Beyond the Wall

I’m doing something different this fine Autumn Monday. It’s certainly a bit of a dystopian departure from my typical material; chalk it up to a festive welcoming of spooky season. I’ve written a short story, and of course, have a slew of intended themes, but I’d love to hear your takeaways on it. Reply to the email if you feel inclined to share. Without further ado, I give you “Beyond the Wall.”

Awaking with a jump, the young man came to. The dream was already fading… flowers? Were there flowers? He wiped the drool off his cheek and sat up, looking around the room in which he found himself. An old man sat watching with worried yet smiling eyes.

“Feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I- where am I?”

“You’re back. You’re okay.”

“Back to where?” He was in a small, comfortably-furnished room, sitting on a velvet sofa. “What is this room? Whose house is this? What the- What city am I in?”

“The effects should wear off within a few minutes,” the man replied sympathetically. “I warned you about inhaling that stuff.”

“What the hell are you on about? What stuff? Just tell me how to get out of here.”

“There is no out of here. Just relax and give yourself some time to adjust.”

The young man rose as quickly as his temper. Then he noticed: there were no doors in this small room. A hot, churning panic filled his veins like venom.

“I will knock down these walls. I’m dead serious.”

“Into what?" the old man chuckled, betraying a hint of unease. “There’s nowhere to knock them into!”

“What’s behind the walls?”

There is no “behind” them. I know what you’re feeling. I’ve tried the stuff too, but the reality is, the walls are the edge,” explained the old man.

“The edge of what?! Stop with the cryptic crap,” spat the young man as he paced around the space.

“Please… you know this room. Come back to me,” the old man replied worriedly.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

The young man began punching the walls. Their unforgiving hardness surprised him, but his fear propelled his fists forward. They began to bleed, and he started using elbows, and, panting, resorted to futile knee kicks. He moved along the wall, but began to worry about the old man’s claim. The paint hadn’t chipped a single flake.

Exhausted, the young man turned to him.

“Okay, just tell me what’s going on. I’ll listen. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m just confused as hell and I need to get out of here.”

“I know,” the old man replied with genuine empathy, and a growing worry in his face. “Sit down. I will explain.”

The young man did not sit, but rather leaned uneasily against the wall. The old man continued.

“You see that on the floor?”

He followed the old man’s pointing finger, and saw a crumpled paper bag.

“You inhaled contents from that bag 10 minutes ago. You then fainted on the sofa. A few minutes ago, you came to, but you remember that of course. Based on what I know, I’m guessing that you’ve just awoken here, in an unfamiliar room, and would now like to leave the room to go about your business in the world.”

“Yes, I’d very much like that,” the young man hastily confirmed.

“Well, the contents of that bag, and the subsequent unconsciousness, cause you to forget that this,” the old man motioned his arms wide, looking around the room, “is the world… in its entirety.”

“What’s beyond the walls? And where are all the other people?” the young man retorted.

“Like I said, there is no ‘beyond the wall.’ And as for the people, you and I are the people. This is the world… it’s always been this way, and you’ve always been okay with that, because you didn’t know what it was like to perceive more.”

The panic in the young man reached a paralyzing heat. The old man continued…

“That dream you just had… it’s nice. I know it well. You get to see people, and there are sights, and sounds, and places to go. There’s just so much more. And then you come back to the real world… and it’s small, and it’s just you and me, and there aren’t other places. It’s deflating, I know. You begin to remember this a few minutes after you wake up. And then, sometimes, you want to go back to the dream.”

“Stop with the stories,” the young man interjected. “You’re just holding me in a room and telling me the world doesn’t exist, and you’re blaming it on a crumpled bag… just tell me how to leave. I don’t think you want a fight with me.”

“The world does exist. It’s only that you’ve forgotten what it looks like,” the old man tried to explain.

But the young man was finished. Frustrated, he picked up the bag, waving it about. The old man flinched.

“It’s just a piece of trash, man... there’s nothing even in here.”

“Please,” the old man begged quietly, ”please put it down.”

The young man peeked inside the bag. He saw nothing, but picked up hints of a strong scent. With a curious instinct, he inhaled.

He opened his eyes, quickly abandoning the distressing thoughts he was having. Right now, he focused on the flowers. He loved this garden.