I open my eyes and it feels different. It feels dreamy. When I try and concentrate, I realise that I don’t remember how it felt before. But I think it was sharper. I think it feels softer now. More relaxed. Slower.
I try to stand up, but I can’t.
I try to move my legs, but I can’t.
I look down at my hands, crossed on my lap, and see a tiny dial. Like a timer on an old rehydrator. The arrow points to red. Red what? It has two more notches: green and blue. Green and blue what? I turn the dial one notch to green.
I try to scream, but I can’t.
I taste metal. I feel suddenly cold. I can see the edges of the room now, but I wish I couldn’t. The walls glitch and distort. I feel like I’m going to vomit. I look down at my wrist to turn the dial, but it’s gone. It was right there.
I look up at the ceiling, hoping for a calmer sight than the walls, but it’s worse. It’s cracked and melted and shattered, and it oozes slowly towards me. I turn my head away and see the dial. My other hand. How did it move? I crank the dial to blue.
I feel at peace.
Everything starts to desaturate, to darken.
But I feel at peace, and I welcome it.
Colour to grey to black.