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Sleep

Go to CruxDreams.com
It's for a part, looking like Second Life, where we're leaving our dark reality to life and play to some games, but in fact, coming from our deepest fantasy, something that we even couldn't imagine ourselves ...
But, somewhere, dreams (or artificial reality like the modern technics can bring to us) are essential for our good moods ...
... even if they are bringing some inconveniences ... The question can be set ... ;):eek:

;)Snapshot_051.jpg :eek:
 
Jollyrei said:
Chapter 2: Is beauty only skin deep?

“You’re a bit disoriented,” said the man’s voice from somewhere near her right ear. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen without your consent. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. As far as she could tell, she had not consented to anything. She certainly had not consented to being forced to drag a beam of wood up a hill, to be whipped and abused, to be stripped of all her clothing and her dignity, and then to have iron spikes hammered into her wrists and ankles, and left to hang on a cross in the hot sun. She hadn’t consented to being magically brought here to this place where the lights hurt her eyes and where she couldn’t feel her body. She couldn’t even make sense of it, never mind consent to it. She wanted to scream. Instead a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could feel the tear. That meant she had cheeks, a face, didn’t it? She knew she had eyes, because they were hurt by the lights. Actually, they felt a bit better now. She wanted to see. Maybe she could try opening her eyes a crack just to see if she was more used to the light.

She tried it. The light was dim, but it was still hard to take. It wasn’t as painful and she could feel herself getting used to it. It was hard to focus.

Something was hovering above her face. Part of it moved.
“I think the first step should be to try to get you a bit more hydrated,” said the something. It looked a bit like a face, now that she had some context. A face looking down at her.

“You need more water now that you’re out of your box. And I’ll try to explain things a bit so you know where you are.”

The face moved away slightly. She couldn’t move her head, but could see him out of the corner of her eye as he stood up straighter. Oddly, that brought him into clearer focus.

He looked sort of tall, she thought, but how could she tell. She was obviously in a lying down position. He was standing. That made him taller than her for now. If she was about two feet off the ground, like in a normal bed, that would make him about six feet tall, she thought.

He had dark hair, short on the back and sides, and longer on the top of his head. He also wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both slightly awkward and friendly, she thought.

How did she know what they were? Romans did not wear glasses, nor did they wear tunic style jackets that fastened in front with a zipper.

Where was she? She was a Roman slave, wasn’t she? She was the slave of…

There was the problem. She remembered being crucified for her alleged crimes, but she had no memory of servitude, either to a master or a mistress. No slave quarters, no market errands, no recollection of slave life at all. Nothing before carrying the wooden beam up the hill.

The man came back to her side and looked down at her. He seemed to be a bit concerned, but not alarmed. She hoped that meant she was going to be okay. Why couldn’t she feel her body? She couldn’t even move her head to see her body.

She suddenly had a panicked thought – what if she had no body. She was a head, floating here, only able to cry a tear or two and nothing else.

The man seemed to see her alarm. “Please try to stay calm, “ he said. “You’ll be fine in a little while. It’s just that you’ve been in the box for a long time, and you’re not used to reality. I’m afraid you’ll find it quite dull outside here by comparison, but we’ll try to help with that. Now, I’m going to engage the hydration function, it’s a tube that will come to your mouth. I can’t touch you or do anything much, since I’m outside your bio-stasis field. If I tried, my hand would just go to sleep anyway.” He gave a small laugh, as though that was a funny thought.

She found the laugh somehow reassuring. Maybe he would help her after all. She saw a silver tube extending down from above her face. It seemed to know where her mouth was. The end of the tube touched her lips and a drop of water fell into her mouth.

There was an explosion of sensation, searing cold, a contrast of dryness in her mouth, a dryness like no other she had ever experienced, as if her mouth had never had water in it before. All her nerve endings on her tongue, her lips, her gums, seemed focused on that droplet of water. She could feel it sliding like quicksilver down her tongue. She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water. She had to spit it out, the glorious, dangerous droplet. She wanted it, but she would die of it.

The man seemed to see her distress, or had some way of knowing, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her throat. It just seemed to fade away.

“You see?” he said, as if there was some point being made. “We have to do this slowly. You don’t know how to swallow. I’ve extended the field to include your throat now, so the water will sort of slide in. The machine can deal with swallowing for now, same as it’s managing your other functions. In a few minutes, you should be able to swallow on your own.”

She felt helpless. She wanted control over her own body, if she had one, and swallowing water suggested that the water was being swallowed to sustain something. She assumed she had a body. She felt good about that. It was a reassuring thought.

“There have been a lot of improvements in our bio-technology since you went into the box,” said the man with the glasses conversationally. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course. We do upgrades pretty seamlessly. We used to have to induce stasis while we changed over, especially for hardware upgrades, but now we can usually just transfer to other systems while we upgrade. You never come off the box grid. You’re the first “pullout” I’ve done.”

“Mmmm?” she said.

“I should have told you my name,” said the man. “I’m James. James Caldwell. I’m a Senior Bio-technician – just a fancy way of saying that I know these machines and how they work with you when you’re in the box. Anyway, everything seems to be working, so you can relax. The machines even take care of regulating your menstrual cycles. Do you want to try talking now? I think your throat has remembered how things go. You’ve been swallowing on your own now for about 15 minutes.”

She suddenly became conscious of the feeling of water, still dripping into her mouth, but she was definitely swallowing it. It just felt like water now. She felt a sense of loss that she no longer had the ecstatic sensation of that first drop. So vibrant and glorious, as if it was more real than any water she had ever had. Now it was just water again – cool, refreshing, and soothing to what still seemed like a parched throat, but still common, everyday water.

“You could start with something simple,” said James, smiling at her. “You can tell me your name. Just try saying your name.”

She tried it. “I’m…” She stopped.

“Still too dry?” asked James.

She thought, trying to dig into her memories. She felt something was there, but she couldn’t access it. All she could remember was “bitch” and “whore”, and the feel of the Roman’s sandal grinding into her pubic mound. That was no help. She had no name. She felt lost and worthless. The tears started again.

“No, no, no,” said James, “please, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

“I,” she gasped through a suppressed sob, “I can’t remember my name. I can’t feel my body. Everything I remember before this place is horrible. I’m nothing, nobody. I’m just a condemned slave, and I have no name.”

James looked miserable and a bit shocked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. He looked at her sympathetically as she cried.

“You really can’t remember your name?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I really tried. It’s like there should be a name in my memory, but it’s like I’m not allowed to see that memory.”

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Only walking up the hill, carrying the heavy beam of wood and then…” she stopped, not wanting to relive the horror again.

“Why were you carrying a beam of wood?” James asked. “Were you building something?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was so they could nail me to it.”

“What? Who was going to nail you to a piece of wood? That’s not in any of our programs.”

“They nailed me to the beam, and then let me hang there. I would have died there if you hadn’t taken me out of the box.”

