The Time Now 1.1

Just a couple more hours until you die again. It's not fun—really—it never was. At least, not for you. So you open a door in your mind into another reality. A sanctuary. [pause; breath] Part one. The Time Now. Sanctuary [pause; breath] This is where I go in when I need some time out. It’s not much, really—just a spiral staircase with a glass roof over my head. At my left, there’s a wall with a sign: under construction. At my right are hundreds of flights of stairs going down into darkness. I don’t remember where the bottom is—lost somewhere in my infancy—or before that. It’s quiet here and lonely. Even so, it’s not the quietest place I’ve ever been to. That place is locked up somewhere below me, maybe a dozen stories down the stairs. I don’t ever wanna go back to that place. Being by myself here isn’t the worst company. I prefer it to the one I left outside… or is it inside? I laugh. It’s all just a matter of point of view. Next to me, a door I never dared to open before glimmers faintly. My fingers brush against its surface—cool and smooth, like Abba’s skin. And then, without meaning to, I step through. [pause; breath] Here I am, lying in bed, half-covered in fine sheets, eyes wide open, watching the sky painted in soft streaks of dawn. The dome’s glass walls are foggy from the cold, but light still pierces through. I turn on my side and stare toward the east. There’s a strange feeling, like something is missing—A tank. A massive water tank should be there. I see it in my mind: dark waters and a shadow circling inside. A shark, endlessly moving. And blood in the water. Flesh torn. I blink the vision away. A dream, I tell myself. Just a bad dream. I would never do that to Abba. Never. [pause; breath] Turning back, I see Abba standing by the glass wall, watching the clouds. I linger on the edge of the bed, watching. Visions from the dream still press against my mind — a memory of blood and death that I cannot hold, cannot name. But I know — I would never do that to them. [pause; breath] Abba turns, as if sensing the storm inside me. Their gaze softens. "Hey," they whisper, voice still heavy with sleep. "Hey," I whisper back. “You’re awake.” I nod, throat too tight to speak. They step closer. Fingers reach out, brush the edge of my sleeve — a touch so careful it makes me ache. “Still afraid?” I swallow. “Not of you.” [pause; breath] A smile flickers — tender, but something in it breaks. “Good,” they whisper. “You shouldn’t be.” [pause; breath] They adjust the folds of my robe — soft fingers against my wrist, lingering too long. Then, a murmur: "You’re always in your head. Stay here with us. Remember.” I nod. And for a moment, I believe I can. But I blink, and I’m back on the stairs. The door swings shut behind me—as though the memory never existed. But Abba’s smile is still burned into my mind. And so is the shark. So is the blood. I gaze at the sky through the glazed ceiling. The clouds are swiftly swayed by the wind, and I watch them numbly. My mind goes still. I rest like this until a voice calls, pulling me back to reality. [pause; breath] “Come. Time.” [pause; breath] Two out of the two hundred words it knows. You let yourself slide under the water. It engulfs you completely. You hold your breath. It’s warm and soft. And you wish you could stay longer. [pause; breath] “Time. Time.” [pause; breath] The words ripple through the water, distorted, eerie. You grab the bathtub’s edge and pull yourself up. Soaked, heavy, dripping. A large soft cloth envelopes you as you step out. You let yourself be pampered, a smile of contempt on your lips. It’s not like you have a choice. So you get embalmed with all that stuff and drift away again, out on the staircase, watching clouds mindlessly. [pause; breath]