Because You Can't Burn Ice or Ash
Simple writing practice, working mostly on things like voice and atmosphere.
They say I'm crazy, but I'm not. Not fully, not in the technical sense. I can tell reality from illusion just fine. This is reality right now, for instance. I'm lucid, clear. I can recognize it all - plain dull walls, thin old carpet underfoot. Plain bed in the corner to the right of the door. Toilet, sink and towels in the corner opposite the foot of the bed. It's been years, but they still don't trust me with a bath. I wish they would. I'm not like that any more. That was crazy back then, yes, but it was a different kind of crazy, a normal kind of crazy. It's not connected to me, not to my problems now. I got over that in the first year. In the meantime, though, I can keep myself clean enough with the towels and the water. There's a drain in the floor and they give me plenty of soap. A few years ago a guard was nice enough to cut my hair - shave it off, actually, so it would be years before it got long enough to bother me again. They gave me a hairbrush during the third year or so, too, although I couldn't use it until they cut it off the first time. It was already too tangled, you see. I just kept in the left-of-the-door corner, where I keep the two tunics.
I like this room, really. I hated it at first, but I've learned to like it here. I'm as close to happy as I ever am when I'm anchored. (That's how I think of it when I'm in reality - anchored. I told you I could tell the difference.) It's simple, it's safe. All white, everything. There's not much to process, which is a nice break from illusions. I don't like to think about the illusions when I'm in reality. They're upsetting enough when I'm in the middle of them. And besides, it might trigger them, and I don't want that. I like being anchored. It's so much easier.
I wish I could choose when I was or wasn't anchored. Then maybe they'd let me go. Maybe I could handle the world properly. Maybe I wouldn't have to like this room. That might be nice. I can't think about it too much, though. That's dreaming, and that's fantasy, and that isn't far from illusion, and I don't get enough of reality. I can tell I don't - that's part of how I'm not crazy. I can tell when I'm in illusions or I'm anchored, but I can't switch it on or off, you see. So I have to stay here. I've gotten used to it.
I can hear the guard coming now, so I get up - out of the third corner, the one I keep me in. A place for everything and everything in its place, that's nice. It's ordered and it's connected to reality. So I follow it. Right now, though, I have to go to my other place, on the bed. Otherwise they're going to Compel me. I don't like being Compelled. It isn't fair to take away my control when I actually have any. It was probably necessary during the first year, maybe even the second year too, but I've been cooperating ever since then. I asked them if they could just tell me when they needed me to be on the bed, or do something else, instead of Compelling me, but they couldn't get my caretakers to agree to it. So the guards just make sure to make enough noise that I can hear them coming, and usually I can tell what they need me to do, and I can do it before they'd have to Compel me. They still have to Contain me, of course, but being Contained is much better than being Compelled. Just staying on the bed is easy.
The guard is almost at the door when I remember I'm naked again. I like it better, but it makes the guards uncomfortable. I don't have time to grab for a tunic and be back in bed, so I scramble under the covers. I don't like scrambling, but I'm properly hidden by the time the Containment goes up. I'm relieved, because the guard is nice and I don't like to make him uncomfortable. He possesses an unfair enough job as it is.
"Hello, miss," he says, removing the food from the tray and placing it carefully, very carefully on the floor. Napkin spread out, then bread, then cheese, a very pale kind. I don't think I ever saw it before I came here. It's good, though. Mild.
"Hello, sir," I say, a touch belatedly. He looks at me warily, and for a moment I think I waited too long to respond; then I remember I've forgotten to vary the pitch of my voice. I try again. "How are you tonight?"
That seems to have gone better, because he looks calmer. "It's good, miss. I talked to my girl earlier tonight, which was nice. I don't get to see her much."
"Oh." That upsets me, in a sort of distant way. I don't like keeping my guards out here, but I can't help it.
"Got a treat for you tonight, miss," he says as he sets down my waterskin. He tugs a little box out of his coat and tips it out onto the napkin - a pile of strawberries, rich deep red ones. I smile.
"Thank you, mister."
"My pleasure, miss. You deserve some color in here." He hesitates, glancing around the room. "Maybe I shouldn't have picked strawberries, though."
"Why not?"
"Nothing. It just looks a bit creepy, you know? Since everything in here is white and then the berries're red." I stare at him, and he mumbles "It's sort of like one of those messed-up artsy paintings, is all. Seems strange."
"It doesn't matter," I assure him. "I'll eat the berries, and then it'll all be pale again." He shrugs uncomfortably and backs out.
"As long as you're comfortable with it, miss."
"Say hello to your girl for me the next time you see her," I call after him as he backs out. A moment later there's the shimmer of the Containment dropping, and I return happily to my corner. I prefer it during the day.
I misrepresented the truth to the guard, though. At least slightly. I do eat the berries, but not right away. Not until the lights switch to the half-light (still bright enough to read by, I think, although I can't test it) that lets me sleep. I spend the intervening time trying to get used to the color, and to understand what the guard meant about those messed-up artsy paintings. I don't see what's so messed up or so artsy about it.