“That shouldn’t happen,” James said finally. “You must have some memories. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that your memories were wiped, but it’s not procedure. And I’ve never heard of someone doing a crucifixion plot in any box. Our standard is more real than reality, so crucifixion would be appallingly terrible. Something is strange here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s the worst thing that I’ve ever experienced. Are you saying it wasn’t real?”

“Do you remember going into the box?”

“I don’t even know what a box is. I have only horrible memories. I can’t move. I can’t even tell if I really have a body. I remember what glasses are,” she said.

“What?”

“I know I must be more than just a slave,” she said, “because I remember things like glasses, and words like bio-technology. So there must be memories somewhere in my mind.”

“I suppose so…”

“James,” she said, “do I have a body?” she asked. She waited.

“Um,” said James. “You have a body,” he said, “but it’s not quite what you might expect it to be. You’ve been in the box a long time.”

“I want to see,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” said James. “Just trust me, please. You have a body, but we have to keep it in bio-stasis for a while.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look, your physical body isn’t even important. It’s a shell for your consciousness. We keep it going in a sort of hibernation state and you live your life in the box, doing whatever you want. More real than reality, remember. You would need a lot of physical rehabilitation before you can use your body again,” said James. “Since the plan is to get you back into your box as soon as we can, there isn’t any point in making all that effort.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s my body. Why is there no point in rehabilitating it? Was I in an accident. Did the Romans damage me so now I’m paralyzed?”

“The Romans?” James asked, feeling like he had missed a step in the conversation.

“When they nailed me to that wood thing.”

“No,” said James. “Any Romans you met in the box couldn’t harm your body here. I’m not sure they could even kill you in the box. They shouldn’t be able to.”

“They didn’t seem to have any worries about that rule,” she said. “They just kicked me, and beat me and hammered nails into me. If that’s what happens in the box, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Like a crucifixion,” said James.

“I don’t know what…” she said.

“The Romans used to hang slaves and prisoners on crosses until they died as a punishment. It's called crucifixion. It’s part of old religious stories my mother told me. You’re saying you didn’t choose that scenario?” James asked.

“Why would I choose that?” she asked. “Anyway, I can’t remember my past, remember? I can’t tell you what I requested. As far as I know, all of this happened without any input from me.”

“Well, we’ll have to look into that as well,” said James. “Anyway, we don’t produce fantasies like that, so I really want to know where it came from.”

“That wasn’t a fantasy,” she said. “That was hell. I want my real body back.”

“Your body has gone through a lot of muscle atrophy, over the time you were in the box, “ said James.

“Is that why I can’t move?” she asked.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle the strain, even of gravity. We had one “pullout” who had only been in a few years, and we had to take him out for some reason. He tried to get up and just dropped dead of a heart attack. His muscles and heart couldn’t take it. If you’re going to stay out, you need a lot of physiotherapy before you can even sit up.”

“How long have I been in the box?” she asked quietly.

“It’s really not a good idea,” said James.

“James!”

“Okay, a long time. A really long time,” he said.

“I want to know what I’m in for,” she said. “I want to see my body.”

“Oh, alright. But it’s not something you’re going to like,” he said. “I’ll get a mirror.”
He returned a minute or two later with a long wall mirror.

“Before I do this, which I think is a really bad idea, I want you to remember that whatever you see is not permanent, and that it can be remedied with nutrients and physio, okay? If you stay out of the box, you can make a full physical recovery.”

“It’s got to be better than being nailed to something,” she said.

“Maybe,” said James. “Anyway here you are.” He held the mirror so she could look at her full length reflection.

She looked at the emaciated thing in the reflection, the dry skin, tight over the skeleton, and the bony feet that seemed to be too big. Her body had flat collapsed breasts like empty bags, and seemed to be mostly ribs in the chest area. Large dark eyes stared at her from a mummy skull, grayish skin taut over cheekbones, with stringy brown hair. That couldn’t be her, she thought, and licked her lips. The monster licked its lips at the same time.

She screamed, a long howl of despair, humiliation and pain. The “thing” in the reflection opened its mouth, parodying her scream – a rictus of an animated mummy in agony.

She screamed again. Then she started sobbing.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” said James, jumping to his console. He picked up a control tablet and made a few changes, fingers dancing over the screen. All movement stopped abruptly, as did the screaming.

She was on the shore of a turquoise lagoon. A fish leapt out of the water and arched back down in a perfect dive. There was an umbrella and a colourful striped towel on the beach. Behind her, across pristine white sand, was a thatched roof beach house with a veranda. She looked down at her body – not the mummy-monstrosity of James’ room, but slim, tanned, and well-toned, about 25 years old. Somehow she knew she was 25 years old. She was wearing a green bikini, her favourite colour. She remembered her favourite colour. That was something, wasn’t it?

Had she always been here? Was the monster in the dark room really her, or was this her and that was a dream? Why was she on a beach? She walked back to the beach house and up the stairs to the veranda. There was a card on a wicker table – the sort of welcome card that hotels put out to let you know where the fire exits are. She picked it up. It read:

“Miss,

I put you back into a temporary box, while we sort out what happened to you. It's sort of a small maintenance box where you can have a holiday while we sort out your future. It will be more pleasant than "reality" for the moment. I will start your physio so that when you come back out, your body will be more rejuvenated. In the meantime, if you need anything, please just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them. I hope you like the beach. Take the time to rest and consider your options. You should be safe – this box is a stand-alone unit, and is not linked to the main systems. I’ll personally monitor you while you’re in there. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in touch soon.

James.”​

The wood of the floor felt real. The sand between her toes seemed real. The sun was bright, and there was a scent of tropical flowers, mixed with the smell of the ocean. Somewhere a bird sang. She was happier being a young healthy woman than imagining herself as an emaciated museum piece. If she stayed right here, she thought, it could be real, for now.

If only she could remember her name.

To be continued…
Click to expand...
Very innovative, thanks!
 
Jollyrei said:
Chapter 2: Is beauty only skin deep?

“You’re a bit disoriented,” said the man’s voice from somewhere near her right ear. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen without your consent. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. As far as she could tell, she had not consented to anything. She certainly had not consented to being forced to drag a beam of wood up a hill, to be whipped and abused, to be stripped of all her clothing and her dignity, and then to have iron spikes hammered into her wrists and ankles, and left to hang on a cross in the hot sun. She hadn’t consented to being magically brought here to this place where the lights hurt her eyes and where she couldn’t feel her body. She couldn’t even make sense of it, never mind consent to it. She wanted to scream. Instead a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could feel the tear. That meant she had cheeks, a face, didn’t it? She knew she had eyes, because they were hurt by the lights. Actually, they felt a bit better now. She wanted to see. Maybe she could try opening her eyes a crack just to see if she was more used to the light.

