After being ordered by the State to undergo Deep Sleep, a treatment for troubled teens, Jo awakens in the hospital with sporadic and unexplained memories. Upon celebrating her rebirthday, she recalls strange past events that makes her question reali...
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I moved across the large, sterile room toward the bodies along the wall to closely examine them in the dim light. Each one rested with closed eyes as if they were in a peaceful sleep, however, subtle jerky movements said otherwise. Some would open and close their fists ever so slightly as if they were trying to manipulate objects. Others would move their mouths as if talking or chewing, and still others would grimace or frown as if feeling pain or other sensations.
What was this? Were their bodies and limbs acting out parts of a dream?
Mom had mentioned the doctors possibly experimenting with space and time and placing consciousness into different dimensions. Was their consciousness in some other existence while their bodies remained strapped to a metal slab like wall ornaments?
She also mentioned how the wealthy would take liberty in using this place like a babysitting service and sending kids to Deep Sleep for the slightest offense. Could she be right? Had this boy been sent to Deep Sleep for disobeying his parents and not cleaning his room? Were all Deep Sleep patients being subjected to experiments involving alternate realities? Like the males, am I still sleeping and everything playing out in front of me is some sort of dream?
What was real anymore and how could I tell the difference?
I pulled the diary from my pocket and flipped through the electronic pages, the sounds of distant footsteps and the doors opening and closing outside of the room instilled me with a sense of urgency. As I swiped each page, scanning the lines for anything out of the ordinary, a passage finally caught my eye.
How can you prove whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?
As much as I wanted to concentrate on why I've come upon that particular phrase in my diary and ponder the chances of it being a coincidence, memories instantly flooded my mind at the full recollection of Plato's famous quote. Vivid images of Mom ramming her rigid forefinger into the center of my chest and shouting incoherent words, while a sense of anger accompanied the hatred in her eyes.
I continued to flick through the electronic pages, looking for anything else that could jog my memory.
Mom is acting weird again. Not only is she always running on booze, every time she gets wasted, she gets angry at me. She constantly stinks of liquor and I hate it. Just being around it gets under my skin. She keeps screaming at me about how I should be thankful because if she was in my shoes, she would do something different or better with her life... It's almost as if she wishes she were me.
Imagery of catching Mom in my room, sitting at my vanity, combing the bristles of my brush through her hair swarmed me, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. When forcing my mind to continue the details of that scenario, I hit a blank wall.
However, another vivid picture played out in my mind instead. I questioned if it was a memory or my imagination that conjured up images of Ian's strong hands gracefully and sensually exploring my body and his warm lips on mine. The bitter taste of liquor and the strong stench that accompanied it lingered on my tongue, enhancing the physical sensation of his touch tenfold. His masculine scent of earthy raw almonds and the heat of his body radiated over me as we became more intimate and curious about the pleasures our bodies could produce.
