I hate this place.

The straight, nondescript desert corridors where the sound of my feet echoes as I walk. White flooring. White walls. White ceiling from which occasional fluorescent bulbs spew a crude, shadowless light. And thick, sticky silence which my muscles battle against every step I take.

How long have I been wandering?

A double door looms in the distance as I round a corner, like a promise of change. I stop, caught in a daydream. Beyond those doors I glimpse a hall, decorated with paintings and statues. At its far end, an arch opens to a fabulous garden where snaky paths lead to lazy fountains in lush arbours, under the honey rays of a lenient sun.

I shake my head and sigh as my vision fades away. I used to run to push those doors open. I don't any more. They're fakes. There's nothing behind them but more corridors. Why have they been placed there? What purpose do they serve?

What purpose serves this place anyway?

Sometimes I pass under a dyed bulb, whose light casts a blotch of colour on the dull painting that daubs the walls. Red, yellow, blue, green. Whom do they beacon? What do they mean? Sometimes one of those bulbs sizzles while its light flickers, as if it was going to fail. I've never seen a blown-out bulb, though. Who changes them? And when? And why?

I walk by doors and windows. Every thirty feet or so there's a new door, and next to it stands a large window. Beyond the windows I can see rooms, with nothing but a single bed in the middle of them. Often the beds are empty, but from time to time someone sleeps in it. Always the same guy: old, bearded, Pschent bearing. Asleep. How many times have I banged on the doors hoping to wake the codger. In vain. The doors are locked, and even my strength cannot force them open. The glass of the windows seems unbreakable. Sound does not pass through. The sleeper never wakes.

Never.

I stop at an intersection where two corridors cross. As usual, there are signs nailed on the walls, written in characters I cannot decipher. What hidden truth do they speak of? I can't even guess. I notice the lights are fading out. Soon, it's going to be “night” again. Oh, not the starry night I knew once but a sullen, almost solid blackness, undisturbed by any noise.

I put my bindle on the ground, unbuckle my belt and recline against the nearest wall. Soon the darkness is absolute, so I close my eyes and try to find oblivion in sleep.

I scream in terror. My eyes jerk open to that sticky darkness. My body shakes uncontrollably. What a terrible dream.

There's that nubile girl shackled to the wall of the corridor. She hears me coming, raises her head in hope. Then she sees me and her face convulses in fear. Why? Am I not handsome? Fear not, maid, I'm here to save you. I shall rip those chains and set you free.

But as I approach, my mind blurs. I feel dizzy. She screams, a loud, shrill screech that pierces my ears. It's painful. Please, stop it. STOP IT! My hands close around her neck. Something inside her snaps and silence returns. As my hands let loose, I look at her. Her vitreous eyes bulge in revulsion. Her head dangles over her limp body.

An ominous sensation bursts in my belly. It's my old friend hunger. How long since I didn't eat? Unwillingly, my right hand slides down and reaches for the pommel of my dagger—

Nooo! I don't want to remember any more. The lights turn on and I look at my fingers in disbelief. They're red, covered in clotted blood. But can I call them fingers any more? They're more like paws. The furry paws of a beast. What does my face look like? No, no, I don't want to know.

Oh gods! What are those slimy specks that stick under my nails?

I scream again. A loud, pointless wail that dies into nothingness. Sobbing, I bury my head in my hands.

Round and round in circles my mind comes back to the same haunting question.

Ariadne, why did you dump me?