(Dream) Stockholm-like Syndrome

July 6th, 2014

We were biking through the alley and are running out of time. There were two of us.

In the middle of the alley, there are bunch of bandits who seem disturbed that we passed through them.

They stood up in our way. We were halted.

Before they bombarded us with further questions, I excused ourselves,

“We were going to a friend’s birthday party. Our friend has been waiting for us.”

I was grabbing a crumpled white paper.

“You’re lying. You think we didn’t know?”

“We’re not!” And we quickly got on our bike and pedaled with all our might.

We’re getting at the end of the alley. The end of the alley was sealed with high iron gate, though there was small opening through which one person can pass.

None of the houses on both side of the alley were familiar to me. Which is weird. The house should be around here.

I opened up the crumpled white paper. A rough sketch written with black ink, we were staring at. It was meant to be guiding route. On the middle there was a circle, and an arrow pointing at it.

My heart sunk.

“We took the wrong way,” I said to my friend.

The thought of having to pass the bandits again horrified me.

“We could use this way.” We passed through the small opening of the iron gate.

We pedaled with all our might.

On our way, I caught a glimpse of familiar person from the corner of my eyes.

It was one of the bandits. He’s the one who accused us of lying. He knew. How could he caught up with us so quickly.

He knew I spotted him. He smirked. I looked back to the front. I have to get there in time. Judging from the sky, it must be around 3. Or 4. Until when it opens? I don’t know. I have to get there as fast as possible.

I cheated on the route. He lost us.

We encountered him again. How could he managed to caught up with us so quickly.

Our bike ran side by side. I did almost an acrobatic move and cuddled him.

He was surprised but then again not resisting.

We were arrived at a building. We were at its fourth floor. We got up through the stairs. After the separating door glass, there are rows of desks and chairs, like they had in offices. Desks, without cubicles. People were typing, making calls, hidden behind piles of papers.

I entered.

“Excuse me, may I meet Mr.–?”

“Oh, he hadn’t arrived yet.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yes, he should’ve come. He should collect the—“

“Oh, are we still able to submit the—?”

“Yes, but you should wait until he comes.” So we waited. Outside the office room.

Behind the glass door. One of the staff called my name. He seemed to know me. I can’t remember who he was.

“How do you know me,” I said.

“Mr.— mentioned two writings to me. One is the— about the—. One is writing about India and its landscapes. Animals, topography, and trees, and detailed others. He applauded these two writings. He mentioned your name when telling me about the second writing. You’re the one who write it, right. I read it. It was laudable.”

“No, I don’t,” I recalled this familiar remark. “There’s someone who think of me as the writer, too, few days ago. But I said I don’t write it. I’m not the writer.”

The secretary-like female staff, that sat behind the male staff I was talking with, glanced at me. Her look was not pleasant.

 

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