Authors: IGMS
He rumbled to himself. "I can attempt to explain how these rooms work, but there are no rules." Eloy nodded at the door. "If you will accompany me?"
"Where?"
"This scenario is completed. We must go elsewhere for the next."
I tagged after him into the plaid corridor. "Did I win?"
"Hmm? This is not the sort of game with points and opponents. But you did well."
He stopped at a door. "Would you like to try this one?"
"They're pretty much all the same to me."
Taking that as consent, Eloy ushered me in. Within was a director's chair, the green canvas inscribed with Annabel in white cursive.
I froze.
"What's the matter?"
"How did my name get there?"
He hemmed, a vibration I felt through my heels. "Would you rather go elsewhere? I am reasonably certain the next chair will not be personalized."
I grimaced. "No, we're here." I plunked down in my chair.
Eloy hovered behind me. It occurred to me that all the chairs were of average dimensions, human sized. Shouldn't chairs meant for a giant like Eloy be bigger?
"How come you don't get a chair?"
"I don't mind standing."
I scowled. "Quit that."
He blinked. "What?"
"Changing the subject or saying something that's like an answer but really isn't. It reminds me of Sunday School."
Eloy's mouth quirked. "Sometimes I do not have an answer you would understand."
"Then say 'I don't know' or 'I can't say.'"
"I will try. I'm sorry I angered you."
At Eloy's mournful expression, I relented, perplexed at how we had come to this strange reversal -- him anxious and me blustering.
"See, the nuns always gave me the runaround when I had questions. Drove me nuts. All the same, I bet I was pretty aggravating to them too."
"Certainly not. I'm sure you were a model child."
"No, really --" I saw the twinkle in his eye. He was making fun of me! "Hey, I thought you said you didn't have a sense of humor."
"I said, I have been told that I lacked one."
"Seems to me that says more about the shortcomings of whoever told you that than yours."
"Thank you." In his mercurial way, Eloy had become solemn.
"So how do we start?"
As though waiting for an opening, a scene appeared, this one overlooking a thoroughfare filled with the men and women I'd started to think of as Eloy's People. A bedraggled man stood at an intersection, his skin patchy grey and shriveled. As people passed, he greeted them with his hand outstretched in the universal language of panhandlers. A few people sneered, fewer tossed a glittering bead for him to scrabble after, but mostly they ignored him, stepping around him as though he was debris in their way.
It made me angry. Sure, I'd been like that once, too wrapped up in myself to look at or talk to the beggar in the road, but I wasn't anymore. It had taken poverty to make me see him, but at least I did.
A man broke from the shuffling crowd. His sapphire hair was braided into a rope, woven through with a chain of jewels. He made his way to the beggar.
At first, the street person wouldn't look at him, too afraid or ashamed. But as the other man continued to speak, his face lifted, and his hand dropped to his side.
"What are they saying?" I asked.
"The beggar is agreeing that the winds have been particularly harsh of late, and now he is inquiring whether the rich man's kin are well."
"They know each other?"
"Not until this moment. Now the rich man is talking about the new fashions and how he does not like them."
"They're making small talk?"
"Now the rich man is expressing that he must depart, and the beggar is wishing him well."
I watched the sapphire-haired man wave and walk away. When he exited the scene, the picture switched off.
I contemplated the blank wall. "Is it some sort of personality test, like a Myers-Briggs, but assessing my reactions by -- I don't know -- galvanic skin response or something? It provides a situation and shows an outcome depending upon how I react?"
Eloy rumbled. "It does indeed respond to your reactions. But in this Myers-Briggs test, is there a correct answer or solution you must attain?"
I contorted my neck until I could see Eloy. "Not really. It's supposed to tell you about yourself, how logical you are versus how intuitive, that sort of thing. It's subjective."
"Ah. These games are also subjective and intended to instruct. But there is always a correct answer."
"How can there be a right or wrong if it's subjective?"
"Hrrm." Saving me from a painful neck crick, he stepped around the chair and hunkered down. "Does subjectivity preclude a single answer? If a thing is my opinion, and opinions by their nature are subjective, can my opinion not be wrong?"
