A Dream

DISCLAIMER: Fictional. Based on a dream I had, and as such possibly indicitive of something personal, but not intended to be anything specific...as far as I am aware.

Also. Written in second-person personal. I don't like things written this way either, but that's how it came out the ends of my fingers. If you intend to bitch about the fact that it's second-person personal, please move on.

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You awake in the centre of a small room, with no memory of how you have come here. The walls are dark, the room dry. The atmosphere feels carefully measured, almost pressurized. Against the wallpaper, itself drab and eerie, rest seven large suitcases. They seem old, they feel as if they have travelled. The door is across from you, in the corner and to the left - if it could be called a door. It would be more accurate to say that it was an opening between the corner and the wall. The opening was crude, and was covered from the outside with a barred door roughly drilled into the wall. You can see the bottoms of the screws protruding through the thick concrete where the wallpaper peels.

It is here, next to the bars, that he stands. Tall. Twitchy. Scruffy. But definitely a man. He is hunched, his eyes fixed beyond the room, every muscle of his shoulders tensed. His body is the picture of immobility.

You risk a movement toward the suitcases, your foot, calloused, scrapes against the floor briefly.

The other, stronger, male turns, his facial expression betraying his fear. Additionally, it would seem, his surprise. Behind the eyes...can you spot it? His indifference. It isn't about you.

"You're..." he begins, but before those hated eyes can begin to fixate on your form, before you have to time to recognize that he has felt your presence again, before you can even register that his being has reached toward your own, there is the unmistakeable sound of key turning in a large, heavy lock. It resonates. Time stops as the bars covering the door swing outward, seemingly of their own will.

"He escaped again! C'mon!" the hurried voice whispered. The voice came from somewhere that was not the room. Your mind works to connect the voice with the sound of the key. You try to sort out the meaning behind the event...but the taller man is much quicker. Or, perhaps, more prepared. A fox from a fire, he bolts through the door, slamming the barred gate absent-mindedly behind him as the sound of his own bare feet clapping reach you, alone, in a room you only now realize is dark. The gate rebounds off the locking mechanism, without catching, the opening to the room yawning slowly. Invitingly.

You watch the door. A second person runs past, a blur of flesh and muddled fabric. 'No,' you think, 'a third person. Someone must have opened the door before.' ...slowly your eyes turn to the suitcases. You rise to your feet, aware now that you had remained frozen in the same crouch where the man had caught you half-way between lying and standing, and move toward the suitcases, opening each of them in turn.

Clothing waited for you in one. Suits, mainly, but also sweaters, cardigans, dress shirts, boxers.
In another, books. Literature. History. Psychology. Biology.
Toiletries. Banal.
...folding furniture. Folding chairs, folding tables, assembling book-cases. A folding cot with an inflatable mattress.

Gradually you begin to piece the room together, almost on instinct more than anything. Cot in the right, toward the back, with the inflatable mattress on top. You find several racks that can be assembled to create a place to properly hang the clothing. You find an ironing board to place next to that. The window, at the back, near the center, was the ideal place for a large desk that takes you several minutes to assemble. Next to the desk, you arrange the book-cases you have assembled. A folding chair for the desk. To the left of the desk, two more folding chairs - an impromteau sitting room. Another shelf for the numerous fine alcohols that were enclosed in one of the suitcases to make the sitting room more comfortable. A small sink in the back-left corner becomes adorned with the aforementioned banal toiletries. Each piece of furniture, clothing...everything to the last piece of kitsch seems to flow to it's appropriate place naturally. You do not understand who you were...but, somehow, this does not bother you. The only thing that seems to matter is to prepare the room the way you know it is meant to be. What DOES bother you is an inescapable feeling that none of these items that you are arranging so carefully and lovingly belong to you. Rather, it feels that you are preparing for an event altogether outside of you. You have no doubt that this has everything to do with you...but you do not feel that this is YOUR sitting room, YOUR desk...but rather that you serve a very different function, something just outside your grasp.

...one suitcase remains. You missed it before, for it was dwarfed by the other, extra-large pieces of luggage. This was more of a duffel bag. You zip it open, slowly, your eyes widening. There. On top. Your hands reach down, reverantly, shaking as they remove the slim leather collar. Slowly a smile spreads across your face, fighting its way through the shock. ...of course. In a rehearsed motion, you slip the collar around your neck, finding no surprise at its well-worn comfort and fit. You remove each item, generalized impressions born from tens of memories aching within you as you feel each item, placing them beneath the cot.

These were what was yours.

YOUR gag.
YOUR leash.
YOUR harness.
YOUR chastity belt.
YOUR water bowl.

With each item you draw yourself inexorably closer to the truth. That man...is your Master. This is HIS room. And HIS things. ...and you are HIS. Brightly you arrange the remaining items beneath your Master's bed, where you know they belong. You secure your chain leash to the bottom of his desk, and find that it runs the perfect length to a large cushion beneath the desk, at the foot of the chair. At the top of the room, across from the desk, where the suitcases had been stacked, you feel the perfect place for the final item...a large steel cage in pieces.

Grasping the pieces in your hands, you begin to assemble...your eyes glossing over as you think back on the past few hours. With a start, you realize that the door is still open. '...right.' You remember, gradually, 'Master...went away.' Your mind works as you force another piece of steel into another piece of steel, the satisfying click completing a corner of the cage.

'...why?' A part of your mind tugged at the thought. ...some man had come. Unlocked the room. And told Master that 'he' had escaped again. ...who was he?

THUNK. The bottom of the cage is completed. You continue, working upward.

'Master must have gone to catch him.' you tell your mind, your hands working on auto-pilot.

A thought. ...you stop. '...Master looked so scared...so white...'

...he did. Your hands redouble their efforts, numbly building the cage as your mind hunts for a logical answer.

'Why are we here?' your mind screams, insistently. ...why is anyone anywhere? ...but this was Master's place. Of course it was. ...wasn't it?

'It it's his, why did he run?'

THUNK...CLICK...THUH-DUNK. ...the cage is complete. But you do not move. You sit before it...this last thought forcing itself to the top of your mind again and again. Why did he run? WHY? ...did he not want you anymore?

No. It couldn't be that.

...and, still, his face comes to your mind. That fear. That indifference. That self-serving coldness.

Automatically, your mind numb from fear and uncertainty, you strip off the tattered shirt and boxers you had been wearing, tossing them in the corner beneath the sink. You lie beneath the large desk on your cushion, tether yourself there with the leash...and, slowly, focus inward. Your body responds. Then, on your side, in the fetal position, you turn your thoughts back to your Master. Your thoughts circle, dust in a windstorm of confused event. Slowly your eyes wander to the chain...and then, again, to the still open door.

'...was Master...a prisoner?' Your mind is numb. Afraid. But that door...it didn't seem like it belonged to your Master. Not in the same way. Again, your mind tugged: '...am I...the slave...of...a slave...?'

Gradually your consciousness shifts. Your breathing deepens. ...you fall asleep.