She tried it. The light was dim, but it was still hard to take. It wasn’t as painful and she could feel herself getting used to it. It was hard to focus.

Something was hovering above her face. Part of it moved.
“I think the first step should be to try to get you a bit more hydrated,” said the something. It looked a bit like a face, now that she had some context. A face looking down at her.

“You need more water now that you’re out of your box. And I’ll try to explain things a bit so you know where you are.”

The face moved away slightly. She couldn’t move her head, but could see him out of the corner of her eye as he stood up straighter. Oddly, that brought him into clearer focus.

He looked sort of tall, she thought, but how could she tell. She was obviously in a lying down position. He was standing. That made him taller than her for now. If she was about two feet off the ground, like in a normal bed, that would make him about six feet tall, she thought.

He had dark hair, short on the back and sides, and longer on the top of his head. He also wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both slightly awkward and friendly, she thought.

How did she know what they were? Romans did not wear glasses, nor did they wear tunic style jackets that fastened in front with a zipper.

Where was she? She was a Roman slave, wasn’t she? She was the slave of…

There was the problem. She remembered being crucified for her alleged crimes, but she had no memory of servitude, either to a master or a mistress. No slave quarters, no market errands, no recollection of slave life at all. Nothing before carrying the wooden beam up the hill.

The man came back to her side and looked down at her. He seemed to be a bit concerned, but not alarmed. She hoped that meant she was going to be okay. Why couldn’t she feel her body? She couldn’t even move her head to see her body.

She suddenly had a panicked thought – what if she had no body. She was a head, floating here, only able to cry a tear or two and nothing else.

The man seemed to see her alarm. “Please try to stay calm, “ he said. “You’ll be fine in a little while. It’s just that you’ve been in the box for a long time, and you’re not used to reality. I’m afraid you’ll find it quite dull outside here by comparison, but we’ll try to help with that. Now, I’m going to engage the hydration function, it’s a tube that will come to your mouth. I can’t touch you or do anything much, since I’m outside your bio-stasis field. If I tried, my hand would just go to sleep anyway.” He gave a small laugh, as though that was a funny thought.

She found the laugh somehow reassuring. Maybe he would help her after all. She saw a silver tube extending down from above her face. It seemed to know where her mouth was. The end of the tube touched her lips and a drop of water fell into her mouth.

There was an explosion of sensation, searing cold, a contrast of dryness in her mouth, a dryness like no other she had ever experienced, as if her mouth had never had water in it before. All her nerve endings on her tongue, her lips, her gums, seemed focused on that droplet of water. She could feel it sliding like quicksilver down her tongue. She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water. She had to spit it out, the glorious, dangerous droplet. She wanted it, but she would die of it.

The man seemed to see her distress, or had some way of knowing, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her throat. It just seemed to fade away.

“You see?” he said, as if there was some point being made. “We have to do this slowly. You don’t know how to swallow. I’ve extended the field to include your throat now, so the water will sort of slide in. The machine can deal with swallowing for now, same as it’s managing your other functions. In a few minutes, you should be able to swallow on your own.”

She felt helpless. She wanted control over her own body, if she had one, and swallowing water suggested that the water was being swallowed to sustain something. She assumed she had a body. She felt good about that. It was a reassuring thought.

“There have been a lot of improvements in our bio-technology since you went into the box,” said the man with the glasses conversationally. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course. We do upgrades pretty seamlessly. We used to have to induce stasis while we changed over, especially for hardware upgrades, but now we can usually just transfer to other systems while we upgrade. You never come off the box grid. You’re the first “pullout” I’ve done.”

“Mmmm?” she said.

“I should have told you my name,” said the man. “I’m James. James Caldwell. I’m a Senior Bio-technician – just a fancy way of saying that I know these machines and how they work with you when you’re in the box. Anyway, everything seems to be working, so you can relax. The machines even take care of regulating your menstrual cycles. Do you want to try talking now? I think your throat has remembered how things go. You’ve been swallowing on your own now for about 15 minutes.”

She suddenly became conscious of the feeling of water, still dripping into her mouth, but she was definitely swallowing it. It just felt like water now. She felt a sense of loss that she no longer had the ecstatic sensation of that first drop. So vibrant and glorious, as if it was more real than any water she had ever had. Now it was just water again – cool, refreshing, and soothing to what still seemed like a parched throat, but still common, everyday water.

“You could start with something simple,” said James, smiling at her. “You can tell me your name. Just try saying your name.”

She tried it. “I’m…” She stopped.

“Still too dry?” asked James.

She thought, trying to dig into her memories. She felt something was there, but she couldn’t access it. All she could remember was “bitch” and “whore”, and the feel of the Roman’s sandal grinding into her pubic mound. That was no help. She had no name. She felt lost and worthless. The tears started again.

“No, no, no,” said James, “please, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

“I,” she gasped through a suppressed sob, “I can’t remember my name. I can’t feel my body. Everything I remember before this place is horrible. I’m nothing, nobody. I’m just a condemned slave, and I have no name.”

James looked miserable and a bit shocked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. He looked at her sympathetically as she cried.

“You really can’t remember your name?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I really tried. It’s like there should be a name in my memory, but it’s like I’m not allowed to see that memory.”

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Only walking up the hill, carrying the heavy beam of wood and then…” she stopped, not wanting to relive the horror again.

“Why were you carrying a beam of wood?” James asked. “Were you building something?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was so they could nail me to it.”

“What? Who was going to nail you to a piece of wood? That’s not in any of our programs.”

“They nailed me to the beam, and then let me hang there. I would have died there if you hadn’t taken me out of the box.”

“That shouldn’t happen,” James said finally. “You must have some memories. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that your memories were wiped, but it’s not procedure. And I’ve never heard of someone doing a crucifixion plot in any box. Our standard is more real than reality, so crucifixion would be appallingly terrible. Something is strange here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s the worst thing that I’ve ever experienced. Are you saying it wasn’t real?”

“Do you remember going into the box?”

“I don’t even know what a box is. I have only horrible memories. I can’t move. I can’t even tell if I really have a body. I remember what glasses are,” she said.

“What?”

“I know I must be more than just a slave,” she said, “because I remember things like glasses, and words like bio-technology. So there must be memories somewhere in my mind.”

“I suppose so…”

“James,” she said, “do I have a body?” she asked. She waited.

“Um,” said James. “You have a body,” he said, “but it’s not quite what you might expect it to be. You’ve been in the box a long time.”

“I want to see,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” said James. “Just trust me, please. You have a body, but we have to keep it in bio-stasis for a while.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look, your physical body isn’t even important. It’s a shell for your consciousness. We keep it going in a sort of hibernation state and you live your life in the box, doing whatever you want. More real than reality, remember. You would need a lot of physical rehabilitation before you can use your body again,” said James. “Since the plan is to get you back into your box as soon as we can, there isn’t any point in making all that effort.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s my body. Why is there no point in rehabilitating it? Was I in an accident. Did the Romans damage me so now I’m paralyzed?”

