THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 1 - Escape
The clichés were all present. Lined up in a row so as to make me believe this farce, this fiction that has been substituted for my life. I awoke in my room, yet it wasn’t my room. I inherently knew that my position had been altered while I slept. I looked around at my “stuff” in my “bedroom” and instantly felt like I was on a movie set. Everything was there, in perfect disorder, except now it all felt hollow, empty, devoid of the sentimentality and nostalgic power I’d imbued them with.
I immediately began writing down my thoughts in my journal. Hopefully I could find my laptop and post these thoughts online and make my abduction known to all. Cautiously, I left my bedroom to find my faux living room. Replacement couch, 36” TV, stocked bookshelf, endless DVDs, and my computer, all sitting in the same place I had had the originals for years. Through the small window above my desk I could see the day was a slate gray. Looking down at my router I could see that they had cleverly left me access to the Internet. Truly nothing was out of place.
I made my way to the front door and stepped outside. Staring up at the massive dull dome miles above me, I knew then the trouble that my abductors had gone through to make this mock world. It was perfect and complete in its illusion of comfort and familiarity, and epic in scale and scope. I needed to escape as soon as possible.
I threw on some clothes, grabbed a backpack full of supplies I might need and ran out the door. I had hesitated a minute or two in front of the fridge but decided that the food within there may be tainted with any sort of hallucinogenic drug. I needed to maintain this clarity of thought if I am going to make it out of the confines of this pseudo-reality. I started up my car and slipped in some good driving music. I tore off down a simulation of the road I drove every day for my entire life.
So far everything was as it should have been. If it wasn’t for the ache in the pit of my stomach, the panic buried deep within myself that I trusted more than my five senses, I could’ve easily believed that this truly was my life. That this was my car that I was driving, down the street I lived on, wearing the clothes that I got for Christmas. So seductive was the lie that something deep in me, possibly on a genetic level, was telling me to run. Somehow I knew that this deception was more than my willpower could possibly overcome.