Banfield

It happened again. It’s every night now. But they are just dreams. That’s all they are. Her hand stretched out to me as she plummeted towards a darkness deeper than nothing. Her fingertips; those fingertips topped with red nail polish. Like the color of an apple. Was there a tattoo? I think so. Between her thumb and forefinger, it was almost phosphorescent. Blue, I think. Or, was it green? No, blue. It was blue. But it was her eyes, those eyes. Yes, I remember now, they were green. They were sad and hopeful all at once…  

“Hmmm,” Dr. Banfield held up a finger. “Ms. Erickson, do you know this woman? In the waking world?”

The woman, lying on the Doctor’s black velvet couch, turned her head towards him, her eyes red and puffy. A wet line traced the curves of her cheek. “No, and I hope I never meet her. I think… I think I am responsible for her death.”

The Doctor removed his glasses, closed them, and gently set them on the charcoal-stained side-table next to him. He gave the woman a gentle smile, and closed the black folder in his hands. “Ms. Erikson, I have a trial I'm currently running, and have a spot open. Would you like some relief from these dreams?”

“Yes. Yes sir, I do. I barely sleep. When I do… I see her. I wrote it on the intake form, my mom. She saw things. Schi… schee-zo-phrenic, I think.”

“Schizophrenic,” the Doctor said, correcting the woman. 

“Yeah… Well, she took her own life when I was ten. I feel a constant fear…” The woman closed her eyes, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

“A fear of what?” 

The woman blinked her eyes and turned back towards the Doctor. “That a great nothingness is near. It approaches from the sides of our eyes. Just out of view. And, It is hungry.”

“You do not need to fear this anymore,” the Doctor replied, with what seemed like empathy. He smiled, maybe too much of a smile. “I can help you Ms. Erickson. I have developed a therapy, one I think can alleviate you of these anxieties.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Dream, all you will have to do is dream.”

* * *

Kim’s eyelids glowed red, flickering open to the blinding sunlight pouring through the windows of his bedroom. At least, she was pretty sure it was her bedroom. Her head burst with piercing pains behind her eyes. With a groan, Kim stumbled out of bed and towards the windows on her left. She held one hand over her eyes while reaching with the other for the curtain rod. She fumbled momentarily, but found it, drew the curtain closed, and lowered her hand from her eyes. The headache had already begun to subside. 

“The hell,” Kim grumbled out loud, “how much did I drink last night?”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing at her temples. Once the room stopped spinning, Kim looked around. It didn’t feel like her room, but it looked like her room. Then she thought, I really shouldn’t drink.

Kim stood up slowly, and took several wobbly steps towards the bedroom door. She stretched out an arm to brace herself against its frame, and mustered the will to look out into the living room. Some clothes were strewn on the couch, a pair of shoes at its base, and then Kim paused on the empty bottles littering the coffee table. She said aloud to herself, “That explains a lot.” The kitchen looked clean, spotless even. A strange contrast to the living room. Kim was actually quite proud she hadn’t trashed the whole apartment. This didn’t last long. A sharp pain accompanied by an image of red fingernails and a hand grasping at air forced Kim to her knees. Her legs felt like sand bags. Her hands gripped at the sides of her head. Then it passed. Kim took in a deep breath, and forced herself to her feet. She let out a quiet sob, and then she heard a voice.

“Ms. Erickson! Kim?” The voice grew closer and closer, till Kim felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and saw a man, a concerned look on his face. 

“You all right? Been messaging you for the past half-hour. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, what’s going on?”

“Wai… wait,” Kim stuttered, “I was…” Kim studied the space around her; she was sitting in a cubicle, surrounded by more cubicles, divided by empty walkways. “I was just at home.”

“Ms. Erickson, you don’t look well.”

“Where is everyone?”

“I don’t know, home… to their respective families or a bar or, I don’t know. Not here. Did you finish the proposal for Banfield that was supposed to be in my inbox thirty minutes ago?” 

“Banfield?” Kim questioned, her brow furrowed. “I know that name.” 

The man cocked his head, almost horizontal. An unnatural angle for anyone. “Yes, as you should. He’s the client.”

Kim turned towards a monitor on the desk, but she couldn’t make anything out on the screen. She figured her sight must still be blurry from the headaches.

“Go home,” the man said. “ In fact, take the day off tomorrow. Get some rest, you look ill.”

* * *

Kim’s eyelids glowed red, flickering open to the blinding sunlight pouring through the windows of her bedroom. She sat up, and rubbed at her eyes with the palms of her hands. She thought, “What a weird dream. It had felt so real, but it had to be a dream. There was no other explanation.” Kim swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up; no wobbles, no headaches, no pain. She walked into the kitchen, grabbed an empty glass off the counter, and turned on the faucet in the sink to fill it with water. No water. Did I forget to pay the water bill? 

