We Are The Dreams That Never Die – Part Three

Marty stands in the doorway, confusion washing across him like a tidal wave of irrepressible power. His body shakes with fear as he swallows a mouthful of razor blades disguised as air, then steps forward.

“I never really questioned how little this made sense until now,” a voice says behind him, he quickly turns around to face the stranger who wears his face, sitting comfortably at his computer desk.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING! WHERE AM I?” Marty yells as he grabs the stranger by the collar, pulls him to his feet and shakes him violently.

“Y-Y-You’re home Marty, don’t you remember?” His doppelgänger says as he shoves Marty away. “Look around and see with your true eyes. Look and see what you have forgotten. Look and see what it wants you to forget.”

Marty silently processes his words as he looks around the room in confusion, then rests his eyes on the strangers frail form. “What did you mean about none of this making sense?”

“The room, the room doesn’t make sense,” he says as he gestures nonchalantly towards the computer desk and bed. “This isn’t the bedroom of a married man, this is the bedroom of a kid, of someone who loves by themselves. It doesn’t fit your character, it should be more of a writing room, with a couch instead of a bed, maybe a sofa couch so you could use it from time to time. Claire could even reference it in one of the catch up stories, threatening you with sleeping on…” they lock eyes and the stranger smiles awkwardly as he runs a hand through his hair, pulling small clumps free in the process. “Sorry, I know that’s more wasted information than you need so I promise I’ll try to be more precise with the information you need to know. Let me start off by answering your first question with a question of my own. Tell me what colour hair Claire has?”

“What?” Marty asks in surprise.

“Your wife Claire, remember her? Tell me what colour is her hair? It’s a simple question.”

“It’s a stupid question, her hair is….” he stops and stares at the stranger in confusion as his mind reels around like a merry-go-round. “Her hair is… it’s… Why don’t I know what colour my wife’s hair is? I’ve know her half my life!”

“Because I never decided what colour it was,” the stranger says with a wry smile upon his malnourished face.

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