Act One: Materia Prima - Chapter 2

The man was standing on a green strip of land. Around him? Rolling hills. Green as well. Cut through by a single river. And there were flowers. Lots of them. Blue, yellow, red, pink, white. Above him? Deep blue skies. No clouds. And no sun? There was no sun. Where was he? How did he get here?

And then it hit him. He did not feel tired at all. How? He always felt tired. It was his normal. The drug-induced veil he had deliberately imposed on his senses had vanished. Those memories? Those were still foggy. Good.

He lowered his head. What was he wearing? Normal business attire. Minus the jacket. Shirt sleeves still rolled up. Dressed well. As usual. Not suitable for hiking.

He wanted to run his right hand through his hair. He held on to something. Loosened his grip. It gently fell onto the grass. His leather briefcase. Where was he? How did he get here?

He looked into the distance. Boundless green. Light gray mist dimmed the horizon. He whirled around. To his left? The same. To his right? Still. Behind him? The river flowed downstream there. A far away forest. Vast and looming. Did it matter where he was? Did it matter how he did get here? No.

Memories rose from the fog that weighed heavily on his memories. Afterlife? To him that word was dripping with bitterness. Laughable. Did he survive and just fell asleep? With all those pills? And the alcohol? Impossible. Someone could have found him. A coma. Who would have wanted to see him? No one. But the only explanation. Did it matter? No.

So much lucidity. That was not what he wanted. He would not accept this helplessness. The decision about the end was his to be made. His alone. Right? Maybe he could do it again. In this world that must have had sprang from his subconscious.

He could feel the weight of his briefcase. Maybe there was something useful in there. Maybe if he could imagine it. A knife? More pills? Anything? He sat the leather pouch down. Opened it. The main compartment contained nothing but sheets of paper. The smaller ones? Many Pencils. Nothing else He never used pencils. No laptop. Nothing else he used in his day-to-day business. Nothing he had wished for. Pandora’s box was empty. Even hope had escaped.

He picked up a pencil. Sharp. He knew where his radial artery ran. Closed his left hand. Pressed the pencil tip roughly against it. Felt the pressure. Let go. He could not do it. The idea of pain. Of blood. Of the time it would take. A method that made it quick. Or one that took it out of his control. That was what he needed.

There were no great heights in his vicinity. The river? He would not be able to do it. At least not without weights. Perhaps if he followed it upstream. Steeper hills. Rocks to weigh him down. Cliffs above deep valleys. Beyond the mist.

Clear blue sky. Mist-shrouded horizon. Bright daylight. No sun. It did not have to make sense. It was not real. Whatever. He set off.

-

Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Hours passed.

-

Maybe time worked differently here. The man had no watch to check. Never wore one. Hated them. Hated clocks. No two ticks the same. It would never stop.

The landscape had not changed much. The stream had gotten smaller. He had passed some confluences. Always followed the biggest body of water. By now it was more of a creek than a river.

He walked and walked. Took no break. Did not tire. The rhythm of his steps was steady. Became meditative. Soothed his mind. No unwanted thoughts. Mind focused on the goal. Nothing else. Maybe he could just walk forever. One direction. Never look back.

More time passed. Maybe another hour. The hills got a bit steeper. The same green. The same flowers. Something stirred his dulled senses. Something had changed. In the distance. A pond from which his little lifeline sprung. The creek he had followed to this place.

He went on. Toward the pooling water. More emerged from the mist. A road? No. A beaten path. Wooden fence along the path. Good condition. Maybe there were people around. Probably people he used to know. Clawing their way from his subconscious. Right? He had to remind himself that all of this was not real.

The path led up the hills behind the source of his little stream. Still not tired. He approached. Paused. No hunger. No thirst.

He knelt over the clear water. Mirror image. Chin-length hair. It was him. He cupped his hands together. Scooped up some water. Drank. Refreshing with a strong hint of minerals. Like the Curative water his grandmother gave him when he was sick. Some kind of carbonate. He did not remember.

He scooped up some more. Let it run through his fingers into the pond. He stood up. Back to the path. It wound its way up. Uphill he walked.

The first fence. Wattle. Simple construction method. A job well done nonetheless. He once had built these in elementary school. Big project. Many pairs. They had so much fun together. Together? With whom?

A sharp pain shot through the back of his head. The mist had suddenly grown very close. Four steps ahead. It looked radically different. True black. Smoke? No. More like spores. He took a step towards it. The spores retreated. He continued his path uphill. The spores retreated further. He picked up the pace. Unreachable. The distance remained the same.

He stood still. Closed his eyes. Had he not thought about something important just a moment ago? Yes. Weights or a steep cliff. His goal was set. He opened his eyes. The darkness was gone. The light gray mist far away. He was not surprised. Had not been right in the head for a long time. Certain he would encounter more mysterious nonsense.

A deep sigh escaped his chest. The first sound he had uttered in this fever dream. He did not complain. Time to put some work in. He was always the first to arrive and the last to leave the office. Escaping life’s grasp a second time could not be that difficult.

He felt whether his sleeves were still in place. Whether his shirt was still neatly tucked into his trousers. Continued on his way. The top of the hill came into view. Great strides. Almost there.

A valley stretched out before him. As green as everything in this world seemed to be. Except for the center. A smaller mound rose gently from the it. Upon it a wooden mansion. No discernible architectural style. Partly cobbled-together. Quite cozy.

A garden stretched down around it. Probably vegetables and herbs. A few trees. Apples. The planted soil was enclosed by wooden things. Woven. They also stood alongside the path. All the way from the pond to the house. To separate the path from the green. That was their purpose.

He let his gaze linger on the valley. Noticed something out of the corner of his left eye. Whirled around. Not something. Someone. A girl was sitting in the grass. Not far away. She was staring at him. Genuine surprise flashed across her face. Mouth agape. Eyes wide open.