The world didn't dissolve. It snapped shut over a roar, as if reality was a room where the ceiling and floor had collapsed and been crushed into the middle. A moment later I was indoors, thinking that I'd been transported to an IKEA showroom.
Everything just seemed so . . . presentable.
Well, not really. It was presentable because it was less of a mess compared to my room. All the same, there were posters plastered across the walls. A pink comforter had been draped over the foot of the queen-size bed, on which a few too many pillows and plushies were strewn about. In fact, plushies inhabited every corner of the space. Lacy fringed curtains covered the window beside the bed. All in all, the abode of a teenaged girl.
I moved towards the dresser, noticed the turntable on it that might have been the same model as mine. It was bookended by a diffuser and one of those cube lights I'd always wanted. I opened the drawer and saw a red Nintendo 3DS XL peeking out amongst an oceanic wreck of hair ties, scrunchies, lip masks, and a multitude of eye, hand and foot creams. It would've been an exact match to my own, but this one was covered in holographic stickers of black roses, white and brown teddies, and many pink hearts.
A coincidence, I thought immediately, but then I saw the gold R4 card in the slot. I'd bought one, but hadn't booted it up years, because the things were notorious for having an in-built time bomb. So that you could hop online and pick up the next product the developers put out. Life, am I right?
Then I found my Switch Lite. Or again, maybe it wasn't, but it was pink like mine was (all the other colours were sold out and I didn't want to wait. Yes, really.), and loaded with the same games. Pastel flower grip caps adorned the joy cons.
I shut the drawer and began to inspect the record player. You see, once upon a time, I'd drunkenly dropped my turntable. I was a novice just beginning to dip his toes into the expensive waters of the audiophile world, and after a few beers I'd decided to live out some Tumblr-esque fantasy of lying down on the floor and listening to my recent vinyl purchases with my headphones on. This Audio-Technica had the same heartbreaking dings.
A casual glance through the crate of records beside the dresser confirmed that the records were all mine– except for several long-desired, very limited LPs. I moved to the bookcase. Yup, all mine, plus many that had been on my hitlist, and some intriguing additions. One crowded shelf, displaying brand-new copies of works by R.F. Kuang and Clarice Lispector, stood out amidst the worn chick-lit paperbacks. When I was younger, university days, I used to spend whole afternoons drifting from one used book store to the next. Spent most of time in the classics, horror, and sci-fi piles, but I'd always wanted to be well-rounded reader. Even when I eventually couldn't even afford heavily discounted pre-owneds, I'd always wanted to go back and just buy everything that caught my eye. I flipped through my copy of The Crying of Lot 49–the Post-Its were where they ought to be, but the bookmark was gone.
While the room was a definite improvement over my basement slum, I hadn't forgotten the reason behind my being here. I wondered whether I was in an alternate reality, or just a projection set up by them. A dream. The obvious answer was that I should look outside, beyond this room, and to the larger external world to see if it bore any resemblance to the world I'd left behind in the garden.
I pulled the pretty curtains aside and was about to open the window, but paused at the sight of my reflection, a dim shadow staring back from the frosted pane. There was instinctive self-recognition, but it was solely because I knew that I was looking at the reflection. But the shape of my face itself, the vague almonds of the eyes and . . .
I turned around and noticed a bathroom right behind where I'd been standing when I first arrived. I raced towards it and then halted, taken back by a fragrance that somehow managed to be comforting, sweet, and spicy all at once. Now it was like I'd walked into Yankee Candle. Every available surface had been lined with the stuff. Did I perform rituals in here? Christmas Cookie, Rouge Oud, Pistachio Latte. And there was a tub, an actual tub! It was big enough for two. A rack hung on the shower tile with a scrubbing sponge. I'd never used one in my life. There was a rain shower overhead. Okay, this definitely looked like a showroom.
Focus, focus. The mirror.
I wanted to think that a stranger stared back. But I recognised her. My brows had been plucked, nose the sharpest, much smaller than my lips which were plump and pink as posies. I looked like I had makeup on, but it was just a natural blush on my raised cheekbones, with a hint of freckles. My face was heart-shaped, my hairline much lower and rounded; even my Adam's apple seemed smoothed. The transformation was complete.
Baccha said it was better that I saw for myself why they kept returning to the portals. Was this what he meant, that you got to live your fantasy? Or enter some alternate universe where shit was just better? Where were the three of them now? And Jon Hodkins, how much did he resent his life that he literally dashed into his end? Had he? Or was he alive somewhere, in some form?
