Episode 3

I woke up and I’m still in the same place. This can’t be, I shouldn’t be here, why am I still here? I sat up and gently pulled my hair out of frustration. This place isn’t real. It shouldn’t be real!

The firefly began buzzing softly, which irritates me. It doesn’t stop.

“Shut up, will ‘ya?!” The buzzing instantly stopped, and the lights went out as well. I’m being irrational and these innocent creatures are being affected. “I’m sorry, firefly. I’m just… frustrated.” She started lighting up again but it’s dim, just enough for me to see.

“Hey, kid?” Death said from outside the door. “Are you doing okay in there? You haven’t come out of there for three days and now I hear shouting. Do you need a hand?”

“No… I’m fine.”

“Okay then if you say so. But you gotta get outta there. Nothing will happen if you simply close yourself off because things aren't going in your favor.”

I don’t belong here.

In frustration, I kicked the floor, only to be met by a startling softness. This floor... shouldn't be this soft. As I bent down and investigated it attentively, my brow furrowed in confusion. The floor, which should have been firm and unyielding beneath my touch, felt enviously malleable. It felt like I'd walked onto a massive, gigantic biscuit. The texture was unusually crumbly, and as I scraped my nails against it, little crumbs appeared, as if the floor itself had been made of some edible stuff. My curiosity intensified when I moved my digging to the walls. To my surprise, they yielded in the same way, their surface bending with slight pressure. Is this... a biscuit? It felt like being stuck inside a massive biscuit with edible walls.

The room's aura took on a dreamlike character as if I'd strayed into a fictitious realm where everything was made of delectable delights. I tried to eat it, but it tastes more like burned bread than biscuits.

The linens and blankets that encircle the bed are unexpectedly sweet and made of flawless, melt-in-your-mouth thin white chocolate layers. A tinge of sweetness lingers on my skin when I run my fingers over their smooth surface. The pillows, on the other hand, provide a fluffy embrace with the delightful softness of plump marshmallows. They fall effortlessly with each squeeze, like clouds of sugary bliss. The space takes on an ethereal feel, a fanciful refuge where the lines between dessert and reality become blurred. It's a sensory experience that both confuses and tempts me as if I've discovered a hidden confectionary haven.

If someone saw me munching on the items in this room, they'd think I was insane. Fortunately, these are real food that I can eat, and I'm not simply chewing them because I have a pica* or anything.

I was filled with a mixture of frustration and amusement. How could such a place exist? Was it some kind of elaborate prank or a figment of my imagination?

Or am I possibly residing in the gingerbread house? And I am with a witch... who wants to eat me? But this Hansel and Gretel story is a Sloven folk tale. That's what I used to read to Kuro. Oh, my goodness, Kuro! She must be worried. And not to mention my brother! I should get out of here as quickly as possible. I need to wake up!

Frustration caused tears to well up in my eyes. I've never adored the sensation of crying. It's as if an invisible grip is squeezing my chest, tightening with each sob that passes my lips. My breathing becomes uneven as if my lungs are straining to keep up with the emotional waves that are washing over me. Tears trickle down my face, creating salty streaks that stick to my cheeks. The burden in my heart hangs on me like an anchor, drawing me further into a sea of perplexity and frustration.

The vulnerability of tears betraying my wish to remain strong is a feeling that I despise. I was five years old the last time I cried because of my father's beatings. The sensation in my chest is sickening. It's unpleasant yet I can't seem to stop. The air around me gets cloudy, and the world blurs as tears distort my vision. In this state of feeling powerless, I yearn for clarity, for the storm within me to calm down, and for the weight on my chest to lift, allowing me to find reassurance once more. Yes, it's peaceful here. And I wouldn't want to go if I could, but this isn't just about me. I could put up with my parents, but Kuro cannot and should not. Not if my brother and I can avoid it. Kuro should be here if this place is real. Death is a sweet and kind person… a witch rather?

I miss Kuro. And her cute little giggles, and her sweet smiles.

I tried hitting my head on the bed.

“I need to wake myself up.”

This bed is too soft. I need somewhere hard.

I tried the wall but it’s just as soft.

“Is there anything in this place that isn’t soft?”

I sat on the bed, beaten up. Maybe if I don’t move for the whole week, I’d finally wake up from this dream.

And a week has passed. A freaking week. And I’m still here looking like one hell of a mess.

“Asphalt, what time is it? We need to be early at the black market today.”

Time? Clocks cannot exist in dreams since dreams have nothing to do with time and we do not plan for our dreams. If there is, clocks operate unpredictably. Time changes as you look away and then back. It moves excessively swiftly forward or backward. Nonetheless, there are no proper clocks in dreams, as they are in practical lifetime frames.

I got up and left the room. This clock better not behave properly.

“Oh, look! The kid finally went out of its shell.” Death said mockingly.

“Where’s the clock?” I spoke.

“Too straightforward, ain’t ‘ya?” Death said while looking at me amusingly. “There’s one downstairs in one of the baskets.”

I hurriedly went downstairs and rummaged through the large baskets, my eyes scanning its contents with a mixture of curiosity and apathy. My gaze was drawn to a strange sight among the materials strewn inside: a cut wing of a bird, its feathers matted with crimson stains, and a creature's long, twisted intestine, shining with an uncanny sheen. Despite this gruesome exhibition, there was no indication of a clock. The contrast of the macabre and the absence of time taken aback me but yet oddly unaffected me. The textures were both unpleasant and intriguing, with the feather's exquisite yet tainted softness contrasting with the intestine's slimy, rubbery texture. I finally had my hopes that this is a dream when I saw one at the very bottom of the second basket. Ticking normally. I closed my eyes and looked at it again, but the time remained unchanged.

“This… this isn’t a dream.”

Pica* is an eating disorder in which a person would eat inedible things or things that are not usually considered food. This starts from infants to toddlers as they are curious about the world around them but once the habit persists to adulthood, seek medical help. (Ben-Joseph, 2019) According to Cleveland Clinic (2022), people with mineral, iron (anemia), calcium, zinc, or other deficiencies in their diet often show this habit as a sign of the deficiency.