the unconsoled
A harrowing dream: I check myself into a small hotel in a strange city. It is a narrow white building and there are rows of public-works greenery in the vicinity, as well as convenience stores and bicycles. Inside, it is not spacious, even to the point of being claustrophobic, and all the walls are white. On each floor there are two rooms, white-doored. The white paint does not glow or shine, as it might when new, but seems to have yellowed dully in parts. There are only two ways up and down the building: the lift, which does not seem to work, and a staircase which doubles as the fire escape. On the way to my room I do not encounter any other guests. The furniture in my room is the colour of plywood. The only ornament is an old phone directory. At this point I am made to realise that the hotel is in fact a rehabilitation centre of sorts, an asylum for the depressed or disturbed.
At the lobby, there is a very young girl who bears a passing resemblance to Dakota Brookes. She appears to be staying here alone. She is asking the receptionist about her stay here. The receptionist is a corpulent, sagging man with thick and curly hair; he looks more like a dirty newsagent than a receptionist and reminds me of a zombie. I realise that he is the only staff member I have seen so far. In the day, he says, you sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. At night our staff will monitor you and run the necessary tests. As you sleep, the receptionist says. As you sleep? There is something strange in his voice. Unbidden, some scenes present themselves to my mind's eye, as if I were a moviegoer watching a collection of still cuts. Cameras in the ceiling, blinking over the sleeping girl. The white door opening slowly. The girl, asleep, surrounded by shadows and men in white coats. The girl splayed out on a table, stabbed full of syringes, a cross between a jellyfish and voodoo doll. A white-cloaked figure slicing her stomach cavity as other shadows gather to observe a strange lack of colour, or blood. The girl, suspended by manacles, her chest and stomach open and empty. The girl, whole again, with a cock forced into her mouth, or bent over and taken from behind. The floor is slick with some black, oily substance.
Suddenly the images cut. In the lobby, the girl looks like she has just woken from a dream; her eyes go momentarily blank and then readjust themselves as she shakes her head as if stunned. She thanks the receptionist and walks up the staircase. As I step out to visit the convenience store I see a Caucasian couple walk in and register at the counter. They are blond, blue-eyed, fat, I am not sure what they want from this place.
The next morning I wake uneasily. I check myself for cuts, or stitches: none. I pass the girl in the stairway. In the sunlight, she looks pale, paler than I had remembered. The Caucasian couple walks by; seeing the girl, they smile weakly at her. Through the windowpane, the sun is bright and unforgiving. I wake up.
At the lobby, there is a very young girl who bears a passing resemblance to Dakota Brookes. She appears to be staying here alone. She is asking the receptionist about her stay here. The receptionist is a corpulent, sagging man with thick and curly hair; he looks more like a dirty newsagent than a receptionist and reminds me of a zombie. I realise that he is the only staff member I have seen so far. In the day, he says, you sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. At night our staff will monitor you and run the necessary tests. As you sleep, the receptionist says. As you sleep? There is something strange in his voice. Unbidden, some scenes present themselves to my mind's eye, as if I were a moviegoer watching a collection of still cuts. Cameras in the ceiling, blinking over the sleeping girl. The white door opening slowly. The girl, asleep, surrounded by shadows and men in white coats. The girl splayed out on a table, stabbed full of syringes, a cross between a jellyfish and voodoo doll. A white-cloaked figure slicing her stomach cavity as other shadows gather to observe a strange lack of colour, or blood. The girl, suspended by manacles, her chest and stomach open and empty. The girl, whole again, with a cock forced into her mouth, or bent over and taken from behind. The floor is slick with some black, oily substance.
Suddenly the images cut. In the lobby, the girl looks like she has just woken from a dream; her eyes go momentarily blank and then readjust themselves as she shakes her head as if stunned. She thanks the receptionist and walks up the staircase. As I step out to visit the convenience store I see a Caucasian couple walk in and register at the counter. They are blond, blue-eyed, fat, I am not sure what they want from this place.
The next morning I wake uneasily. I check myself for cuts, or stitches: none. I pass the girl in the stairway. In the sunlight, she looks pale, paler than I had remembered. The Caucasian couple walks by; seeing the girl, they smile weakly at her. Through the windowpane, the sun is bright and unforgiving. I wake up.