Breaking The Loop

This room is completely unfamiliar to me, and I have no idea how I ended up there. I'm lying on the floor of this room, partially sitting up, and taking a long look around.

I have to admit it's a nice place; it almost feels like a bachelor pad. The furniture is minimalist and Formica, with a few retro details, like a record player and a loveseat; in a corner to my left, there's even a minibar. It's definitely a lovely space, and maybe, under different circumstances, I would have loved to spend some time here, but now I have to leave. I don't know how I got here or what might happen to me if I stay longer.

This is definitely 1950s decorating, just the way I like it.

I get up and walk to the door.

How strange!

The lock is set upside down, so I'm the one who needs the keys inside. I struggle with the handle for a while, but it's very strong.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps outside. I grab the first weapon I find: an umbrella hanging on a coat rack by the door. This is ridiculous!

Holding the umbrella high, like a bat, I wait with some anxiety.

I don't think I can stun anyone with this; but if I push it in the door direction with all my strength, I could seriously injure whoever comes through this door.

I watch with concern as the handle begins to slowly turn. I point the umbrella's stylus at the door, from the side where I'm standing. The door opens, and I push the stylus with all my might. 

But the person entering manages to avoid the impact in advance, as if he knew I'd be there and was waiting for him like this. 

"Not the best way to greet an old friend," he comments in a very peculiar voice. 

And that peculiar voice is none other than... My own voice! 

As I look closely at that guy, I get the biggest surprise of my life: He's my spitting image! 

My first reaction is to keep trying to stab him; but no matter how many times I try, he dodges all my movements with unusual skill, as if he were James Bond or something. 

The guy takes advantage of my astonishment to take the umbrella from me. 

"What the hell..." 

Very leisurely, this guy locks the door and crosses the room to the bar, ignoring my surprise. He seems to know this place very well. 

"Come and sit down," he suggests from the minibar. Oddly enough, I obey him. 

"You probably have more than one question about this strange situation," this guy ventures, as he prepares two shots of whiskey and soda. 

"You've read my mind!" I exclaim sarcastically from the chrome chair in front of the minibar. "Start by explaining to me who the hell you are."

"Do you really have no idea?" he asks, handing me one of the drinks. 

"Don't you find it strange that the decor in this room matches your tastes, that I look exactly like you, or that I could anticipate your every move?" 

He shakes the glass, rattling the ice cubes together. It's the only sound in here, apart from our voices... well, my duplicate voice. 

At this precise moment, impatience clouds my judgment. I abruptly stand up, grab the guy by the collar, and shake him a few times. 

"Yes, this is very strange to me! Explain it to me straight!" I yell at him. 

"You're in the depths of your mind, Bruce; and I'm your conscience," he explains calmly, ignoring my anger and still holding my hands. "And if you let go of me right now, we can talk this through." 

I let go of him so violently that he almost hits the bottles in the back.

"Yes, I know your name," he explains, regaining his composure. "And all the other details of your life, too. You can check them out for yourself if you like."

 "What did I name my teddy bear when I was a kid?" I ask suddenly, convinced I was just witnessing a complex, well-orchestrated prank. 

"You named him Paddy, and you lost him when you and your family moved to the city." 

"Yes, that's true; but that's a very common name for a teddy bear, and many families move at least once, and children are bound to lose toys in the process." He shrugs. 

"Fine, ask as many questions as you want; we have all the time in the world..." 

"What was the full name of the girl I had a crush on in fifth grade? What desk did she sit at, and what did she say when I proposed to her?"

"It was Josephine Milford, third desk in the second row, and she scoffed, claiming you were still a bedwetter. Do you have any more questions?" 

I couldn't think of any more surprises. 

"No, that's enough," I agree. "To what do I owe the honor of this meeting?" 

I take a sip of my drink, anticipating a very long conversation. 

"I thought you'd never ask," he expresses some relief. "You're here to acknowledge your preferences, the same ones you've been avoiding all these years." 

I'm confused again. 

"My preferences...?" I repeat slowly, almost spelling out. "What preferences? Food? Cars?"

He laughs in my face. 

"Don't play dumb!" he protests. "You know perfectly well which of your preferences I'm referring to... or rather, which of our preferences." 

I shudder suddenly. He can't be referring to... 

"No and no!" I shout as I stand facing the door. "Whether you're my conscience or whatever other nonsense you claim to be, you have no right to say that... I have a wife and children..." 

"The same ones who don't deserve to be hidden from you," he explains calmly, still from the minibar. 

"Come on, Bruce! The sooner you admit it, the less trauma it will have on you and your family. I don't give a damn if you keep deceiving them, as long as you don't lie to yourself."

 "I'm not lying to myself!" I explode. 

I struggle with the lock again, and this time, oddly enough, I manage to open it. 

“That's exactly what you're doing, and as long as you don't admit it, you're not getting out of here,” he declares, raising his glass.

"I managed to open the door for now, and I'm out," I announced from the threshold, my face triumphant. 

"Good luck then," he wished me calmly. 

"Aren't you worried that this time I might be the one to lock you in here?" I asked, a mixture of curiosity and elation.

"I have a key to all these doors; I can enter or leave each room whenever I want." he said calmly.

I shrug and go to door.

As I step outside, I see a very long, seemingly endless hallway surrounded by thousands of doors. Nevertheless, I'm convinced I'll get out of here. 

One of these doors must be the exit. 

Just like the room I was in, these other doors also have the locks backward. 

I turn the handle of the nearest door and find the impossible... I'm back at the lockers on the baseball practice field. I see myself at 12 years old, standing next to Ernie Hickings; we're both in towels. He takes my arm and leads me to the showers. I almost forgot this.

My teenage self turns to look at me mischievously, bringing the index finger to his lips. 

I run away hysterically and open another door, hoping with all my might it's the exit; but instead, I find myself again, this time 18 years old and in bed with my best friend from high school, Paul Terry; taking advantage of the fact that my parents are away. They both turn to me, laughing out loud. How many times have I tried to block that scene from my mind? 

I also leave desperately and find another door marked "exit," I think; but when I open it, I find myself again, 35 this time and barely married for a month. I'm in the master bedroom with an escort, while my wife is visiting her sister's house. 

When I leave, I can no longer handle the anguish and throw myself on the floor, crying. 

“Okay, okay...I admit it! I've been fooling myself the whole time, but now I admit it... Please stop this!” 

And at that very moment, everything around me goes white, and the next second, I see through my half-closed eyelids another room I'm very familiar with: my therapist's office.

Recovering from the shock, I walk to the door and open it. On the other side, I find the secretary taking notes and the same patients as always in the waiting room.

"Any problem, Mr. Foster?" the secretary asks kindly.

"No, don't worry," I reassure her.

I go back into the office and head to the large window at the back. I see the same busy avenue and my own car in the parking lot.

Only then do I sit back on the couch, with a sigh of relief.

I've been coming to therapy for two months—my wife set the condition for not abandoning me, taking the kids with her—and this is the first time I've agreed to a hypnosis session.

"Well, Mr. Foster, I've heard some pretty interesting statements from you..." he comments. 

"If you had been honest about it from the beginning, we would have saved ourselves this waste of time... It's the 21st century, man!" Haven't you heard yet?

"Yes, I know," I reply distractedly.

I'm so glad to find myself out of my own head again.

Abrir en Google Traductor•

Coment