The Blue Walls by Beverley

Sometimes, I can be dreaming, and I know I am in a certain place, but it looks nothing like the place I know it is. When this began happening with more frequency, however, I became suspicious. Then the whole bottom of my world fell out, and I have no idea why. It just happened out of the blue.

Although I don’t know why it all started, I can pinpoint when it all started. Since then though, time has become a funny thing for me. I know that sounds odd, but how many times have you found that you’ve arrived somewhere without remembering the journey? In the everyday routines of life, often time is lost, and this gives us a sense of time being condensed. If you can understand this, then you will be able to grasp a little of what I mean when I say that time started to act strangely. This feeling—that I have had before and not really thought about much—became more noticeable than usual, like heightened. But let’s begin with the event that started it all. As far as I can tell—with my skewed view of time— it happened around a week ago.

I was visiting my parents and had just pulled into the driveway in the early evening. They live in a huge period house built in the early 1900s by a wealthy architect who lived in it for the remainder of his life. The house is so big that, after his death, the beneficiaries had considered selling it to a nursing home conglomerate, who had no problems coming up with the funds to buy it. That was until my father inquired about a purchase and managed to persuade them to reduce the price to keep the property privately owned. The beneficiaries must have had some sort of emotional ties to the house, and so they agreed, and my parents and I moved in.

That was twenty years ago now.

Whenever I go back to visit my parents— on the last Friday of every month— I usually stay for the night, sleeping in my old bedroom, as if still a child. Each time, I can almost pretend that I am, as nothing in the room has changed. The pink flowered wallpaper still overwhelms the room with its rosy hues, flouncing before my eyes the moment they open in the morning. I dreamed about changing it as a teenager. I longed for something more modern, with clean lines and much less fuss—a cooler shade of the palest blue—but the pink flowers still remained.

As I headed across the gravel driveway to the front entrance of the house, the light was fading from the summer sky, bringing a freshness with it. While walking, I glanced upwards, over the grey brickwork, to my bedroom window under the traditional black and white eaves. There, I noticed the welcoming, warm glow calling me inside. The pink flowers flashed inside my head then, and, like a Polaroid photograph, the image remained, burning into the walls of my mind.

I hesitated for a moment from the impact of it, with my foot resting on the small step leading into the porch-way and to the heavy wooden front doors. Instinctively, I gasped, sucking in the night air, which seemed to restore my composure as I climbed the step and entered the porch-way. I could smell the familiar scent of history from the wood and stone and brickwork of the house.

I was home.

Reaching down to my shoulder bag, I opened it and fumbled inside, searching for the set of house keys that I had been given when I was sixteen. So focused was I, that I didn’t notice everything change until it had. How could I not have noticed?

Glancing upwards, the heavy wooden front doors had been replaced with the picture of a girl in green dress and pink nightcap; I was standing at the threshold of my bedroom, peering in at the back wall. How had I been transported up there? Instinctively, I entered the room, and then it all started. As I gazed around, the terror took hold, rising inside of me without my volition or understanding of it.

The walls were a cooler shade of the palest blue.

Come to think of it, when I just said that I had dreamed about changing the colour of my bedroom walls, that might have actually been a dream. I mean to say that, I had indeed wished it, but… I don’t know. Somewhere in my mind, I am calling up the feeling of literally dreaming about it.

Anyway, so there I was, wandering around my bedroom as if I was lost or something. How could I be lost in my own bedroom? Well, I couldn’t. But this is what I mean about dreaming and knowing where I am, but things looking different. I knew where I was, but I was lost at the same time. Can you imagine that conflicting feeling? It’s like being torn in two. It tells you in your bones that something is terribly wrong.

When I woke up—what seemed like moments afterwards—I was surprised to see plain, white walls; I was back in my apartment in London. Strangely, my first thought was that I hadn’t even had a chance to say hello to my parents. What would they think? Of course, that made no sense because I had only been there in my dream. However, as I peeled back the duvet cover and rose out of my bed to get ready for work, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should have said hello to them.

The underground station that morning was as crowded and hectic as usual. This only flustered me more as I impatiently pushed my way past people to get to the far end of the platform, where I knew there would be more space and likelihood of my getting a seat when the train arrived. As I waited, I glanced back down the platform, and it was then that I had another terrifying moment.

Through the crowds, I caught sight of myself.

