Flashes

Chapter Three

I wake up in the same room with pale pink sheets, and beeping sounds from beneath my pillow. I pick up a rectangular, metal object, and light emanates from it. There is glass on one side of it, and that’s where the light is from. A message is displayed across the screen, from a foreign number. I can’t tell what it says.

            Of each flash, this seems to make the least sense. The build up to having a flash is ridiculously intense. Sometimes I’m sleeping, sometimes awake, but a strange force seems to take over my body, and I go limp, my eyes shutting instantly. Then whatever memory it is shows and I wake up, confused a little more each time I receive one.

            I wonder if it’s just however memories surface that flashes come to me, or if someone else controls it. I wonder if I used to wonder as often as I seem to now. If maybe it’s just a part of my personality, who I am, or if it’s something new, that’s come with having every shred of my life ripped from beneath me.

            It becomes apparent to me that my throat is very dry. I am parched, in fact. I decide to try to communicate that to whoever watches me, first by tapping my throat, then speaking aloud.

            “My throat is dry,” I try, uncertain at which words I choose, at if they will be correct. There is no response. “Excuse me? I was wondering to myself, as I seem to always do, and I wondered what you expect me to do for a dry throat. There’s no source of any liquids in here.”

            The slot in the wall opens and I am surprised, a clear liquid in a pastel glass is pushed through. How odd. I pick up the substance slowly, careful as to what is inside. Inch by inch, it is brought to my lips, and I let a bit leak into my mouth. It tastes like nothing. Even more so than the mush I am served. Though tasteless, it is a wonder in itself. What is this strange thing? I could have hundreds of these, no doubt. I gulp the rest down without the slightest objection. That may just be the most exciting memory I’ve retained.

            “It’s called water,” the electronic voice answers, as though they can tell what I was thinking.

            The slot opens again, but nothing is pushed through. I suppose I’m not to keep this pastel object. Reluctantly, I place it through the slot then pull my hand back, before crawling over to the mattress and laying my face against it. It is cool and calming, and I sleep instantly.