Activity

Okay yessss here we go! I’m excited! Fair warning, I may mess around with some weird tenses or points of view. I missed experimenting with those in here XD

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I grip the steel rails of my wheelchair and push, the motion as familiar as breathing by this time. It’s too cold for an April morning, the fog bunching thick around the tall pines scattered around the campus. They guard the gothic buildings like statues, or like gnarly, stretched figures, clumped together in groups, their voices so quiet you can never quite understand what they say.

I’m late, but that’s hardly unusual. I make a quick assessment of the two paths that splay out before me like bridges over the ocean of gravel. One leads around to the art building, its tall towers splitting through the mist like fingers stretching to invisible heaven. But, that’s through the cold, and my breath is already clouding around me. My face tingles with the cold, as though the droplets of mist gather there like acid.

My fingers are bare through the fingerless gloves I usually use with my wheelchair, and already numb from the few minutes it took to get here. If I can get out of the cold, I’m more than happy to.

The other path leads into the dance building, which connects to the art building, where I need to be. Even better, a ramp leads up the towering stairs, and even though the endless twisting corridors and mirror-encased rooms have stairs and high thresholds, they also have ramps. I could make it, and it’s definitely warmer inside.

Besides, the dance building is more interesting than the outside, where I am alone with the few towering pines and guarding buildings scattered around me.

The dance building is like a house of mirrors, the endless twisting back and forths, with dead ends and identical corridors, the marble floors of the corridors blocked in black and white, the wooden floors of the studios creaking, moved by unseen feet.

Founders, ballerinas, choreographers, and musicians stare down at the unwitting bypasser, their glares sharp, as though they know I don’t belong there. I rather like the unwelcoming atmosphere. The smell of rigidity and tradition hangs in the air, accentuated by hairspray and the ghosts of dancers unseen.

It couldn’t be more different than the art building. Though they share the same brown-bricked gothic exterior, the inside is filled to the edges with every kind of unorthodoxy. Murals sprawl across every wall, even some of the ceilings, apparently it had been a particularly ambitious project of the seniors one year. Even some of the windows have broad brushstrokes swirling around each other like Van Gogh’s starry night. Sculptures obscure the doorways, art installations hang in the middle of some of the rooms. It’s more my place than the dance hall will ever be.

The biggest reason for that was the heavy oak doors. I wish the dance hall had automatic doors, these are almost impossible to open easily with a wheelchair. When I had a bad enough day, that would be enough of a reason to just go around, but today I’m willing to brave them.

I stop before the doors, then flick the lock onto the wheels so my wheelchair doesn’t roll away when I get up. I gingerly get up, pausing when a sharp pain shoots through my left knee. I wait for it to pass, counting the seconds until it fades to a dull ache. Quicker than I’d thought.

I grab the heavy brass handle and push against the door, throwing my whole weight into it. It drags me back, pushing back against me as though the unwelcoming atmosphere has grown a personality in this very door.

Finally, it relents, swinging open with a groaning protest. I nudge the doorstop in front, trying to ignore the mounting irritation at all the extra steps I have to take to just get through the doors. I wheel my wheelchair inside and close the doors again. Why bother with ramps when you can’t open the doors without getting up?

For the first time, I take a look around. The dance hall is brighter than usual, the usual gray gloom from the stained glass windows replaced by warm, artificial light. That was unusual, they didn’t usually light the corridors.

I sit back in my wheelchair, relieved. Even something as minimal as my struggle with the door feels like an ordeal, one I can’t spare. A dull ache has taken hold in my lower back, and it might stay there for the rest of the day. That’s irritating.

The dance hall doesn’t look like I remember it, even though I was here only last week. I frown and spin my wheelchair so I’m facing the other way. Did I enter the wrong door?

The floors aren’t checked marble, they’re pure white, a long corridor stretching in both directions, as far as I can see. The arches aren’t in the style of the campus buildings, the rigid, old-fashioned style where even the attempts at ornamentation seem forced, these are elaborate, the carvings curling around each other like the loose strokes of an artist’s brush.

The lights are too bright, reflecting off every shining white surface to make them glow, like snow in the sun. I squint, trying to deflect it. If only it doesn’t give me a headache. I don’t need to deal with that as well.

It’s like being lost in an endless field of white, stretching identical to both directions. The walls are undecorated, giving away nothing.

This wouldn’t do.

I turned, already on my way back to the door. It’s not there. I turn again, my wheels slipping on the polished surface. Not on the other side either. I’d have to choose a direction and hope for the best, but not before one last chance.

I reach around to my bag that I hung on the back of my wheelchair. I flip open the leaf-shaped flap and rummage around until I feel the smooth surface of my phone. I turn it on, and my lock screen of a flock of sparrows flutters before me, showing the time. It’s just a few minutes since I last checked. As I watch, another minute ticks by. I frown, barely believing what I just saw. Did the clock tick backward?

I unlock my phone and try to open the dial pad to call someone. No signal. No wifi, or any other kind of connectivity. This was all wrong.

I send a brief message to a classmate so he can tell the teacher I’ll be late. It doesn’t send.

This is all wrong, but is there anything I can do about it?

I return my phone to the bag, ignoring a twinge of pain from twisting around so far. It wouldn’t help me.

All I can do is head in a direction and see what I find. I grip the rails of my wheels and give another push. I only hope it isn’t too far. Thankfully, I did take my wheelchair and my cane, which is fastened right next to me. If I was just with my cane, I might not make it where I need to go without stopping to rest. It’s a little more manageable with the wheelchair, but it’s not like I can go as far as I want.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take too long before something appears. A shimmering, crystalline haze before one of the arches, like liquid dragonfly wings. I edge closer. Should I try to touch it? Perhaps that wasn’t a good idea. I detach my cane from the side of my wheelchair without getting up and cautiously use it to try to touch the… whatever it is. My cane meets an obstruction, like tightly woven spider webs. It bends but doesn’t break. When I take it away, it returns to its original shape. Tearing it wouldn’t be much use either. I cocked my head, thinking through the situation. Clearly, I need to get past here, but how?

That’s when I first hear the voice.

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Okay I’ll stop here for now XD I got a bit carried away, but it was so fun to describe everything! I really love MoS’ setting, and it was fun to get a glimpse of it.

Next time I’ll have him meet his future self!