"Um."
"What if I were of the opinion that you would thrive best in an environment devoid of air and light? Am I not wrong?"
"I suppose you are when you put it like that."
He made a sound between a burble and a rumble.
"Eloy, who are you? Where are you from?"
"This is where I would normally say something in the manner of your Sunday School nuns."
"Are you an alien?"
"Strictly speaking, no. But it may be simplest for you to think of me as such."
"Are you showing me scenes from a different planet as part of a -- a mission?"
Eloy repeated his burble-rumble. "You have seen too many fiction productions. I have no mission. My people are not waiting to descend upon your world, and I am not gathering data."
"Are we even on Earth?"
"Yes and no." Exasperated, Eloy waved his hand. "I have no answer that will make sense to you. You are safe. You will find no others of your kind or mine within these walls. Is that not enough?"
"Not even a little bit."
"It is the best I can do."
I pulled my knees to my chest. "Eloy?"
"Yes, Annabel."
"Why am I here?"
"I presume you don't mean metaphysically."
"No, I don't mean metaphysically."
He burble-rumbled, a sound I was beginning to equate with a sigh. "I am lonely."
"Lonely? Can't you go back there?" I gestured at the wall. "Wherever there is?"
"No."
"Then why me? If you wanted someone to talk to, wouldn't you rather have someone witty or smart or, I don't know, important? Why did you kidnap my father, and how come you want me to stay here?"
"It is . . . complicated."
I wondered if my human voice could burble-rumble.
"Will you marry me, Annabel?"
He sounded so wretched and miserable. I felt sorry for him. No matter how he looked or where he was from, he was lonely and hurting. But I couldn't marry him.
I hid my face behind my knees. "No."
When I looked up, he was gone.
I sat for a long moment. A heavy something built the longer I stayed, like a weight of unease and sadness in the air. At last, I bolted out of my "Annabel" chair and paced the plaid hall, but I couldn't shake the feeling.
I took the elevators up and down, roamed corridors in different colors and patterns, and picked doors to open and chairs to sit in at random. I watched tribes of Eloy's people in isolated wastelands and nuclear families in teeming cities. I saw men, women, and children go about their lives, some happy, some sad, most neither and both. Eloy's people were a lot like mine. They had their problems and their worries, their weaknesses and their virtues.
But no matter where I went, a restlessness chased me, easing when I entered a new room, but returning doubled when the scenario ended. It was as though my distress, and possibly guilt, had fused with the shroud of Eloy's loneliness and was following me.
After a room where I watched a mother abandon her newborn infant, I felt drained. Not sleepy or tired -- I wasn't hungry or thirsty either for that matter -- I felt hollowed out, stretched thin. I didn't want to do any more rooms; I didn't want to do anything but hide, and maybe cry.
The silence pressed on me, as though it was waiting for something.
"Stop it!" I shouted. "Stop it stop it stop it!"
The sensation grew stronger.
I ran into the corridor and mashed the elevator button until the car arrived. I rode it to the lobby where the reception desk still sat in its beam of sunlight -- although my father's folder was gone. Beyond it was a pastel hallway, indistinct from the other hallways, but surely, surely it had to be where I'd come in.
I hurried along it, taking corners at reckless speeds -- knowing there was no danger of careening into hapless strangers -- until I rounded one that opened on a set of double doors. They were gray and heavy-looking, the kind used in schools and hospitals. And prisons.
A glowing, orange "EXIT" sign hung overhead.
I pushed at the handlebar, but it didn't budge, didn't even rattle.
"What's the point in having an exit that won't open?" I yelled.
The exit sign went dark.
"That's not what I meant!"
I tried again, shoving harder, using both hands. I swore at the door, and finally, I took a step back and kicked it, driving my heel against the stubborn bar. For my efforts, I was jolted foot to chin.
I staggered and ended sprawled on the floor. Hot wetness dripped on my hands, tears of frustration.
"Annabel?" Eloy spoke at my back. "Annabel, are you hurt?"
