Cathedral of Dreams

by Terry Persun

  The doctor had already slid the blade across Keith's arm, and now reached in with the pliers and tugged an oblong component from the arm. The pink device was still connected through vein-like appendages. The doctor replaced the blade in the stand, picked up a pair of small scissors, and snipped each of the appendages to free the chip.

  With each cut, Keith felt a rush of unbelievable energy crash through his nervous system. Images of people burst before his eyes. He recognized his parents, siblings he realized he had not seen for years, and other people he didn't know. Images of hospitals came too. And then the pain. His arm could not move, either of them. His head ached like never before. He felt nauseous, but didn't vomit. Instead, when the bile rose into his throat, he swallowed, then screamed. As his mouth opened and the sound came out, it hurt his ears. He felt embarrassed. He felt angry. He hated the doctor for removing the chip. He hated the boy, too, until the image of the boy appeared before him and then he screamed from fear, the horrible image of the seeping hole, the blood, the utter impossibility of the boy's existence.

  Keith began to scream, “No!” over and over again. Then he stopped. Something heavy crushed against his chest. His headache intensified, as though his skull had been split open. His tightly closed eyes burned. He let them crack open just enough to see what happened next.

  The doctor tied off a few stitches, and snipped the thread. “That wasn't as bad as some I've seen.” He patted Keith's hand and removed the straps.

  Keith just sat there breathing heavily. He closed his eyes again then opened them. The room was lighted by a strip of bulbs that stretched across one of the walls. An overhead lamp had been turned off, but still held its position above the chair. His face felt flushed, beads of sweat cooled at the edges of his hairline, and his heart beat uncontrollably.

  “You'll want to rest. You can lie down on the couch in the other room if you like.” The doctor rose from the stool.

  “The images?” Keith said with a scratchy, dry voice.

  “Memories, most likely,” the doctor said. “You can ask questions about that later. For now, you rest, let your emotions level out and readjust.”

  Keith climbed from the chair and found an unstable stance. He reached to take hold of the back of the chair until his legs regained balance. The stitched area of his arm itched, but he didn't touch it.

  “Need help?” the doctor said.

  Keith shook his head. “I can do it.”

  With a shrug, the doctor reached down and picked up the towel, walked it over to a hamper, and dropped it inside. “You've got to get some dry clothes. I'll have someone drop them off while you sleep.”

  “I'm not going to sleep.” Keith straightened and walked through the door and into the waiting area where he sat in the cushioned chair. He plopped down and put his head back. Chilled, he wrapped his arms around his chest.

  It sounded as though the doctor was cleaning the instruments from the tray. He rustled around in the other room for a few minutes before Keith heard a door open and close. Then there was only silence.

  He stared at the ceiling, which was speckled with dark spots over white paint that had faded to yellow. The corners of the room appeared dirty and the walls, he realized, were not originally blue-green, but had turned that color from age. The longer he sat, the more the chair felt grimy and the more uncomfortable he became. That was until he began to pay attention to his senses, which slowly drew him to a variety of things he had not noticed. Already, what he looked at had adjusted and changed. Next came what he heard. It was not so silent in the room after all. A buzzing came from one of the walls. He could hear the people talking and yelling from outside. Occasionally a horn would blast. The rain increased and decreased in intensity. At times he thought he heard people talking beyond the walls, but inside the building. He was sure of it.

  Keith licked his lips, and even that motion brought something new to his senses. He could taste the room. It tasted like it smelled, which was musty and damp. A certain sharpness to the flavor alerted him to what he could only describe as disinfectant.

  While his senses played, he thought back to the images he'd seen. First, his parents and siblings. Why had he not remembered them while living in Newcity? He knew why. Anger rose inside him and his muscles tensed. He pounded a fist against the chair arm. They had no right to do that, to take the memories away.

  His headache returned and he closed his eyes. His body began to twitch, and he couldn't stop it. He let out a long moan, wishing that the doctor would come back into the room to see what was the matter. He had questions.

  He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck to try to ease the pain that had spread from his head down along his neck and into his shoulders. If he rubbed too hard, the arm hurt where the doctor had removed the chip. It felt as though the stitches would burst apart. He imagined blood and the vein-like strings moving around as though they were alive. He rolled his head back and forth in pain. He gripped the chair arms. The sensation of the dirty cloth, once plush, rubbed against his palms. The smell of disinfectant rose to nauseating levels and bile pushed into his throat again. This time when he swallowed his stomach collapsed into a chasm of hunger. He had not eaten lunch and the lack of food let his stomach build acid. But he would not allow himself to vomit.

  He cried out, but no one came to his aid. The cold bore down on him and he curled his legs into the chair. He tucked his head into his arms and squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he possibly could.

