You wake up, sweating. Somehow you know this is a dream. You always do. You lift your head up to see you're lying in your bed, but in a different room. It's not actually a room even, it's a prison cell. The corridor and the bars separating it from where you sit give it away. On the other side of the bars, you see a stool and a phone on it. It's an old dial phone. Black. Non-descript.
Suddenly, the phone starts ringing. It's for you, you know it. And you also know you won't reach it, no matter how much you try to fit your arm through the bars. It's that bad dream, you realise. The one where you are called, but can't answer. The phone keeps ringing. It's the same as before, same as the million times before. You know you'll never answer it and it will keep ringing, ringing, ringing...
Then you hear music. It's faint, and you know the tune from somewhere. But you can't name it. Maybe if this wasn't a dream, you could. But it is. Maybe if that phone didn't keep ringing to drown out the song, you could. But it does.
A man walks down the corridor towards your cell. Dressed as a British butler, through and through. You know him, but he's not real. Fictional, with duties elsewhere. What is he doing here? He stops by the phone, picks up the handle and puts it to his ear. The ringing stops. So does the music.
He pauses for a second, and then looks at you. "It's the girl from Ipanema." You don't know if he means the song or the call. He holds the handle out to you. You pick up the handle and bring it to your ear...
"Maybe you are a monster, and it's silver bullets and heartbreaks from here on in."
He clearly means the song, you realise. Because she's not from Ipanema.
Grimwall asymptotical ly close
- 5 years, 5 months ago