Questions with no answers. Parting the jacket slightly I saw that my figure was an hourglass. I focused back to my face, and moved closer to the reflection. Was it real? Its solidity , once you cast aside all question of how. At that moment I knew I didn't care as much for the hows, I just wanted this. A familiar ache creviced into my chest. I looked down at the ring, the sapphire glinting. A talisman that perhaps was the source of this fantasy. I didn't care. It was beautiful. All of it was: my face, my body, my own place. Even if it was a fantasy life, who was anybody to judge? I was going to claim it.
I stepped out and went to the closet. I'd enough of my stifling outfit, of the jeans that didn't flatter my body, and the jacket too oversized and thick. My hands coursed through quite a selection, stopped to consider a short powder-coloured negligee. In the end I settled on a sleep romper, short-sleeved and in midnight blue. What won me over was the print, which featured sheep and crescent moons.
The rest of the apartment was empty, and very obviously mine. The room next door had been converted into a soundproofed studio. Walking in triggered memories of afternoons when I practiced, working on compositions and recording. There were mounted Kali speakers on each side of the iMac. It was loaded with Logic Pro X, and my go-to plugins from Waves and Native Instruments. So many folders of demoes and final mixes. Well-known amps and rack units were stacked by the desk, and I spotted an LA-3 compressor that looked like it had belonged to Tom Lord-Alge himself. There were pedals too, a Boss PS-5, JHS Muffuletta, EHX Ravish Sitar and Mel9, and Line 6 DL4 MKII.
I plopped on the sofabed, which I knew I sometimes napped on, glanced above the electronic drum-kit. There were multiple plaques from Spotify and YouTube for millions of streams and views. I took out my phone, anxiety mixed with this strange excitement. I opened WhatsApp, and then closed it. I'd forgotten the name I'd wanted to see.
Instead I let my gaze drift to the classy 3-tone sunburst Jaguar with Pau Ferro fretboard, great for any style, from clean twinkling to the sludgiest metal. Next to it a Charvel SSH Strat in Pharaoh Gold with a super stable Floyd rose. I knew there was a proper classical guitar somewhere, and a keyboard with a full-range and foot pedal. Even a violin, but too much Sherlock and anyone would want one, right?
I went out to investigate the kitchen. On the island was a toaster, wafflemaker, blender, Nespresso machine, all in pacific blue. Numerous capsules, and a frother docked beside the wooden holder teeming with bags of tea, hibiscus, rose, and more.
Fresh slices of lemon, different types of cheese in the fridge. Guava, raspberries, blackberries, papaya, mango, and seedless grapes. Tupperwares jammed with candy and donuts, rare treats for every occasion: KitKats, cookies and cream, Milkybar buttons, Fry's, salted caramel, white, chewy caramel, peanut m&ms, pure dark. Dunkaroos and vanilla Tim Tams. Chocolate-covered raisins, brown sugar candy, multi-coloured sugar-coated jellies, jellybeans, all below the egg tray. Cheese dip, butter and jam to go with the wholemeal and raisin bread on the counter, by the bananas and cheese crackers. In the freezer I found pints of Ben & Jerry's, cheesecakes from Philadelphia Oreo and Sara Lee. Cherry pie, and frozen beef and cheese party pies, and lasagne and Farmland hash browns. I stored pickles, mushrooms, potatoes, grapes, apples, pomegranates in the vegetables section. Had I been preparing for a famine, or did I just really enjoy grocery shopping, now that I was living on my own?
On to the living room. A comfortable settee long enough to sprawl across, and some folding chairs, stack of board games in the corner. Between the settee and TV lay an enormous shaggy rug, which I loved putting my feet in, and sometimes preferred to sit on. I leaned forward to pick up the very expensive-looking windproof lighter on the coffee table and waved it over another set of Yankee Candles: Clean Cotton, Cinnamon, Lemon Lavender, Pumpkin Maple Crème Caramel, Smoked Vanilla & Cashmere. They filled the space with a dewy aroma of invitation, like blooms in late spring.
I opened the pastel blue and green ombre curtains and stepped into the balcony. My apartment was on the top floor. Wow, so this was what it was like to have a view. There was a tall building across the street, and I spied on a young woman helping a man, presumably her husband, adjust his tie out on their balcony. There were cars driving in the street below, people hopping into cabs. City area bustling into life on a cold morning.
I sat down at the black roundtable. I admired the lantern-design holder for the candle I'd placed out here. It was so pretty.
Well, then. The sun would be rising soon, how would I spend another day in paradise? First order of business would be to water my potted basil plant.