“The Romans?” James asked, feeling like he had missed a step in the conversation.

“When they nailed me to that wood thing.”

“No,” said James. “Any Romans you met in the box couldn’t harm your body here. I’m not sure they could even kill you in the box. They shouldn’t be able to.”

“They didn’t seem to have any worries about that rule,” she said. “They just kicked me, and beat me and hammered nails into me. If that’s what happens in the box, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Like a crucifixion,” said James.

“I don’t know what…” she said.

“The Romans used to hang slaves and prisoners on crosses until they died as a punishment. It's called crucifixion. It’s part of old religious stories my mother told me. You’re saying you didn’t choose that scenario?” James asked.

“Why would I choose that?” she asked. “Anyway, I can’t remember my past, remember? I can’t tell you what I requested. As far as I know, all of this happened without any input from me.”

“Well, we’ll have to look into that as well,” said James. “Anyway, we don’t produce fantasies like that, so I really want to know where it came from.”

“That wasn’t a fantasy,” she said. “That was hell. I want my real body back.”

“Your body has gone through a lot of muscle atrophy, over the time you were in the box, “ said James.

“Is that why I can’t move?” she asked.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle the strain, even of gravity. We had one “pullout” who had only been in a few years, and we had to take him out for some reason. He tried to get up and just dropped dead of a heart attack. His muscles and heart couldn’t take it. If you’re going to stay out, you need a lot of physiotherapy before you can even sit up.”

“How long have I been in the box?” she asked quietly.

“It’s really not a good idea,” said James.

“James!”

“Okay, a long time. A really long time,” he said.

“I want to know what I’m in for,” she said. “I want to see my body.”

“Oh, alright. But it’s not something you’re going to like,” he said. “I’ll get a mirror.”
He returned a minute or two later with a long wall mirror.

“Before I do this, which I think is a really bad idea, I want you to remember that whatever you see is not permanent, and that it can be remedied with nutrients and physio, okay? If you stay out of the box, you can make a full physical recovery.”

“It’s got to be better than being nailed to something,” she said.

“Maybe,” said James. “Anyway here you are.” He held the mirror so she could look at her full length reflection.

She looked at the emaciated thing in the reflection, the dry skin, tight over the skeleton, and the bony feet that seemed to be too big. Her body had flat collapsed breasts like empty bags, and seemed to be mostly ribs in the chest area. Large dark eyes stared at her from a mummy skull, grayish skin taut over cheekbones, with stringy brown hair. That couldn’t be her, she thought, and licked her lips. The monster licked its lips at the same time.

She screamed, a long howl of despair, humiliation and pain. The “thing” in the reflection opened its mouth, parodying her scream – a rictus of an animated mummy in agony.

She screamed again. Then she started sobbing.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” said James, jumping to his console. He picked up a control tablet and made a few changes, fingers dancing over the screen. All movement stopped abruptly, as did the screaming.

She was on the shore of a turquoise lagoon. A fish leapt out of the water and arched back down in a perfect dive. There was an umbrella and a colourful striped towel on the beach. Behind her, across pristine white sand, was a thatched roof beach house with a veranda. She looked down at her body – not the mummy-monstrosity of James’ room, but slim, tanned, and well-toned, about 25 years old. Somehow she knew she was 25 years old. She was wearing a green bikini, her favourite colour. She remembered her favourite colour. That was something, wasn’t it?

Had she always been here? Was the monster in the dark room really her, or was this her and that was a dream? Why was she on a beach? She walked back to the beach house and up the stairs to the veranda. There was a card on a wicker table – the sort of welcome card that hotels put out to let you know where the fire exits are. She picked it up. It read:

“Miss,

I put you back into a temporary box, while we sort out what happened to you. It's sort of a small maintenance box where you can have a holiday while we sort out your future. It will be more pleasant than "reality" for the moment. I will start your physio so that when you come back out, your body will be more rejuvenated. In the meantime, if you need anything, please just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them. I hope you like the beach. Take the time to rest and consider your options. You should be safe – this box is a stand-alone unit, and is not linked to the main systems. I’ll personally monitor you while you’re in there. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in touch soon.

James.”​

The wood of the floor felt real. The sand between her toes seemed real. The sun was bright, and there was a scent of tropical flowers, mixed with the smell of the ocean. Somewhere a bird sang. She was happier being a young healthy woman than imagining herself as an emaciated museum piece. If she stayed right here, she thought, it could be real, for now.

If only she could remember her name.

To be continued…
Click to expand...
Oh, my, Jolly, you are on a roll!!!
 
Jollyrei said:
Ah, but where is the box, and how do you know when you're out?
Click to expand...
When the subject has been placed and all counter measures are linked together ..................

max.gif

The code might still be a crossword puzzle?
 
Jollyrei said:
Ah, but where is the box, and how do you know when you're out?
Click to expand...
It is an envelop ..... the glue that is sticky and rips your soul .......

Pray that your credit bars are maxed ...

Or fear the wrath of Michael Caine.

It a parody.

;)
 
Jollyrei said:
Chapter 2: Is beauty only skin deep?

“You’re a bit disoriented,” said the man’s voice from somewhere near her right ear. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen without your consent. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. As far as she could tell, she had not consented to anything. She certainly had not consented to being forced to drag a beam of wood up a hill, to be whipped and abused, to be stripped of all her clothing and her dignity, and then to have iron spikes hammered into her wrists and ankles, and left to hang on a cross in the hot sun. She hadn’t consented to being magically brought here to this place where the lights hurt her eyes and where she couldn’t feel her body. She couldn’t even make sense of it, never mind consent to it. She wanted to scream. Instead a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could feel the tear. That meant she had cheeks, a face, didn’t it? She knew she had eyes, because they were hurt by the lights. Actually, they felt a bit better now. She wanted to see. Maybe she could try opening her eyes a crack just to see if she was more used to the light.

She tried it. The light was dim, but it was still hard to take. It wasn’t as painful and she could feel herself getting used to it. It was hard to focus.

Something was hovering above her face. Part of it moved.
“I think the first step should be to try to get you a bit more hydrated,” said the something. It looked a bit like a face, now that she had some context. A face looking down at her.

“You need more water now that you’re out of your box. And I’ll try to explain things a bit so you know where you are.”

The face moved away slightly. She couldn’t move her head, but could see him out of the corner of her eye as he stood up straighter. Oddly, that brought him into clearer focus.

He looked sort of tall, she thought, but how could she tell. She was obviously in a lying down position. He was standing. That made him taller than her for now. If she was about two feet off the ground, like in a normal bed, that would make him about six feet tall, she thought.

He had dark hair, short on the back and sides, and longer on the top of his head. He also wore round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both slightly awkward and friendly, she thought.

