A Quick Equation

I've figured out what makes a nightmare.

All it takes is some ominous advice from Jay:

"See, that's the problem with writing so much. You're spending too much time in your own head; you're going crazy."

And couple Heinekens, a Seven-and-Seven, a couple glasses of red wine, and a half-cup of cold, black coffee. (One thing I'll say for Catholics, they sure know how to party after a baptism.)

You would think that this simple equation would lead to a night of peaceful slumber, but no, it didn't. Not at all.

I fell asleep for the second night in a row long before my usual dawn bedtime. And for the second night in a row I didn't follow my nightly ritual of writing that I've been following pretty strictly lately.

I just lay in bed at 2 am, thinking a lot about what Jay had said. Because to be honest, I had already had similar concerns.

At some point, I fell asleep.

Shortly after that, my subconscious mind decided to go town and not tell my conscious mind anything about it.

So the next thing I know...

I'm in this grey, concrete prison. There are no bars, just a series of connected rooms with no exit. There are other prisoners there. We are all wearing orange jumpsuits. There isn't much to do in this prison, but that's as bad as it seems. I don't hear anyone ever talking, so I don't either.

A lot of the prisoners lie in their beds most of the day in the sleeping hall. Some of them just sit in the one of the bigger rooms. There are no chairs, no furniture of any kind except for the beds, so they all just sit on the floor.

There aren't guards or wardens either, but some of the prisoners seem to know what needs to be done and all the rest of us follow their lead.

This is all very boring. Not awful, just very boring.

One of the leader prisoners comes up to me and hands me some paper and a pen. I'm happy, because now I can at least do something. So I sit in the main room with everyone else and scribble away on my paper. It's not so bad. I am enjoying being able to write so much. I think of this great idea for a story...

Days pass. Each one is very much the same as the next, but not in the story I'm writing. In my story characters are being heroic and funny, making new friends and enemies, righting wrongs and getting into wacky misadventures. Even when I'm not writing, I'm thinking and wondering what will happen next. I'm enjoying myself immensely.

I'm writing a lot now, and every few days the leader prisoner will bring me some more fresh, clean, beautiful, white, new, paper to write on.

One day I am writing away as usual and I realize my story is almost done. I'm a bit sad because I'll miss my characters, but I'm quivering with pride that I made something so wonderful. I finish up the last page, write a big, bold, THE END, and take the last pages over to my bed to put with the rest of my story. I arrange them neatly, place them under my bed, and lie down for a nap.

"Shall we see what our little prodigy has been working on?" says a loud, chiding, voice. This are the first words I've heard in a long time, and it takes me time to absorb the fact that I've just heard a human voice. It doesn't make me happy, because even before I fully grasp the words I've already recognized that bullying tone. Whatever is going to happen next is not going to be good.

I become fully awake and try to leap out of my bed, but I end up taking all my sheets with me and fall to the ground. Two of the leader prisoners grab my arms while I'm still tangled up in my sheets and pin me to the floor. One sticks his knee in my back, sending shockwaves down my spine. I struggle, but it's useless.

The leader prisoner that had given me the paper and pen in the first place is holding up my story. He is the one who has spoken. And just from the way he is holding it, I know that I hate him. "So what is this supposed to be, huh?" he goads again.

"It's my story, and I wrote it!" I manage to sound indignant through the pain in my back. My voice is clear, despite not having spoken for so long.

The leader prisoner leafs through the pages. His eyes look amused. He holds the story up distastefully. "This is the dullest story I've ever seen!" He proclaims. He grins at me and I grow sick. Whatever is going to happen next is not going to be good.

In one swift movement, he rips the pages in half and throws them up in the air. I make a choked scream and try to lunge at him, but I'm still being held fast. My eyes fill with tears and I begin to let out these strange, strangled, sobs. I keep struggling, but it grows weaker and weaker as the shreds of my story rain down all around me.

The leader prisoner laughs. He turns on his heel and begins to walk out. The other leader prisoners let me go and walk out also. I remain on the floor and try to stop shaking. I get weakly to my knees and begin gathering up the pieces of my story to try to put them back together.

But something is wrong. I'm not seeing any of my handwriting. I pick up one page and look at it. It's an old supply order for some basic toiletry items. I let if fall and pick up another page. It's an authorization form for a Transportation of Prisoner, with a name I don't recognize. The date says it's from months ago. I throw it from me and grab another page. It's last week's menu from the dining facility. And so it goes with every page I pick up, and I pick up every single one to make sure. A form for a uniform adjustment. A form to order more laundry detergent. There are even a few pages of what look like court transcripts.

All the pages are old, useless, documents. There's no trace of me having written on them. Not a single word of my story is on them. And I'm trying to understand, maybe they stole my story and just switched it with these papers. And then I realize, for the first time, that I can't remember a word of my own story. I can't think of a single character, not one joke, and none of the wacky misadventures. I realize that I can clearly remember being given paper...but that now I can't remember ever being given a pen.

The next thing I realize is that this probably isn't a prison at all.

The leader prisoner walks back in to find me still on the floor, crying. "Hey, don't worry about it," he says in mock consolation, "I'm sure you'll remember the next story you write."

I get the haunting feeling that he has said those exact words to me many, many, times before.

THE END

* * * * *

Is there a moral to this story? If there is, let me know. So far, I think it means that I should chill out for a while.