They say I'm crazy, but I'm not. Not fully, not in the technical sense. I can tell reality from illusion just fine. This is reality right now, for instance. I'm lucid, clear. I can recognize it all - plain dull walls, thin old carpet underfoot. Plain bed in the corner to the right of the door. Toilet, sink and towels in the corner opposite the foot of the bed. It's been years, but they still don't trust me with a bath. I wish they would. I'm not like that any more. That was crazy back then, yes, but it was a different kind of crazy, a normal kind of crazy. It's not connected to me, not to my problems now. I got over that in the first year. In the meantime, though, I can keep myself clean enough with the towels and the water. There's a drain in the floor and they give me plenty of soap. A few years ago a guard was nice enough to cut my hair - shave it off, actually, so it would be years before it got long enough to bother me again. They gave me a hairbrush during the third year or so, too, although I couldn't use it until they cut it off the first time. It was already too tangled, you see. I just kept in the left-of-the-door corner, where I keep the two tunics.
I like this room, really. I hated it at first, but I've learned to like it here. I'm as close to happy as I ever am when I'm anchored. (That's how I think of it when I'm in reality - anchored. I told you I could tell the difference.) It's simple, it's safe. All white, everything. There's not much to process, which is a nice break from illusions. I don't like to think about the illusions when I'm in reality. They're upsetting enough when I'm in the middle of them. And besides, it might trigger them, and I don't want that. I like being anchored. It's so much easier.
I wish I could choose when I was or wasn't anchored. Then maybe they'd let me go. Maybe I could handle the world properly. Maybe I wouldn't have to like this room. That might be nice. I can't think about it too much, though. That's dreaming, and that's fantasy, and that isn't far from illusion, and I don't get enough of reality. I can tell I don't - that's part of how I'm not crazy. I can tell when I'm in illusions or I'm anchored, but I can't switch it on or off, you see. So I have to stay here. I've gotten used to it.
I can hear the guard coming now, so I get up - out of the third corner, the one I keep me in. A place for everything and everything in its place, that's nice. It's ordered and it's connected to reality. So I follow it. Right now, though, I have to go to my other place, on the bed. Otherwise they're going to Compel me. I don't like being Compelled. It isn't fair to take away my control when I actually have any. It was probably necessary during the first year, maybe even the second year too, but I've been cooperating ever since then. I asked them if they could just tell me when they needed me to be on the bed, or do something else, instead of Compelling me, but they couldn't get my caretakers to agree to it. So the guards just make sure to make enough noise that I can hear them coming, and usually I can tell what they need me to do, and I can do it before they'd have to Compel me. They still have to Contain me, of course, but being Contained is much better than being Compelled. Just staying on the bed is easy.
The guard is almost at the door when I remember I'm naked again. I like it better, but it makes the guards uncomfortable. I don't have time to grab for a tunic and be back in bed, so I scramble under the covers. I don't like scrambling, but I'm properly hidden by the time the Containment goes up. I'm relieved, because the guard is nice and I don't like to make him uncomfortable. He possesses an unfair enough job as it is.
"Hello, miss," he says, removing the food from the tray and placing it carefully, very carefully on the floor. Napkin spread out, then bread, then cheese, a very pale kind. I don't think I ever saw it before I came here. It's good, though. Mild.
"Hello, sir," I say, a touch belatedly. He looks at me warily, and for a moment I think I waited too long to respond; then I remember I've forgotten to vary the pitch of my voice. I try again. "How are you tonight?"
That seems to have gone better, because he looks calmer. "It's good, miss. I talked to my girl earlier tonight, which was nice. I don't get to see her much."
"Oh." That upsets me, in a sort of distant way. I don't like keeping my guards out here, but I can't help it.
"Got a treat for you tonight, miss," he says as he sets down my waterskin. He tugs a little box out of his coat and tips it out onto the napkin - a pile of strawberries, rich deep red ones. I smile.
"Thank you, mister."
"My pleasure, miss. You deserve some color in here." He hesitates, glancing around the room. "Maybe I shouldn't have picked strawberries, though."
"Why not?"
"Nothing. It just looks a bit creepy, you know? Since everything in here is white and then the berries're red." I stare at him, and he mumbles "It's sort of like one of those messed-up artsy paintings, is all. Seems strange."
"It doesn't matter," I assure him. "I'll eat the berries, and then it'll all be pale again." He shrugs uncomfortably and backs out.
"As long as you're comfortable with it, miss."
"Say hello to your girl for me the next time you see her," I call after him as he backs out. A moment later there's the shimmer of the Containment dropping, and I return happily to my corner. I prefer it during the day.
I misrepresented the truth to the guard, though. At least slightly. I do eat the berries, but not right away. Not until the lights switch to the half-light (still bright enough to read by, I think, although I can't test it) that lets me sleep. I spend the intervening time trying to get used to the color, and to understand what the guard meant about those messed-up artsy paintings. I don't see what's so messed up or so artsy about it.