After I awakened my condo was black. The surfaces of the fridge, the sofa, the kitchen desk—every little thing had calcified into a tough, matte, shell. It was morning and I obtained off the bed to make tea. After I tried to activate the burner, I discovered that the knobs of the range wouldn’t flip, as if it have been a plastic toy and this was all faux. I started to panic. I assumed this have to be some kind of merciless joke, however extra seemingly, I used to be dreaming. I wanted to get up to show it was a dream, however I used to be conscious. Extra rested than I’d been in a very long time. But when I used to be awake, it have to be actual. I tried to take pictures to have proof that this was truly taking place, however my cellphone malfunctioned. I couldn’t show it was actual or a dream and a deep confusion started to envelop my sense of self. Would I calcify into this hardened, frozen floor, devoid of identification?
I puzzled how I used to be going to make it to my opening if I misplaced the flexibility to show the doorknob and depart my condo. I assumed maybe I ought to change my title to a different artist’s title since I didn’t appear to know who I used to be anymore. Possibly Joe, one thing nondescript.
I walked into my bed room and two of my mates have been sitting on my mattress speaking. They have been merely silhouettes in opposition to the backdrop of my now stiffened black sheets and pillows.
“Has anybody seen my persona?” I requested.
“When was the final time you had it?”
I paused. The query appeared to validate that it was, actually, lacking. I puzzled how they might inform.
“The place is it going, the place has it been?” the opposite pal requested.
My reminiscence was fuzzy, practically clean.
“I don’t recall,” I mentioned. If I couldn’t bear in mind, perhaps I by no means had one. There was one thing weirdly comforting about that concept. If I didn’t have a persona to start with, I couldn’t lose it. The sense of panic started to fade.
I regarded down at my naked toes. I attempted to stroll again into the kitchen however my soles have been glued to the ground, which had morphed from hardwood into slick, black, metal. I watched as my toes started to harden into some kind of artificial plastic. It was virtually willful as I let this new, unmovable texture eat my physique. May I wake myself up or was I trapped?
at Freddy, Harris
till November 18, 2023