How did she know what they were? Romans did not wear glasses, nor did they wear tunic style jackets that fastened in front with a zipper.

Where was she? She was a Roman slave, wasn’t she? She was the slave of…

There was the problem. She remembered being crucified for her alleged crimes, but she had no memory of servitude, either to a master or a mistress. No slave quarters, no market errands, no recollection of slave life at all. Nothing before carrying the wooden beam up the hill.

The man came back to her side and looked down at her. He seemed to be a bit concerned, but not alarmed. She hoped that meant she was going to be okay. Why couldn’t she feel her body? She couldn’t even move her head to see her body.

She suddenly had a panicked thought – what if she had no body. She was a head, floating here, only able to cry a tear or two and nothing else.

The man seemed to see her alarm. “Please try to stay calm, “ he said. “You’ll be fine in a little while. It’s just that you’ve been in the box for a long time, and you’re not used to reality. I’m afraid you’ll find it quite dull outside here by comparison, but we’ll try to help with that. Now, I’m going to engage the hydration function, it’s a tube that will come to your mouth. I can’t touch you or do anything much, since I’m outside your bio-stasis field. If I tried, my hand would just go to sleep anyway.” He gave a small laugh, as though that was a funny thought.

She found the laugh somehow reassuring. Maybe he would help her after all. She saw a silver tube extending down from above her face. It seemed to know where her mouth was. The end of the tube touched her lips and a drop of water fell into her mouth.

There was an explosion of sensation, searing cold, a contrast of dryness in her mouth, a dryness like no other she had ever experienced, as if her mouth had never had water in it before. All her nerve endings on her tongue, her lips, her gums, seemed focused on that droplet of water. She could feel it sliding like quicksilver down her tongue. She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t. The water would drown her. She panicked as her throat constricted. She would drown in one drop of water. She had to spit it out, the glorious, dangerous droplet. She wanted it, but she would die of it.

The man seemed to see her distress, or had some way of knowing, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her throat. It just seemed to fade away.

“You see?” he said, as if there was some point being made. “We have to do this slowly. You don’t know how to swallow. I’ve extended the field to include your throat now, so the water will sort of slide in. The machine can deal with swallowing for now, same as it’s managing your other functions. In a few minutes, you should be able to swallow on your own.”

She felt helpless. She wanted control over her own body, if she had one, and swallowing water suggested that the water was being swallowed to sustain something. She assumed she had a body. She felt good about that. It was a reassuring thought.

“There have been a lot of improvements in our bio-technology since you went into the box,” said the man with the glasses conversationally. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course. We do upgrades pretty seamlessly. We used to have to induce stasis while we changed over, especially for hardware upgrades, but now we can usually just transfer to other systems while we upgrade. You never come off the box grid. You’re the first “pullout” I’ve done.”

“Mmmm?” she said.

“I should have told you my name,” said the man. “I’m James. James Caldwell. I’m a Senior Bio-technician – just a fancy way of saying that I know these machines and how they work with you when you’re in the box. Anyway, everything seems to be working, so you can relax. The machines even take care of regulating your menstrual cycles. Do you want to try talking now? I think your throat has remembered how things go. You’ve been swallowing on your own now for about 15 minutes.”

She suddenly became conscious of the feeling of water, still dripping into her mouth, but she was definitely swallowing it. It just felt like water now. She felt a sense of loss that she no longer had the ecstatic sensation of that first drop. So vibrant and glorious, as if it was more real than any water she had ever had. Now it was just water again – cool, refreshing, and soothing to what still seemed like a parched throat, but still common, everyday water.

“You could start with something simple,” said James, smiling at her. “You can tell me your name. Just try saying your name.”

She tried it. “I’m…” She stopped.

“Still too dry?” asked James.

She thought, trying to dig into her memories. She felt something was there, but she couldn’t access it. All she could remember was “bitch” and “whore”, and the feel of the Roman’s sandal grinding into her pubic mound. That was no help. She had no name. She felt lost and worthless. The tears started again.

“No, no, no,” said James, “please, don’t cry. What’s the matter?”

“I,” she gasped through a suppressed sob, “I can’t remember my name. I can’t feel my body. Everything I remember before this place is horrible. I’m nothing, nobody. I’m just a condemned slave, and I have no name.”

James looked miserable and a bit shocked, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear. He looked at her sympathetically as she cried.

“You really can’t remember your name?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I really tried. It’s like there should be a name in my memory, but it’s like I’m not allowed to see that memory.”

“What do you remember?” he asked.

“Only walking up the hill, carrying the heavy beam of wood and then…” she stopped, not wanting to relive the horror again.

“Why were you carrying a beam of wood?” James asked. “Were you building something?”

“No,” she sighed. “It was so they could nail me to it.”

“What? Who was going to nail you to a piece of wood? That’s not in any of our programs.”

“They nailed me to the beam, and then let me hang there. I would have died there if you hadn’t taken me out of the box.”

“That shouldn’t happen,” James said finally. “You must have some memories. I mean, I suppose it’s possible that your memories were wiped, but it’s not procedure. And I’ve never heard of someone doing a crucifixion plot in any box. Our standard is more real than reality, so crucifixion would be appallingly terrible. Something is strange here.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “It’s the worst thing that I’ve ever experienced. Are you saying it wasn’t real?”

“Do you remember going into the box?”

“I don’t even know what a box is. I have only horrible memories. I can’t move. I can’t even tell if I really have a body. I remember what glasses are,” she said.

“What?”

“I know I must be more than just a slave,” she said, “because I remember things like glasses, and words like bio-technology. So there must be memories somewhere in my mind.”

“I suppose so…”

“James,” she said, “do I have a body?” she asked. She waited.

“Um,” said James. “You have a body,” he said, “but it’s not quite what you might expect it to be. You’ve been in the box a long time.”

“I want to see,” she said.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” said James. “Just trust me, please. You have a body, but we have to keep it in bio-stasis for a while.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Look, your physical body isn’t even important. It’s a shell for your consciousness. We keep it going in a sort of hibernation state and you live your life in the box, doing whatever you want. More real than reality, remember. You would need a lot of physical rehabilitation before you can use your body again,” said James. “Since the plan is to get you back into your box as soon as we can, there isn’t any point in making all that effort.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s my body. Why is there no point in rehabilitating it? Was I in an accident. Did the Romans damage me so now I’m paralyzed?”

“The Romans?” James asked, feeling like he had missed a step in the conversation.

“When they nailed me to that wood thing.”

“No,” said James. “Any Romans you met in the box couldn’t harm your body here. I’m not sure they could even kill you in the box. They shouldn’t be able to.”

“They didn’t seem to have any worries about that rule,” she said. “They just kicked me, and beat me and hammered nails into me. If that’s what happens in the box, I don’t want it anymore.”

“Like a crucifixion,” said James.

“I don’t know what…” she said.

