For a moment, I'm confused, both about where I am and how I got there. I blink twice and look around and for some reason I never understand, it all makes sense.
Okay. Movie theater. It's a big, square room with fabric covered crimson walls and black and white checkered tile flooring. There's way too much neon surrounding soda fountains and bins of overpriced, stale popcorn. The pimply faced, greasy haired kid--Kyle, if I recall correctly--who's slinging it is always the same, but I'm never sure whether this should comfort or terrify me. I've been coming here for twelve years--shouldn't he have finished puberty by now? We're the only people there, something I've come to expect, and he shoots me a metal topped grin. It's not friendly, but it's not antagonistic, either. It just is. Welcome back, it seems to say. He looks exhausted.
I sit down on a nearby bench, the kind that are made out of expanded metal and dipped in some sort of rubbery plastic stuff. With the thumb and index finger of my left hand, I pinch the inner corners of my eyes. Hard. I wasn't going to see a movie today. In fact, I've never seen a movie here. But the theater seems to be a home base of sorts and that brings me some level of comfort. The colors don't hurt my eyes and even the air seems cleaner. I don't want to leave. I don't know why I always do.
I get up and head toward the double doors on the right side of the ticket stalls. Even though I can't see the inside of the booth from this side, I know the stall is empty--apparently, Kyle handles ticket sales, too--and for a moment I can almost catch a wish for someone named Linda.
Who's Linda? Kyle is the only person who has ever worked here. I shake away any alien thoughts and push through the doors. The air changes immediately. It's thick and harsh and full of that red brown smell that almost always consumes me here. The movie theater sits on a second level that is completely foreign to the rest of the mall. I always wonder why it was built that way, and I always tell myself to look into it later, but I can never quite remember why I didn't. Everything in the unnecessarily long tunnel leading to the lower level is stark white, made harsher by rows and rows of fluorescent overhead lighting and even with all that sterility it just feels like a
Tomb. Tomb? No. Not a tomb. A tunnel. It's a tunnel. Why the hell would I think tomb?
A chill runs up my back, down my arms, and settles in my palms as cold sweat erupts from them. I push myself through the tunnel anyway. The air grows more sickly with every step I take, and I know the closer I come to the end, the worse it will be. And finally, I see it.
The light at the end is softer, filtered and no where near as harsh, but it only makes the colors worse. The walls are painted with a chalky puce wash, which somehow reflects in the cool, beige tiles. Store after store punctuates the grisly hue, and I'm almost certain the stores are safer. Not safe as the movie theater, but healthier, more real than where I'm standing now. The potted plants are lush and vibrant and envy green, but there is no solace in them. Rather, they're a mocking reminder against the drawn and pallid faces of every shopper that has ever set foot in here. Sporadic clusters of matching beige furniture pop up in the center of the midway, but no one is sitting in them. No one ever sits in them and it's almost as if the high backed chairs themselves are damned.
I continue my course, past one store after another, waiting for the right one, the one I need to duck into. I check the faces of those around me, but not a single eye meets mine. Some of the shoppers are alone, others are in twosomes or even small groups. I can even hear bits of conversation, but instead of cheerful banter, it meets my ears as a tinny whine. The sound hurts my brain.
I wander the wide corridor, and even though it seems like I just entered, I know it's been much longer. Time is another thing that seems to work funny here. It's stolen quietly, pilfered before you're even aware it's gone missing, not that there's enough life left in you to try pulling it back if you did realize. I know it's been taken though. The dull ache in my muscles and that needling behind each temple tells me I've been here far longer that what's safe. I need to get to a store, to the movie theater,
Out! I need to get OUT!
but that second of clarity is ripped through my fingers before I can even try to catch it. Doesn't matter anyway. In twelve years, I've never seen the exit. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it wants to escape my chest and try to find a way out on it's own. I dash toward the nearest store, but my legs hold a protest and instead of madly running, I'm wading through jello and
Farther? My mind claws at the thought. Why is that store father?
My poor lungs are engulfed in flames, which an absurd split second finds hilarious, considering I'm hardly moving. One of my eyes pops and hemorrhages, and I watch as the red blurs across half of everything. I squeeze my good eye shut because that hazy red film is bliss next to the-
Unholy purple-
Of those repulsive-
Demon colored-
Walls around me.
Tomb.
I try to swallow, but my dry, swollen tongue won't allow it. I try to breathe, I try to run but everything just hurts. Everything feels like burning. I'm giving up, I'm falling, I'm too late, again I'm too late! I'm-
My eyes snap.
--Awake? I'm awake! I'm still gasping for breath, but the mutiny from my lungs and throat is gone. I'm soaked and shaking and thick curls cling to my face. From the far distance of Hissideofbed, my husband asks if I'm okay. I mumble that I am, and satisfied, he rolls over to face his own dreams. I lay in the cool darkness, wanting to go outside where the cold air will feel even better against my sweat soaked skin, but I'm too scared because I know--I know--once I open that door, I won't be stepping outside, but back into that movie theater with the red walls and the twelve year old popcorn and the concession boy that never moved on. So, I stay, lying in some sort of disgusting me soup. And when my breath finally catches up and my muscles stop twitching and every fiber in my body doesn't hurt anymore, I roll over and grab the blanket on the chair next to the bed, the one that's there for just this type of occasion. I hastily tuck into it, like a sleeping bag, so that distasteful wet all around me will just stop being there.
I fight against sleep, but I'm so completely drained that I know it's a useless war. In the moments before it claims me, a thought runs through my mind: There's a really good horror story somewhere in there. Except there's not, because who else is this terrified of a freaking mall? And my very last thought before my eyes close until sunrise makes way too much sense, more than any thought in any and all of the years I've had this dream...
That's not a mall. That's hell.
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