Log:The Survivor Awakens
There is a place in between waking and sleeping where anything is possible. When dreams are real enough that, no matter how outlandish they are, they are worth staying in, wrapped up inside of, for as long as possible.
In her dream, she is sitting in a first class airplane seat, looking out through the window, through a smattering of fleecy white clouds, at a patchwork quilt of fields. Brown, green, golden. Some striped, some rounded by irrigation paths. She's flying home, wherever home is. It's a distant notion, an intangible thing with no more shape than the concept of a destination, the feeling of a family
In her dream, there is an overwhelming sense of relief.
All dreams end. In hers, she falls asleep. In the real world, she falls awake, the cool dry air and constant shuddering rattle of the aircraft replaced by cooler, dry air and complete stillness.
Everything that was right is suddenly everything that was wrong.
She sits bolt upright, crashing through that darkness and into light that flickers on with the gentle swell of candles lighting. Above, circled around an iron fixture. On the walls, in amber glass sconces. The whole world sways a little as she comes to curl in the center of her bed, which hangs on chains from wooden beams overhead. It's familiar, and not. Comforting. And not.
Is a bear skin, head intact, mouth full of teeth, comforting?
She doesn't know.
It turns out that she doesn't know much.
Where she is is less important than who she is, and who she is is a tumble of impressions that jumble together as she tries to pick through them. Like shards of broken glass. What she thought was important turns to junk as she sifts through it. Glittering, and cruel. Some of the memories - if they are memories - are paste and plastic, but some are cruel, bringing pain as she reflects on them.
That won't do at all.
She climbs out of the bed, almost falling when she reaches the edge, not expecting it to be quite so high from the ground. A thick rug on the floor beneath deadens any sound she might've made, and brings her to realize that the room is uncannily silent. No ticking clocks, no music playing, no distant engines. No other signs of life.
But there are doors. A bathroom. A closet. A hallway.
One provides water.
One provides clothes.
One must provide answers of some kind.