“The Romans used to hang slaves and prisoners on crosses until they died as a punishment. It's called crucifixion. It’s part of old religious stories my mother told me. You’re saying you didn’t choose that scenario?” James asked.

“Why would I choose that?” she asked. “Anyway, I can’t remember my past, remember? I can’t tell you what I requested. As far as I know, all of this happened without any input from me.”

“Well, we’ll have to look into that as well,” said James. “Anyway, we don’t produce fantasies like that, so I really want to know where it came from.”

“That wasn’t a fantasy,” she said. “That was hell. I want my real body back.”

“Your body has gone through a lot of muscle atrophy, over the time you were in the box, “ said James.

“Is that why I can’t move?” she asked.

“Your body wouldn’t be able to handle the strain, even of gravity. We had one “pullout” who had only been in a few years, and we had to take him out for some reason. He tried to get up and just dropped dead of a heart attack. His muscles and heart couldn’t take it. If you’re going to stay out, you need a lot of physiotherapy before you can even sit up.”

“How long have I been in the box?” she asked quietly.

“It’s really not a good idea,” said James.

“James!”

“Okay, a long time. A really long time,” he said.

“I want to know what I’m in for,” she said. “I want to see my body.”

“Oh, alright. But it’s not something you’re going to like,” he said. “I’ll get a mirror.”
He returned a minute or two later with a long wall mirror.

“Before I do this, which I think is a really bad idea, I want you to remember that whatever you see is not permanent, and that it can be remedied with nutrients and physio, okay? If you stay out of the box, you can make a full physical recovery.”

“It’s got to be better than being nailed to something,” she said.

“Maybe,” said James. “Anyway here you are.” He held the mirror so she could look at her full length reflection.

She looked at the emaciated thing in the reflection, the dry skin, tight over the skeleton, and the bony feet that seemed to be too big. Her body had flat collapsed breasts like empty bags, and seemed to be mostly ribs in the chest area. Large dark eyes stared at her from a mummy skull, grayish skin taut over cheekbones, with stringy brown hair. That couldn’t be her, she thought, and licked her lips. The monster licked its lips at the same time.

She screamed, a long howl of despair, humiliation and pain. The “thing” in the reflection opened its mouth, parodying her scream – a rictus of an animated mummy in agony.

She screamed again. Then she started sobbing.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” said James, jumping to his console. He picked up a control tablet and made a few changes, fingers dancing over the screen. All movement stopped abruptly, as did the screaming.

She was on the shore of a turquoise lagoon. A fish leapt out of the water and arched back down in a perfect dive. There was an umbrella and a colourful striped towel on the beach. Behind her, across pristine white sand, was a thatched roof beach house with a veranda. She looked down at her body – not the mummy-monstrosity of James’ room, but slim, tanned, and well-toned, about 25 years old. Somehow she knew she was 25 years old. She was wearing a green bikini, her favourite colour. She remembered her favourite colour. That was something, wasn’t it?

Had she always been here? Was the monster in the dark room really her, or was this her and that was a dream? Why was she on a beach? She walked back to the beach house and up the stairs to the veranda. There was a card on a wicker table – the sort of welcome card that hotels put out to let you know where the fire exits are. She picked it up. It read:

“Miss,

I put you back into a temporary box, while we sort out what happened to you. It's sort of a small maintenance box where you can have a holiday while we sort out your future. It will be more pleasant than "reality" for the moment. I will start your physio so that when you come back out, your body will be more rejuvenated. In the meantime, if you need anything, please just use the phone in the beach house. It will allow you to select new options. Crucifixion is not one of them. I hope you like the beach. Take the time to rest and consider your options. You should be safe – this box is a stand-alone unit, and is not linked to the main systems. I’ll personally monitor you while you’re in there. Try to relax and enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in touch soon.

James.”​

The wood of the floor felt real. The sand between her toes seemed real. The sun was bright, and there was a scent of tropical flowers, mixed with the smell of the ocean. Somewhere a bird sang. She was happier being a young healthy woman than imagining herself as an emaciated museum piece. If she stayed right here, she thought, it could be real, for now.

If only she could remember her name.

To be continued…
Click to expand...
this is one hell of a story...this is really good. i really enjoy this so far.
 
Chapter 3: For I have dined on honeydew, and drunk the milk of paradise

She looked at the card. So, James was monitoring her. Can he see me on a screen, or does he just have data? If this is one of his boxes, then what am I really when I’m here? I’m an emaciated body floating in a stasis field, somehow hooked into a kind of network, with my consciousness living in these fantasy worlds. She stopped herself.

How do I know this stuff. When I was a Roman slave girl on her way to be crucified, I didn’t know this. I didn’t know what was happening was called being crucified. I just knew it hurt. I knew they wanted to hurt me, that it made them feel powerful, even happy. But, if they are just part of a box program, was there anyone there that really felt anything? Is anyone here real? Am I real?

Her skin was a bronze-copper brown. When she was a slave… she couldn’t remember the colour of her skin in that other place. She remembered that she wasn’t white – she had always liked her dark skin. She had looked after her body, working out. Where was that? She couldn’t remember. How did she know she worked out?

I hope I remember soon. Something. Anything.

She put down the card, back on the table. She looked down at her body – toned shoulders, smooth skin, visible but not prominent collarbone, a swell of small, but round firm breasts, a flat tummy, with a slight flare at her hips, a subtly rounded mound in her green bikini bottoms, slim thighs and knees that were not too knobby. A body that she knew was attractive to many men, and some women, and she was happy in it.

She slipped the bikini top off. Her breasts were golden, the tan line of the bikini barely visible. She had never liked tanning. Her areolae and nipples were darker, almost purple. That was right, she thought. That was real – dark skinned people have dark nipples. What about “down there”?

She bit her bottom lip, worried that something wouldn’t be right. What if this “program” had given her features that she didn’t want? She pulled the waist of the bikini bottom away from her abdomen and looked. She let out a breath. That’s a relief, she thought. She pulled the strings of the bikini and let the bottom drop to the floor. She looked at her naked body. There where the bottoms had been there was a neatly trimmed triangle of dark hair, shaved around her labia – she liked bare labia for when a lover…

How did I know that?

Maybe this is memories coming back. She wanted to feel optimistic. She knew that she had had lovers. Well, she had had experiences with lovers, at least in the box. She doubted that the “monster” as she thought of her “real” body would attract much of anything, least of all a lover.

This was how she looked, she thought, beautiful, young, vibrant.

It wasn’t, was it? Was a dried up anorexic mummy, preserved in a stasis field really her? Funny, she thought. I’ve only been here on this beach for 45 minutes or so, and already I’m thinking of that “thing” as someone else, not me. I don’t want that to be me. If that “thing” didn’t experience anything, but this bronze-skinned princess did, wasn’t the bronze girl her.