"It's not fair," I whispered. I turned to see him go to one knee. He leaned to me, hand half extended. But he hesitated, like he was unsure of his reception.
"This door should not be here," he said. "It has never been before."
"That doesn't make any sense," I murmured.
"I know."
"I don't want to go back to the game rooms. They make me feel bad."
Eloy uttered something harsh and guttural in an alien language. "You should not have had to bear the caprices of those rooms. I'm very sorry. I assure you that you won't be troubled by it again."
"What was it?"
He burble-rumbled. "It is meant for me, a manifestation of emotions from the scenarios and the player, amplified to heighten the, err, game play and to encourage participation."
"That was supposed to be an enhancement?" I asked, incredulous. "Like a special effect?"
"I'm afraid so."
I took his hand and let him boost me to my feet. In turn, I hauled him up. Or rather, I yanked on his arm, and he solemnly pretended that I was helping. Face-to-face, so close, Eloy made my breath catch. He was so big. I was getting used to him towering over me, but touching, near enough to feel the warmth of his breath on my face, I was aware of the spread of muscles in his arms and chest, the tawny heat of him. It was like holding hands with a lion or bear -- dangerous, powerful, and alarming. And also fascinating.
I jerked my hand free and backed away.
Eloy didn't say anything, but his eyes were so sad. He turned -- shoulders hunched and head lowered -- and began to shuffle down the hall.
We walked in awkward silence for several yards. "Eloy?"
"Yes, Annabel?"
"Is there any food around here?"
"Are you hungry?"
"You didn't answer my question."
Burble-rumble. "No, there is no food here."
"Will I starve?"
"No."
"I don't need to eat?"
"No."
"Or sleep, or drink?"
"No."
The hair on my arms prickled. "Am I dead?"
"No, you are very much alive."
"That's a relief."
He nodded. "I'm glad I could ease a little of your disquiet."
We were quiet again until we came to the foyer.
"Eloy, do you like that stupid game effect?" I tried to imagine weeks, months, years, all alone with only artificial emotions for company. The thought was unbearably depressing.
"It depends on the room. It is good to share in another's joy, sometimes."
"A fan of comedies, huh?" I sidled close and twined my arm through his. "Me too. So, can you recommend a room to play next?"
He stiffened when I touched him, but then he covered my hand with his own -- not to restrain me, but to let me know I was welcome. "I believe I can."
It was actually fun, playing the room games with Eloy. He translated for me, and occasionally made wry comments about the people onscreen. The scenes he chose were often comical, and I found myself chortling with the heroines and protagonists.
When I tired of the rooms, we rode the elevator up and down, and I invented another game, where I made him close his eyes and guess what color or pattern the walls would be when the doors opened. I smirked when he got one wrong. He missed several in a row after that, I bet on purpose. He never laughed, though. I said the most outrageous things I could think of, but he would only smile, and occasionally give his rumbling chuckle.
At one floor, Eloy fell silent, refusing to guess before the doors parted.
The corridor was white.
"Let us return to the lavender floor," he said. "I know of a room where a lady refuses to open her house in the season of heat, for fear her neighbors will realize she cannot afford --"
I brushed past, leaving him to trail after me.
None of the doors were numbered. Still, I knew the way. Room 417 had changed into a blank wall with a chair, but it was the right one. The chair was a recliner like we'd had in Father's den in our old house. When I was little, I'd loved to sneak in and sit in that recliner. It had made me feel big and grown-up.
"Do not stay here," Eloy said. "Come away with me."
I clambered onto the recliner. The wall showed me the tiny apartment I'd shared with my family. The yellow rosebush was still in the window. It had grown, and someone, probably Luella, had transplanted it into a larger pot.
Father was in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone. The lines in his face were deeper, and his hair had turned from streaky-gray to all white.
"She's still not responding, doctor? . . . No, we don't have any supplementary insurance."
There was a long pause, and I watched Father grow agitated. "I will not send my daughter to that institution. If our insurance will not pay for her hospital stay, she will come home."