, and she held up a key in her right hand, smiling mischievously. “Oh, dear. It seems like I have it. Too bad for you. Guess now you’ll have to come see me.”

“What?” he asked, thoroughly confused. His head began to pound, a nasty stab of pain hitting him squarely between the eyes. “I see you now.”

“No you don’t.”

She was gone. He turned back towards the door; it was gone too.

His breathing hitched a bit as panic started to set in. The cigarette began to burn his fingers, and he dropped it, continuing his search. Was it just him or was the wall closer than it was the last time he touched it?

“Window, window, window…” he whispered to himself, continuing his circuit around the room, stopping only after he realized that he’d felt-out seven walls when there were probably only four.

Sands paused his frantic efforts, hands still against the wall, and attempted to crack his stiff neck. Why was he looking for a window, again?

He dropped his hands back down to his side.

Shit. This wasn’t good.

Like slow-roasted pork that’s too good…

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling the stray strands off his face. He took off his coat and threw it across the room. It was hot as hell in this little room.

That’s why he was sweating. It must be the hot noonday sun; the arid Mexican heat made it feel that much hotter outside.

He shook his head as his senses suddenly dulled, as if being smothered by a thick blanket, making everything outside of it muffled and unclear.

He took a deep breath in the stifling heat, fumbling as he grabbed his pack of cigarettes.

Wait, didn’t he just have one in his hand?

Wasn’t there now. Shrugging it off, he stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and noticed the faint sound of… what was that? Talking?

He walked forward, his legs like jelly, his breath quicker than it should have been. The voices became louder.

Hand in front of him again, he came in contact with the cold, smooth wall. Yes, the voices were coming from the other side. The sound of laughing hit him first, and then a man boasting about how important he was.

He pressed his ear against the wall, holding his breath as he did so, but it was quiet now. He breathed silently through his nose, and waited. His hands were frozen against the wall, and his whole body tense.

Ten seconds, then there was movement on the other side of the wall… someone moving closer. That was good. He couldn’t hear what was going on.

A woman’s voice. “Sorry, Baby.”

Familiar.

“Who are you spying on now, Shelly?” Cecelia asked, her voice coming from right beside his ear. He jumped slightly despite himself, and the cigarette that was dangling between his lips fell to the floor. He hadn’t heard her approach.

He turned to look at her but it was so dark he could barely make out her features. He pushed himself away from the wall and she followed as he walked back to the chair.

He sat down, and she perched herself on the arm of the chair. A glimmer of light from the street light below filtered in through the open window behind her.

“You’re such a snoop,” Cecelia said. His gaze shifted from the window to her face, just barely lit by the faint glow. It was just enough to make out her small smile and teasing eyes; the rest of her was only a silhouette – gray against the impossible darkness that engulfed the rest of the room.

“I think our neighbors are having freaky Friday,” he drawled, amused.

She slapped him playfully on the shoulder but he didn’t really feel it. For a second his vision seemed to blur. Cecelia’s silhouetted form shifted into two, and then back to one again, like a ghosted image on an old television set. He brought a hand up to his face to rub his tired eyes. Only, he found glasses in his way. When did he put those on?

Confusion furrowing his brow, he took them off. Who wore sunglasses in the middle of the night?

“Ceceli-“ he began to ask, but she wasn’t there any more. Neither was the window, or anything else.

His breath caught in his throat, his lips parted slightly, and someone stuck his forgotten cigarette between his lips.

His mouth closed around it instinctively, and he became aware that he was shivering, nauseous and dizzy.

He was fucked up, to put it simply.

“Powerful stuff,” said an unfamiliar voice to his left. The voice was that of an older man, with no discernable accent, but a distinct no-nonsense tone.

Sands doubled over when another violent cramp hit him and someone grabbed hold of his arm to keep him from falling out of the chair and onto the ground.

A second set of hands grasped his other arm roughly, rolling up his sleeve. He was in too much pain to struggle, or even voice his protest as he began to gag, unable to breathe.

He didn’t have time to comprehend what was happening to him, pain exploding in his lungs as he struggled for air.

Something pierced his skin – most likely a needle – and within twenty seconds his senses snapped back into focus. The pain spread from his lungs, up his throat and straight into his head, becoming unbearable.

Before he knew it, he was on the floor, hands holding him down by the shoulders.

“Damn it! You assured me we had time!” a second person said directly above him, sounding angry. Again familiar, yet their identity hopelessly lost to him… he couldn’t think or concentrate, and was only certain of two things; he was in excruciating pain, and he was about to die.