She went into the beach house for the first time. It was like the cottages at a tropical resort. Bright curtains with batik patterns hung at the open windows. The ceiling beams were bamboo. The floors were dark teak and had rattan rugs by the large bed, made up with crisp white linen sheets. There were a couple of wicker armchairs and another table, which had a flask on it, black with a pour spout, and two glass highball glasses. She knew somehow that there would be a bathroom through the door past the bed. The picture above the bed was framed in standard resort hotel fashion and was a print of an Arab dhow or some other exotic sailboat in port, with a gypsy girl on the pier getting accosted or propositioned by the sailors coming ashore. She found it slightly arousing.

She opened the flask, and poured some clear liquid into one of the glasses. She tasted it. Water.

Normal water, nothing special. No sensory overload. She didn’t want to start being surprised every time she took a drink of water. Nobody can live in constant sensory ecstasy.

The phone mentioned in the card was one of the old fashioned ones that hung on the wall. She picked up the receiver and found that it was a cordless, mobile variety, and the wall mount was just a charging station. If this is a box, it’s just programmed to discharge and need recharging. It should just be able to function, but somehow I believe it will need charging.

There was a dial pad, as usual, with buttons. The buttons had little labels below the numbers. Below the “5” it said “Room Service”. She pressed 5, just to see what would happen.

“Hello Miss,” said a friendly female voice. “I hope you are enjoying your stay. What can I get for you?”

“I was just checking to see whether this phone worked,” she said. She told herself that she shouldn’t feel silly. The other voice was just an artificial creation of the program, not real. But it probably had feelings, didn’t it? What had James said? More real than reality?

“Oh, yes, Miss,” said the voice cheerfully. “All our phones and all the amenities in your cottage will work. Now, can I get you something? You’ve had time to settle in a bit, so you might be hungry. I can suggest a nice seafood plate with a salad, fresh island fruit, and a lemon sorbet, if you like.”

She realized suddenly that she was starving. “Oh, that sounds lovely,” she said without thinking, and then realized that she had a bikini as her sole property in the world, even if it was a virtual world.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pay though,” she said, “you see, I…”

“You charge it to your room,” said Room Service. She wanted to learn the woman’s name. She didn’t want to think of her as “Room Service”.

“Oh!” she said. “Yes, thank you.”

“It’s nice to have you with us. I’ll send your food right over. 10 minutes?”

“That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss,” said the voice. “Have a wonderful…”

“Wait, please,” she said, suddenly distressed.

“Miss?”

“This may sound like an odd question,” she said hesitantly, “but, um, do you know my name?”

“We are not told individual guests’ names,” said Room Service. “Only gender to allow us to use the proper form of address. You are listed as single, female in Cottage 4, so I call you Miss. Oh! I’m so sorry,” said Room Service. “Would you rather I said “Ms”?”

“No, thank you,” she said, disappointed. “Miss is fine.”

“I’ll send your dinner over,” said Room Service. “Have a lovely evening, Miss.”

“Thanks, you too,” she said and hung up the phone on its charger. She looked across the room and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, a slim bronze nude woman framed in batik curtains with the blue of the lagoon behind her. Her face was not quite oval, dark eyes with long lashes, nice cheekbones, and a slightly pointed chin that was cute rather than angular. One of her lovers had liked to comment on…

Another almost memory. She stood still and held her breath, thinking of a man who liked her chin. Did he just say something, perhaps with a light touch to her face, or did he kiss it playfully? She got no picture, just the vague idea that there had been a lover, and he had liked her face.

She had had a lover. Someone had loved her. Was he real, or a “box”-generated lover? Either way she felt an acute loss. She was suddenly lonely. She wanted someone to love her.

If she had a lover in a previous reality, could this “box” produce a lover for her?

Room Service had not known her name, but that’s not particularly frightening. The girl had a plausible explanation. Everything worked the way it was supposed to. The only thing that hinted that this was a virtual reality was the card from James. She went out onto the veranda, still naked and picked up the card.

The note from James was gone. In its place was a list of resort amenities, a schedule for scuba diving lessons, and a map of the resort. There was a list of resort numbers to call for different services and for information. She shivered.

Maybe this was real and she had dreamed up James as part of a coping mechanism to deal with the being crucified nightmare. The only problem with that thought was her lack of memory. Surely a mere nightmare would not cause amnesia like this.

“Good evening, Miss” said a male voice casually. A young Polynesian looking boy was walking up the steps to the veranda. He wore dark trousers and a white serving jacket, and carried a silver tray with a gleaming cover. Her dinner. She suddenly remembered that she was wearing nothing.

She gasped in embarrassment, looking around for a towel or robe – anything to cover herself, instead she gave him a panicked look and darted into the beach house.

“Wait,” she said as she darted behind the door, “don’t go away, I’ll be…wait…just a minute.”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” said the boy. “The resort is clothing optional at all cottages and private areas. We are very discreet.”

“Oh,” she said. She had found a guest robe – white terry cloth with a surfboard stitched over the breast. She let the boy into the cottage and he placed the tray on the table.

He produced a bottle of chilled white wine. “Compliments of the management,” he said, “to welcome you to our lovely island.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, still getting over being caught outside naked. The boy seemed entirely unaffected.

“If there’s nothing else, Miss, “ said the boy, handing her a receipt folder. It said “Diner’s Club” on it.

She opened the folder, and there was the invoice. Cottage 4, seafood plate, Riesling (comp), with the price in Euros, US dollars, and UK Pounds. She chose to pay in Euros – somehow that felt right, and added a 22 percent tip, and signed the chit, and handed it back to the boy. He glanced at it and smiled.

“Thank you, Miss.” he said brightly. “Have a good evening.” He left and suddenly she was aware again of the quiet aloneness. She was also aware of her hunger, the aroma from the fruit and seafood making her mouth water.

“I can be lonely later,” she muttered. “Right now I’m starving!” She sat down at the small table and picked up what seemed to be a grilled scallop. It had a garlic butter sauce of some sort and was one of the best things she had ever eaten. She forgot how she was dining alone and was soon looking at empty plates, while she sipped on crisp cold white wine and spooned sorbet into her mouth.

She felt tired as the sun disappeared behind the cottage. That means I’m on the East coast of the island, she thought, because the sun sets in the West. Everyone knows that.

Everyone knows where they came from and what their name is, she thought, except me. All I know is that I was nailed to a piece of wood, and now I’m here. It’s not right.

She walked down to the beach with her glass of wine and looked out to sea. The ocean smelled like salt, and fish, distance and adventure. The waves were warm as they lapped at her toes. She turned around to see the lights from her cottage. Through the palm trees and foliage she saw other lights. Other cottages? Was there a main building with a restaurant and bar? A gift shop?

Were there other guests?

She would check that out in the morning. If this was a virtual reality, she thought she should have been able to go without sleep, but whatever this was, she was suddenly exhausted, and those linen sheets were almost a fantasy to her now.