  When he discovered, after a time, that his headache had gone, he also knew that he had slept. His clothes had partially dried. His shirt felt clammy on his back. He shivered.

  He uncoiled from the chair and saw that someone had placed a change of clothes on the sofa. Keith reached out and lifted the clean shirt. It felt synthetic, but soft. It was a light blue color. The pants were a darker blue, a rougher material. And there was a pair of black boots. As he unfolded the shirt, underwear and socks slipped onto the floor.

  He looked around the room and quickly changed, noticing how the clothing slid over his skin. Every nerve appeared to be heightened.

  Curiosity broke through as he stood there in his new clothes. He felt completely different, if that was possible. Returning memories crowded his mind for space. He was curious and cautious at the same time, afraid and anxious.

  He glanced at his wrist, but there was no terminal. He looked at the floor. Someone had cleaned that up too. How long had he been sleeping? Not long enough to dry his clothes. His hunger returned, too.

  The room felt smaller as he walked around exploring pictures on the wall, certificates, mirrors. There was something different about his appearance too, he thought. He looked stronger, or more confident. He squared his shoulders and cocked his head. Then he shook his head and lowered his eyes. He wasn't stronger, just rested. Now he needed food. Glancing at the door where he'd come in, fear set in. He couldn't go outside. He didn't know what to expect. Without his chip or his terminal, he had no credits, couldn't buy food or transport. Where would he go?

  That meant that he couldn't care for himself. He looked around in panic. The door to the room where the doctor had removed his chip was closed. There must be someone in there or through another door. He had to find someone. He had to find out what was happening to him, what was next and how he could survive. And where was the boy with the bullet hole in his forehead?

  Keith rushed to the door and opened it. The chair was empty, the room sparsely furnished. Another door stood to his left. He went over to it and grabbed the doorknob. He waited long enough to take a deep breath, then turned the knob and opened the door. The next room was lined with shelves and cabinets. Medical utensils and packages lined the shelves. There was no doorway out of that room.

  Keith swung around and went back into the surgery area. There was another door, hidden somewhat by the lack of a frame, behind the chair. That's where the doctor must have exited.

  Again, he hesitated, took a deep breath, and entered
the next room. Inside that room stood a table surrounded by wooden chairs like none Keith had ever seen. They were old, smooth, and decorated, carved with swirl decorations. And seated around the table in the chairs were the doctor, the boy with the bullet hole in his forehead, and a beautiful young girl with dark sunken eyes, a pale complexion, and deep black hair. Her cheeks were shaped perfectly and her lips slightly parted, full, and turned up at the corners.

  Keith stopped where he had entered. His eyes widened.

  The doctor held a pen poised above a pad of paper. He glanced up at Keith. “Tell me, son, what do you see here?” The other two did not move.

  Chapter 7

  He didn't understand the question, so he stared at the doctor. His eyes averted once toward the others, then back to the doctor again.

  “Well?” the man repeated, “what do you see?”

  Keith said, “What do you mean? I see you, all of you.”

  “All of us? And how many are there?” He appeared ready to write down what Keith said.

  “Why are you taking notes?”

  “Why are you avoiding the question?”

  Keith closed the door behind him. He stood in a kitchen area. Cabinets protruded from the wall around the sink, refrigerator, and stove. He recognized the stove, even though his apartment didn't have one. To his left, the kitchen opened into a living space where there was a sofa and chair similar to the ones in the waiting room where he had come from.

  When he looked back at the table, neither the boy nor the girl had moved. “You're kidding, right?”

  “You are still hallucinating.” The doctor glanced at a clock on the wall. “It's been three hours. The images should have abated somewhat by now.”

  “Hallucinating?”

  “Like an afterimage. You know, when you stare at something then turn away. The image remains for a short while.”

  Keith squinted and tried to understand the connection.

  “What do you see, Keith? Tell me what you see.” He swept his arm around the table and beyond it, to include the living area. “Everything.”

  Keith rubbed his eyes. This couldn't be true. Tears came quickly and without warning. “What have you done? What's happening to me?”

  The doctor slammed his pen down on the table. “Answer me, God dammit!”

  Keith shouted in defiance, “I don't have to. Not until you tell me what's going on.”

  The old man shook his head. “Well, at least that's working.” He got up from the table and reached a hand out to Keith as he walked over. “Come in. Maybe you should lie down a little longer. Let me tell you a little more about this.” Holding Keith's hand, the doctor gently guided him to the living area. “Others have left Newcity, always following the same illusion. We don't know where it's coming from. We're trying to figure out…”

  Keith glanced over his shoulder.

  “He won't go anywhere,” the doctor said. “At least I don't think so. He should begin to fade. But I need to know as much as possible about him. Then you can tell me how this started. What brought you to this point?”

  “What about her?”

