By JG Clements
He was asleep, comatose probably. I think it was self-induced, a means of letting time pass without his participation or noticing. But he was still dreaming, troubled dreams with bit and pieces of his mind that he was not able to turn off. I didnâ€™t want to wake him, not yet. I wasnâ€™t at all certain if heâ€™d trust me: There were always stories about Greens not getting along with Blues and Reds. They tolerated Yellows, though they were never close to any of us.
I walked along in his unconscious mind, noticing the parts of him and his memories that were not totally inert. His mind was gray, gray and cold, a sort of perpetual twilight of coldness and despair. A constant case of foreboding, like someone was watching him, it was almost too much to endure. I found myself looking over my shoulder and finding nothing there. It only reinforced my determination not to get lost or trapped here. I fought a small rise of panic even contemplating that fate. I reached for my husband. A reassurance from the warmth of his hand, and a familiar brush of his mind, and I was ok. I would not get lost here.
There were just pieces of thoughts and things here. Props that maybe I could use to create a tableau. I needed to get him to notice me, interact with me, but not by waking him. I had to stage a play using what I could find, become part of his mindprison, if I was to communicate with him.
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