The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

𝓡𝓮𝓿𝓳𝓿𝓪𝓵

He had a pretty ring like mine on his left hand.

Whoever he was—he looked like if he had another freight today, then he would have an aneurysm. My body wasn't tilted towards the books anymore...but towards his weak frame.

***

Once he caught his breath, he looked up. Then he seemed to glitch.

We looked at each other for 11 of his blinks.

My smile almost waned.

He snapped out of it.

Rapid blinks—which confused me as his eyes seemed to water up. What could've caused that?
He limped forward a bit, waiting for my reaction.

When I had none, he staggered to the bed and sat down next to me with a great sigh.

He took a couple of seconds to catch up with his breath—it must be a fast runner—then he gave me this look. Asked timidly, silently, like he already knew the answer but had to prove to himself—he did all to could to see if he was wrong:

"Do you recognize me, Ella? Do you remember our life...?"

He had embers of hope in his eyes that snuffed themselves out as seconds ticked by, with the clock to keep track.

I forgot about the clock—I like the sound of it.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

I glanced at it—out of the corner of my eye—and saw that it never moved in the first place.

There was no ticking.

Oh well, at least it would be right twice a day.

***

I glanced back at the man, and he looked dejectedly at the mahogany floorboards.
We sat in silence for a while—until the man decided something.

He got up from the bed slowly, and I watched every movement.

When his frail silhouette towered over me, he looked back at me and extended a hand.
He gave me no words; he gave me no indication of what was to come next.

I took his hand anyways.

I stood up too, and we walked into a wall I never looked at. Not even when we were walking towards it—I had my eyes closed because I could tell we were walking somewhere and there was nowhere else to go.

***

It felt like waking up when all you've ever known is lucid dreaming.

***

"You can open your eyes now." I hear from my left. His boney hand is still stuck in my grip.

Maybe I'm holding on too hard. I let go.
I open one eye, then the other.
And I am enmeshed in this new reality.

Sounds sounds sounds sounds sounds.

I forgot how to hear.

***

I step back, already wanting to go back to where I was.

So many warm colors too—I feel like I am on fire.
I cover my eyes with my hands because I know that through no amount of willpower will I be able to close them again.

My mouth stops smiling.

I didn't know I had facial muscles until this point—they are screaming with something that was only ever described in the books next to the window.

Pain.

***

I take another step back, only to meet with an adamantine wall. With ridges.

I spin around to look and uncover my eyes.
Behind me is a framed photograph.
Of my room.

With a plaque under it.

I can't read, but in the reflection of the glass, I can see the old man looking mournfully at me.
He recites:

"Emily 'Ella' Parsons; 1992-2019
Dearly beloved by all."

***

In the background of the reflection, I can also see bookshelves filled to the brim with old novels and a desk—messy with cut-up photographs and papers.

And symbols.

The old man hobbles over to the table, and every creak of the boards underfoot causes me physical pain.

I look down at myself, and I look dusty and washed out compared with the excruciating vivacity of my surroundings.

Just like the photograph.

I look back up at it.

***

"Have you ever heard of the superstition that a bit of your soul is caught with every photograph taken?...oh of course you wouldn't remember anyways, but here's one thing that you will:
With every remnant of our words our faces our art our life, comes a price..." he rambled on.
"You were so young, so beautiful...too soon to be taken from everyone...especially me...but thank god you were a model for me once—now you will live on forever. With me, In the true world.
I gave my life—dedicated it to this work...might as well call me Frankenstein instead of husband," he continued ever quietly,

"a 'thank you' would be in order, no..?"

As I saw myself, saw myself for the first time in a dusty reflection, I realized what I wanted.

The first thing I ever wanted was...

"I want to go back," I spoke through a throat of chalk, "I hate this world...

Please, take me back."

"I can't."