From the kitchen, Kim noticed an envelope on the coffee table with red capitalized lettering that read “OVERDUE.” She walked over and picked it up in her hands, and tore the edge of the envelope off. She pulled out the bill inside, but to her surprise, it was blank. She turned the paper over and over, utterly confused, but as she flipped it back to the front a final time, she noticed an address printed at the top. Kim stared at the address, afraid if she averted her eyes—even for a second—the numbers and letters might vanish. 

0326 W 5th Ave, Spokane, Washington 99204. Kim repeated the address to herself a dozen times, folded the paper in half and walked to the bedroom. She grabbed a pair of baggy men’s jeans laying on the floor, put them on, and slipped the paper into her back pocket. A soft beeping noise caught her attention for a moment. Then it passed. She looked around for the fire alarm, but her bedroom only had one overhead light. The sound had unnerved her after the dream, but she figured she would just pick up a battery while she was out and find the faulty alarm later. Kim grabbed her hoodie off the couch, and walked out the door into a world of concrete and light.

* * *

Research Log

26 March 2019

[20:33] The subject is struggling to synchronize her consciousness with the construct. Subject experiencing tachycardia. Reset. Applying subconscious suggestions. Placing address. Continuing with direct intervention. 

(Personal note) This is the closest I have come to finding Annabel. After five years I think I have finally discovered the means to find and bring her back. The subject is like a metal detector for a needle in a haystack. A constantly shifting and changing haystack. But I can bring her back. This time, I will bring her back. 

* * *

Kim stood in front of the building at 0326 W 5th Ave, a two-story bleak concrete box. No sign over the door. Just the numbers “0326.” She took several tentative steps towards the door and just before she placed her hand on the door handle, it opened. The inside of the building did not match the outside; warm woods paneled the walls with green ivy climbing from the floor to the ceiling, black leather couches sat opposite each other with a black cedar coffee table between, and large emerald Monsteras grew out of pots in every corner. The only thought Kim managed to muster came out of one of her favorite books, “Curiouser and curiouser.” She half-thought as she stepped into the building and the door closed behind her that she’d tumble down into another world. To her left was a desk and a man behind it. Kim pulled the paper out of her pocket and walked over to the desk. The man didn’t look up. 

Kim cleared her throat. “Excuse me.” She placed the paper on the desk. The man didn’t look up. “I was wondering if you can help me with this bill?”

The man continued to type at a keyboard hidden below Kim’s view.

“Excuse me,” Kim stammered, “I think I missed a payment and I’d like to resolve it. My water was shut off.”

The man stopped typing and pointed at a ticket dispenser at the other end of the desk. He then pointed at a digital monitor on the wall behind the desk with a green “33” displayed, and went immediately back to typing. 

Kim nodded, but a series of uneasy questions ran through her mind; why wouldn’t he talk to me? Where is everyone? Maybe he’s deaf or can’t speak or doesn’t speak English? Then a most unsettling thought; maybe I am dead and this is the transition into the afterlife. She pulled a ticket, the number on it read “63.” Kim sat down on one of the leather couches, and watched the digital display behind the desk. The man was still typing, and Kim couldn’t help but wonder who could possibly be in front of her. All she knew was something’s not right. 

* * *

Research Log

26 March 2019

[22:16] The subject’s heart rate has stabilized. Intervention successful. 85% consciousness synchronization. The subject has reached “The Waiting Room.” Gatekeeper engaged. Threshold near. Preparing for severance and extraction.

(Personal note) She’ll be there. She has to be there.

* * *

Kim sat nervously on the black leather couch, the air feeling a bit too quiet and still. The numbers on the digital display now read “61.” The front door opened, and through the veil of light a woman stepped into the building in a black hooded coat, her hands tucked into its pockets. The “1” on the digital display changed into a “2,” and the door closed behind the woman. Kim tried to look at her face, but her eyes, they couldn’t seem to focus right. The woman pulled her hand out of her coat pocket and she held a ticket with a “62” printed in bold letters. Kim thought it strange that she could read the numbers but not see her face. Then she saw the woman’s fingernails. Red as an apple. Then she saw the blue tattoo. It was the woman from her dreams. Or at least, she was certain it was. It felt too strange. A coincidence? Fate? Was this the moment preceding that terrible dream? A door behind the desk and behind the man opened, and as the woman began to walk towards it, Kim shouted.

“Wait!”

The woman paused, but didn’t turn towards Kim.

“I think I know you,” Kim explained, “I think something terrible happens to you. I have these dreams.”

The woman didn’t move, and she didn’t acknowledge the statement.  