  “Sit here so you can still see them.” The doctor lowered Keith onto the sofa in such a way that he could raise his feet and be facing in the direction of the kitchen and table. “There, there, now. So, son, there are more than one?”

  Keith raised his arm and put a finger on the stitches. “He wasn't real?” Tears rushed down his cheek.

  The doctor closed his eyes. “I know about the boy with the bullet hole in his forehead. Dressed in dark green most often, but not always. But who's this other person? A woman, you say? I'm not familiar with her.” He waited.

  The boy, after staying still for a long time, turned to the girl and said something. His lips moved, but Keith only heard what could have been the sound of a breeze blowing through the room. The boy got out of his chair.

  “Where are you going?” Keith asked.

  “I'm not going anywhere,” the doctor said.

  “I mean him,” Keith pointed.

  The doctor shot up as though he were going to stop the boy, but grabbed his pad and pen instead. He began to jot something down while standing at the table. “He moved? Is he still here?”

  “Next to you.”

  “And who else is here?”

  “A girl. Not a woman. Maybe a little younger than me.” Keith felt a combination of worry and pride.

  “What's she look like?”

  “Dark hair, pale skin. Beautiful in a way I can't describe. There's something about her.” It was odd talking about the girl while she was in the room.

  “Okay, okay.” The doctor wrote more notes on the pad. “The boy still here?”

  With that question, the boy shook his head as though telling Keith to say no. “We have to go now,” the boy said in his wispy voice.

  Keith didn't know what to say. As he waited to decide, the girl got up from the table as well. She stood over the boy. She wore a tan blouse and black knee-length skirt, which made her legs appear very white. Keith turned his head to follow their movements.

  “Is he here? What are they doing?” the doctor said.

  “They're both standing now,” Keith said.

  The boy shook his head again, this time more assertively. The girl turned to leave and Keith noticed a large bulge in the back of her blouse that ran from her shoulder to her waist. The protrusion stood out on the left side only. He turned his head away. Was she deformed too? He felt weak and tired and confused. He let his arms rest on his thighs and his head hang down.

  The doctor ran back to the couch, sat again at Keith's side, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You've got to talk with me while you can. Explain everything.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to learn what's happening in there.” The doctor gave Keith a warm smile. “And you can help.”

  “Let's go now,” the girl said. She spoke louder than the boy, but still had a soft, gauzy voice, as though she were talking from behind a closed door.

  Keith jumped when she spoke. He hadn't expected it.

  “What?” the doctor said. He put a hand on Keith's hand.

  Looking down at the man's arm, Keith noticed that there was no scar. The doctor was either chipped or had never been chipped.

  When Keith's gaze met the boy's again, there was a smile on his face. “You see?” the boy said.

  Keith slid from the sofa. The doctor stepped back.

  “You can't leave,” the doctor said.

  “I just need to get up for a minute,” Keith said, walking around the sofa.

  The boy and girl pulled open the door, went through, and let it begin to close.

  Keith knew he only had a moment. He swung around and shoved the doctor backwards then rushed to grab the doorknob at the last moment before it shut. He yanked hard, slamming the door against the wall. As Keith ran through the medical room toward the waiting area, he saw the boy and girl already going outside. He heard the doctor screaming for him to stop. A buzzer went off.

  “Get him!” the doctor yelled.

  But it was too late. Keith flew out the door and into the street.

  The rain had stopped, but the streets had remained puddled and skinned over with water. The sky had darkened. The boy and girl were a distance ahead of him. He watched as they turned a corner up ahead. He ran faster, to catch up, but as he turned the corner, he saw them farther ahead crossing an alley into another street. He kept them in view as well as he could, but a few minutes later lost sight of them. He found himself standing in a deserted alley far from where the doctor was. He had escaped, but why, and to where?

  The walls of buildings in the alley were wet, and litter tumbled through the deep shadows. As Keith looked in either direction, the streets outside the alley were brighter, but there were a lot of people and noise as well. Leaned against a building made his shirt wet. His back could feel the roughness of the stone. The chill air smelled different than anything he could remember. Rainwater
continued to plunk and plop, dripping off the buildings or trickling down their sides into puddles. Had the hallucinations stopped? Were the boy and girl gone now?

  He lowered onto his haunches and rested his arms out over his knees. Overwhelmed, he cried again, for what, the third time that day? Only that morning he was in his apartment, at work. What had he done? Followed an illusion. Nellie was right. It was the system that created the boy. But why?

  Waves of unfamiliar feelings flowed through Keith while he rested. With the feelings came images he hardly recognized. Rooms he didn't remember being inside of. Toys that someone who felt like him played with. And a field of tall grass, a creek. He didn't understand how he felt about the images. Even though they appeared visually as new, they felt personal and familiar. At one point, people he knew to be his parents and siblings were sitting around a table saying goodbye to him.