I stood there, watching as the other me headed towards me, catching glimpses of my navy-blue work suit as it weaved through the people on the crowded platform, getting ever disconcertingly closer.

When my impostor finally appeared in front of me, it was sudden and startled me, like when you anticipate something, but you don’t know exactly when it’s going to happen. The couple who were standing next to me parted suddenly, and the other me pushed her way through.

For a moment, we just stood there staring at each other. Then the other me spoke up.

“Something odd keeps happening; I see things, and I know what I’m doing, but it doesn’t look as it should,” she said with confusion, sounding exactly like me.

“Like my bedroom walls,” I answered instinctively. “Are you me?”

She frowned. “No, what the hell do you mean?” Well, that was a bit abrupt, not at all like me! “Look, anyway,” she went on impatiently, “for some ridiculous reason, I saw you, and I felt like you may have some answers. I’m going to work, and I know I’m going to work, but I’m in London, and I don’t work in London. Everything has changed. What the hell is going on?” she asked, exasperated.

I was so confused, but at that point, I only wanted to know one thing.

“Why do you look like me?” I asked.

“I don’t look like you,” she countered, her frown deepening.

I matched her frown with one of my own.

“What? Yes, you do,” I disagreed, “you look exactly like me.”

She shook her head, adamant.

“No, I’m looking at you now,” she said, glaring at me, “but you don’t look like me,” she insisted.

Then she was gone again, jostled away from me, and lost in the hordes of passengers. As she disappeared backwards, I reached for her, desperate to find out more, but it was too late; she had been swallowed by the crowd. I was left then, sifting through what she had told me and trying to puzzle everything out.

I had to find her again, and when I felt the air whoosh past me as the approaching underground train sucked it in, I thought, no matter, I would find her on the train. But as the doors of the carriage opened, and I stepped forward, when my foot touched the small step into the train, everything changed.

First my vision blurred, and then, when it cleared again, I was astonished to find myself back at my parents’ house with my foot resting on the small step leading into the porch-way and to the heavy wooden front doors.

Not again!

Okay, I had to get in, so I reached into my bag for my keys, acutely aware that I was doing everything the same as before. But maybe things would go differently this time, and I could say hello to my parents.

That wasn’t to happen though, and, before I knew it, I was back in my bedroom with the blue walls. This time, however, I was surprised to see that the woman who looked like me was sitting on the bed. I rushed towards her, and she turned.

“It’s you!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat as I came to a halt in front of her. “I remember now. I thought I recognized you, but now that you are here, now I remember,” she said, pointing at me, almost accusingly.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “I saw you once, but when you were younger: a teenager. Your father bought this house from us, my brother and I, after my father died. Damn it, I don’t have time for all of this.”

“Oh,” I said simply. That hadn’t been exactly what I’d expected. “Listen,” I continued, taking a seat on the bed where she had previously been sitting. She sat with me, sinking onto the bed with a sigh. “I know you said that I didn’t look like you, but, to me, you look exactly the same as me. You do believe me, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess I have no choice but to accept that something really strange is happening, and somehow, we’re both connected,” she acknowledged.

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically, feeling a sense of relief that she was being open-minded. “Maybe we can help each other. The thing is, I think I’m stuck in a dream. I wake up, but then I realize that I’m not really awake; I’m still dreaming. Then I wake up again, but guess what,” I said, throwing my arms in the air in frustration, “I’m still dreaming! Maybe I’ll never wake up.”

“The same seems to be happening to me, unfortunately. How inconvenient,” she tutted. “I don’t have time for this, I have a business to run, things to do. I don’t want to have to deal with all this now. But…” she sighed, “I guess, the only way we are going to wake up is to figure everything out and get on with our lives. Okay so, from my point of view, one minute I was in the London Underground speaking to you—although I had no idea why I was there— and the next,” she glanced around the room, “here I am.”

“Well, I work in London, so maybe you were there because of me,” I suggested.

She watched me for a moment then, her blue eyes—the same as mine—moving thoughtfully over my face. Then she replied.

“This is a crazy idea but,” she rolled her eyes as if annoyed at having to go along with her own thought, “I think that I’m in your dream.”

“Yes, I can confirm that; you are in my dream,” I answered, feeling a little disappointed that she hadn’t come up with something more than what I already knew.

“No, you don’t understand, I’m actually in your dream, in reality. Okay, damn it, I know that doesn’t make sense because a dream isn’t real but… Okay, so you are in your bed sleeping, right?” she said, turning to me on the bed with about the most enthusiasm I’d seen in her so far.

