"That's quite the dream you had, huh?" the old man said in a sarcastic tone. "Well, that happens when someone is under heavy mental and physical stress."
He spoke as if trying to calm me down, but his voice, instead of feeling reassuring, felt cold. Indifferent. As if he didn't care about me or my nightmare at all.
I froze.
Then I turned to him.
"What's my name?" I asked.
He paused.
"Nathaniel," he replied in a cold voice.
Nathaniel.
I repeated the name in my mind once.
Then twice.
It didn't feel familiar.
It felt like I was wearing someone else's name.
"Huh… it doesn't quite feel right. How do you know that?" I asked.
He seemed shocked that I had questioned him. His calm facade cracked for a second — but just as quickly, it was back in place.
"You told me," he replied in a defensive tone.
That was strange.
I didn't remember telling him my name. But what could I say? I couldn't even remember it myself.
I didn't voice my doubts. I kept them to myself.
Just then, the tense atmosphere between us was broken by the loud grumbling of my stomach.
Both of us looked down at it.
I felt flustered, but I calmed down just as quickly.
Then I began to think about the statements I had heard in my dream.
What did they even mean?
I started thinking hard.
I must have changed my expression, because the old man, noticing me, said, "Don't think too hard about it. It will only give you a headache and waste energy you don't have."
He was right.
Instead of wasting my energy on a cryptic dream, I should be thinking of ways to escape and return home to my wife and daughter.
Instead of wasting my energy on a cryptic dream, I should be thinking of ways to escape and return home.
Home.
To my wife.
To my daughter.
My daughter.
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to picture her again.
Hazel eyes.
Black hair.
A slightly chubby face.
No.
That wasn't right.
Or was it?
Why couldn't I see her clearly?
If she were real — if she truly existed — shouldn't I remember her face without struggling?
I tried harder.
The harder I tried, the more the image slipped away.
Like mist between my fingers.
Do I even have a wife?
A daughter?
Or did my mind create them because I needed something to return to?
Something to hold onto?
If they aren't real… then what was that dream?
And if they are real…
Then what did I do?
My chest tightened.
I looked around at the white walls.
The white room.
The bulb.
The chain.
Is this even real?
I pressed my fingers into my palm.
I could feel it.
The sting was real.
But dreams feel real too.
Don't they?
What if I never left the dream?
What if this is just another layer?
What if I am just…
broken?
The thought made my breathing uneven.
Am I real?
Or am I just a collection of memories that don't even belong to me?
Nathaniel.
The name echoed in my head again.
It still felt foreign.
Like I had stolen it.
Like I was pretending to be someone I couldn't remember.
My thoughts began circling faster.
Too fast.
I slapped my face lightly.
The sound cracked through the silence.
Focus.
Escape first.
Questions later.
Just then, the old man spoke again.
"Willpower is a double-edged sword," he said. "It can make a person achieve his dreams and defy death. But it can also make a person a pathetic loser."
He was right.
I had to focus my will on escaping this room instead of wasting time on things I couldn't understand.
Just then, I heard the sound of someone walking outside the door.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
I stiffened.
A second later, the small pet door at the bottom creaked open.
A gloved hand slid in a new dish of… whatever it was supposed to be.
It didn't matter.
Food was food.
The same hand reached in again and took the empty plate and spoon from before.
This time, I didn't lunge.
I stayed where I was.
Because I knew.
Even if I jumped, the iron chain around my legs wouldn't let me move the way I wanted.
Instead of catching the hand, I would only end up hurting myself again.
My knuckles still weren't fully healed from banging on the door last time.
"Looks like you finally learned from your mistake," the old man said.
His voice was cold.
Sarcastic.
Not impressed.
Just observant.
Seeing the food — or dog food, to be more precise — my stomach growled again.
But this time, instead of lunging at it like a wild animal, I forced myself to sit down slowly.
I picked up the food and began to eat.
Not elegantly.
That wasn't the right word.
Just… controlled.
The taste was the same as before.
Metallic.
Medicinal.
Wrong.
Every instinct told me to spit it out.
But I didn't.
I swallowed it.
Even when my throat resisted.
Even when my body wanted to reject it.
I kept eating.
Slowly.
Mechanically.
After about ten or fifteen minutes, I was done.
Silence settled in again.
"Now you act like a proper human being," the old man said.
I didn't reply.
I just sat there.
Swallowing the aftertaste.
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Sorry guys if the chapter was not up to quality I almost forgot that I even had to write a chapter today . So i rushed this chapter as fast as I can . And thanks you again for a total of 500 views.
Thank you I always wanted to be a writer and this brings a tear to my eyes . Thank you again my friends.