“Please,” Kim begged, “I know it’s weird, I don’t even know what I am doing right now, or what it means, but your fingernails, the tattoo… I’ve seen them every night. I watch you fall into a vast nothingness. It’s… It’s awful.”

The woman placed her ticket back in her pocket and turned to face Kim. She was beautiful; long brown hair, soft but angular features, and what shocked Kim the most were those sad but hopeful green eyes. 

“It is you,” Kim stated in a hushed tone. 

The woman smiled and moved towards the opposite couch and sat down. They stared silently at each other for a moment, then the woman spoke.

“Hello Kim.”

“You know who I am,” Kim asked, feeling a spike of anxiety rising from her stomach. 

“I do. Although it has been some time, and this place… Well, it messes with linear recollection. Memories are… fickle here. Out of order.”

Kim didn’t want to ask the question, but it burned within her. “Where is here?”

The woman smiled. “A kind of in-between space.”

“Okay,” Kim replied frustratedly, “but what does that mean?” 

The woman tapped her red fingernails on her coat, a muted tapping that sounded like loud thumps to Kim. The woman stopped tapping and placed her hands flat on her lap.

“Okay,” the woman replied, “but it is… unsettling.”

Kim sat up straighter, leaning towards the woman. “Please, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Where do you go when you sleep?” The woman stared deep into Kim’s eyes.

“What?” Kim asked, her mind spinning, unable to grasp the answer. 

“Where do you go when you sleep?”

“I guess… you dream.”

“Yes,” the woman affirmed, “but what happens when you can’t wake or there is nowhere to wake too?”

Kim narrowed her eyes in thought. “I don’t know… are you saying like the world ended or I’m dead? There’s no body for me to return to?”

The woman chuckled. “No, not quite. I’m sure your body is well taken care of. But... we are between the dream and what is beyond that door over there.”

Kim glanced over at the door beyond the desk and let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” the woman replied, “you were not here for long, and understanding is also fickle here.”

“Why am I here now? What is happening to me?”

The woman adjusted herself on the couch, interlaced her fingers, and gave Kim a flat smile. “I suspect my husband is to blame for you being here.”

“Your husband?” Kim asked. “I don’t know your husband.”

“Oh, but I think you do. Adam. Adam Banfield.”

Kim’s eyes went wide. “Banfield? I know that name.”

“Yes, I believe he’s been searching for me for some time. I think he was searching for you too.”

“Why?” Kim asked matter of fact.

“To bring me home Kim. You and I are connected, in a way.”

Kim sat there without words, her mind reeling with flashing danger signs. 

The woman spoke, breaking the silence. “We have to go somewhere even if we can’t go home. That somewhere is here. You and I shared a great trauma, a long time ago. One that defined many lives. A great clash of metal and glass and asphalt.”  

 “But,” Kim stammered, “how am I supposed to bring you home?”

“Oh dear,” the woman replied, almost mournfully. “You aren’t going to bring me home, you are meant to be my new home.”

Kim looked at the woman, her mouth agape. “No, this is crazy. Just one of my bad dreams. That’s all this is.” Then Kim heard the same soft rhythmic beeping from her apartment, and a voice, far off, echoed into the waiting room. “Initiate severance. Stand by for extraction.”

The walls of the waiting room began to vibrate, and the couch the woman sat on began to turn into some kind of black fog. The black fog seemed to boil and twist, as a hole below the couch formed. As the woman fell through the hole, Kim reached out to grab her hand, and red fingernails brushed at her fingertips. The woman fell deeper and deeper into the hole. At the other end of the room, the digital display changed to “63,” and Kim watched as the hole closed up and the door behind the desk began to open.

* * *

In the basement of the hospital, a gasp escapes a woman lying on a metal operating table. The soft rhythmic beeping of an EKG machine echoed in the concrete space. Next to the woman was another operating table with a woman on it, her EKG machine made a long, drawn-out beep. She tried to sit up, but a deep masculine voice from across the room stopped her. 

“Welcome home my love.”

The woman turned to look at the other woman; she had red fingernails, a faded blue tattoo between her thumb and forefinger, and a bald head with wires attached to it. She looked down at her own hands and noticed a fresh coat of red fingernail polish had been applied. A new blue tattoo was covered with a transparent second skin bandage on her hand. She looked up, and saw the man approaching her.

The man stopped beside the operating table, taking her hand in his. “I know it will be weird at first, but I tried to make it so what you see is what you remembered; the nails, the tattoo, and we can dye your hair or get green contacts.”

“Adam?”

“Yes, well… Dr. Adam Banfield now. It's been over a decade my love.” 

She looked over at the other, now lifeless body, and Dr. Banfield followed her gaze. 

“Yes, it's a shame about your old body,” he stated, looking back into her now almond eyes. “As for Ms. Erickson... Unfortunate, but she was, after all, the reason I lost you in the first place.”