“Right,” I agreed.

“So, all of this,” she said, gesturing around herself, “is in your head.”

It hit me then.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed with realization. “So, you must be inside my head. I mean, assuming that you are actually real and not just part of my imaginary dream.”

“I am real, trust me on that,” she said dismissively. “So, if I’m in your head, then you must also be in mine for us to be able to talk. I’ve got it,” she said, clicking her fingers. “That is why you say I look like you, because both of our minds are sharing this dream. Yes, it all makes sense now. I am looking at you, and you are seeing the dream through my eyes, so I look like you… to you anyway.”

“Wait, but I thought you were seeing it through my eyes. Isn’t that why you found yourself in London?” I questioned.

“Well, yes, but who knows how this thing works. Maybe we can hop into each other’s minds and dreams willy-nilly. Anyway, who cares, the most important thing is, how do we stop it and wake the hell up?” she stressed.

“I’d quite like to know more about why this is all happening, but anyway,” I said under my breath.

“Okay,” she said, her eyes dropping from me as she seemed to back down a little, “I have been going through a few issues lately,” she admitted. “And when that happens, I do tend to think back to the good old days and this house, when dad was still alive. Maybe this house is what links us.”

“That makes sense,” I replied, glancing around the room wistfully, but frowning suddenly. “By the way, maybe you can tell me why the walls are blue.”

“What walls?” she asked.

“These ones,” I laughed.

“These walls aren’t blue,” she frowned, “these walls are pink with flowers. I should know, this was my bedroom.”

I couldn’t deal with that. I had been finally getting some answers as well. I would just forget it for the moment.

“Okay, so how do we wake up then?” I asked, changing the subject.

She considered that for a moment before answering confidently, “Well, the way dreams work is that finally we wake up, right? I mean, dreams only last one night at the most; they don’t go on forever.”

“Why do I feel like this one is then?” I complained. “It’s occurred to me that, for all I know, I may have been in this dream for my whole life. This dream might be my life.”

“But I’m here too,” she reminded me.

“It might be your life too,” I answered.

“No, don’t get wrapped up in ‘what ifs’. Let’s stay practical and clearheaded; it’s the only way we will get out of this,” she insisted. I nodded. In truth, I had told myself something similar, and besides, I had also seriously begun to doubt my perception of time. “I think the only way we are going to wake up,” she went on, “is to go along with the dream. See it to its end. I guess that I have to face my demons, and you have to face yours,” she concluded.

***

I’ve woken up now, thank goodness, and I think I’ve figured it all out… sort of. Anyway, after she’d said that we needed to face our demons, there ensued an argument, during which I insisted that I had no demons and that my life was perfect: I loved my job, I had my own apartment and friends, and I had my parents who owned that lovely house. Well, that was when I realized that I’d been kidding myself, and I think it was that realization that prompted me to wake up.

I awoke in my Wimbledon apartment this morning to a crushing, sinking feeling. After waking, I realized there was a reason why I hadn’t said hello to my parents: they were no longer living in that house. My father had passed away a few months ago, and my mother had moved into a retirement village.

I went to visit my mother today. I just wanted to spend time with her, enjoy the security of her being there. I didn’t tell her about my dream.

This evening, I drove back to Wimbledon, watched a bit of television, and then reluctantly went to bed. I wondered, as I lay stiffly and nervously under my duvet, if I would dream tonight. Strangely, after I eventually did fall asleep, I seemed to dream nothing, just blackness.

Thinking about it, I should have known there was something odd about that. I mean, if you don’t dream, you don’t see anything, not even blackness. Then suddenly I was awake, but not in my bed; I was standing on the London Underground platform. Having some idea where this might go, I turned and scanned the crowd, not entirely surprised to see myself rushing towards me.

When the woman who looked exactly like me reached me, she grabbed my arms this time and stared directly into my eyes. Her eyes, although the same as mine, looked wild and somehow different than last time.

“You’ve got to help me,” she said, urgently, “I think you are the only one who can. Everything is so strange,” she said, dropping my arms and running a shaking hand through her hair. “I think I’m in London, but I don’t know how I got here, and my house has all changed. The walls…” she trailed off as if too afraid to carry on.

“What about the walls?” I prompted.

“They’ve changed from blue to pink… with flowers!”