She put the glass down on the table – someone had cleared away the tray. Everything was normal. She went into the bathroom. There was a flight bag, no logo, but inside were cosmetics, suntan lotion, and some toothpaste and a brush. She brushed her teeth. It felt habitual. She knew how to do it. She slipped out of the robe and hung it on the back of the bathroom door on a hook. Then she padded bare and barefoot to the bed, slipped under the cool linen bedclothes and felt them caress her bare skin. She sighed happily and fell asleep almost immediately.

She was awakened by a ray of sunshine dancing across her face. She sneezed. She remembered reading that some people sneeze when sun first hits their face. Where had she read that? Another almost memory.

She sat up, pulling the sheet up over her breasts as there was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“Good morning, Miss,” said a voice, female, not “Room Service” – an older voice. It pronounced “morning” like “moh-ning”. “Breakfast. I leave here, on table foh you. Hope you enjoy. Hot coffee too, in flask. When you ready. Good moh-ning.”

There was a sound of a tray being set down and then the quiet again.

She would check out this place today, she thought. After breakfast, she would go exploring and see if there was anyone else here.

Breakfast was fresh pineapple slices, an omelette with chives and mushrooms, fresh bread, and some strong coffee. There was cream and sugar. The china had the surfboard logo, like the robe, but no name. There was a clean linen napkin. The morning sunshine was already reasonably high now, dancing across the waves of the lagoon, darker ocean beyond. She thought she could make out waves breaking further out – possibly a barrier reef. She seemed to know something about the ocean.

She went back into the bedroom. She saw the blue suitcase beside the closet doors. Why had she not noticed that before? Why could she not remember having a suitcase? She opened the case and found a white blouse and khaki shorts. She put on the green bikini again and then the shirt and shorts over top. They fit perfectly. She rolled up the shorts slightly. Satisfied that she was presentable, she found a pair of sandals in the case and slipped them on. They fit to her feet, obviously hers. She smiled grimly to herself and went out.

There was a stone path that led around the cottage and she followed that. It wound through a small back garden filled with flowers, and then went into the foliage. She left her cottage area and was walking through a grove of what seemed to be coconut palms. There was a small sign up ahead, facing away from her. When she got to it she looked at the other side of it. “3” it said.

“Must be cottage 3,” she murmured to herself. She decided to check it out.

There was a similar garden, and the back of a cottage, similar to hers. She went around to the front. There was an identical veranda, and there was a tray on the table. Two plates and two cups, one of which still had a half a cup of coffee in it. She felt the cup. Cold. So whoever was there had left earlier. Not outrageous. In fact, in a lot of circumstances it would be normal. Somehow she expected that whatever cottage she went to, she would find that the people had just gone. She didn’t really want to test the theory. It was a little too creepy.

She decided to find the main building.

She went back to the main path, and started on again. She passed two other side paths to her left leading to “2” and “1”. She didn’t stop there.

There should be a main lodge, or at least a place for checking in, a front desk. The path went on into the trees. She followed it and it came out of the foliage. Ahead there was another small sign. Was this another sector of the resort, another set of cottages? She stopped to read the sign. “6” it said.

She shivered slightly. What if she went on? She walked on past a sign that said “5” and when she got to “4” she decided to see what this cottage was. There was a nice clear veranda, no tray, no coffee flask. She knocked at the door, and was not surprised that there was no answer. She cautiously opened the door and looked in. There was a suitcase and a nicely made bed. She knew there would be a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Her toothbrush was lying on the edge of the sink.

“Weird,” she said. She remembered the card, and ran to find it. The small resort map showed a straight path along the coast with six cottages. There was no main building indicated. At each end of the row, the path simply ended. At both “1” and “6” it stopped at the trees, according to the map. There was no circle where she could loop back. So how had she gotten back here?

She decided she would call one of the other services. She picked up the phone, and read the directory on the card. “Activities” was at extension 43, Main Desk was at 41. She dialed 41.

“Good morning, Miss,” said a friendly, businesslike female voice. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

“It’s lovely,” she said, “but I’m just wondering if there are other people staying at the resort. I haven’t seen anyone else.”

“Oh, we like to guard the privacy of our guests. Most come to get away from social obligations and just relax. Privacy is very important to us.”

“But are there other people here?” she asked feeling panic rising again.

“Well, if you’re feeling a little closed in,” said the voice, “I could suggest a couple of activities. You could go snorkeling. That’s quite popular and we have excellent guides and instructors. Just call extension 43.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do that.” She hung up. She stared at the phone.

She dialed 43. A male voice anwered. “G’day, and what can I do for you?”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m in number 4 and I would like to have something to do. Can you call back with a list of activities.” She hung up. Activities, preferably with other people. Anybody else.

“Oh, right, Miss,” said a cheerful male voice. “Too bad you didn’t call earlier. You could have joined a fishing trip to the reef.”

“Is there another activity I could do?” she asked. She felt suddenly vulnerable and small. Lost in a situation beyond her control. All she wanted was to know she was okay. Was she just being insecure. She had to pull it together. “I’d like a list of group activities, maybe where I could meet a couple of other people,” she said.

“Well,” said the man, “there’s nothing really available like that today anymore, since most of our people are out with the fishing trip. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you right back, okay.” He had a pleasant hint of an Australian accent.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “That would be fine.”

She decided to sit on the veranda for a bit and wait for the call back. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She was pretty sure that she couldn’t leave the resort. She didn’t think there was anywhere to go anyway. Wherever she went, she felt she’d end up back at the cottages. She looked out to sea. There was no boat anywhere near the reef. There were no boats. Where was this fishing trip? Shouldn’t she be able to see it?

The phone rang. She got up and went into the cottage, picking up the receiver from the table where she left it.

“Sorry, luv,” said the Australian. “Nothing today, but there’s another boat tour scheduled for tomorrow morning, around the island. You could join that.”

“Yes, please,” she said. “Sign me up for that. Cottage 4.”

“No worries, Miss,” said the Australian. “Consider it done. No worries at all.”

She put the phone back on the charger and went to lie down on the bed. If things were going to stay like this, she was going to go crazy from loneliness and boredom. She could have at least had a book to read. Maybe she should just go swimming in the ocean.

The phone rang again. She jumped up. Maybe the Australian voice had something for her after all.

“Hello?” she said.

“Death to the unbelievers!” said a voice. She knew that voice. It was the soldier who had ordered her to be nailed to the cross, the one with the red or blue cloak. “You who would play God will be punished as God himself was punished. Now it is your turn to suffer the cross forever…”

She gave a sharp cry of alarm and hit the “off” button for the phone. She stared at it. James had said she would be safe here, hadn’t he? Where was his message? She sank down into a terrified huddle beside the bed, hugging her knees.

“Help me James,” she whispered.

to be continued...
 
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