Ensign Sariel Rager (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
visible_sariel) wrote2007-06-22 07:36 pm
visible_sariel) wrote2007-06-22 07:36 pm
upstairs, room 1701D midsummer night's amnesia
The stairs were the easy part: one at a time, each coming sequentially after the other, one, two, three... and there. And that's when things started to get interesting.
More interesting than a loss of memory and the appearance of a pub at the universe's end, that is.
The first door didn't have a number. The second showed a strange, wholely unfamiliar symbol. The third... rooms in this place were numbered in halves? How had the 19.5 gotten there?
Hers appeared eventually, after two or three turns and as many corresponding turns back. "One-seven-zero-one D." 1701D. Key fitted lock, lock followed doorknob, doorknob turned round, round and--
*Click*.
From the outside it wasn't much; numbers, letters, wooden door. Inside wasn't all that different. Here was a soft, time-worn carpet in thread-faded ivory, thinner in patches and thicker in others; and there was a single bed in the center of the floor, it's quilt a gentle cloud grey embroidered in traceries of tawny green leaves and winding vines. Against the righthand wall - that was a desk, all square and sharp angles when one discounted the half-inch-long chip out of one corner exposing the paler wood beneath it's finish, and that was a chair tucked beneath it, cushioned in that same gentle grey. those were hazy ivory curtains and... yes, that looked like beadwork just at the line where their lower hems came together, tiny, fine detail glass and glittering a rainbow wherever the light touched. Here were white walls painted - hand-painted? in the same delicately green pattern as the quilt bore in stitching. And over there was a single, warmly wood brown dresser--maybe there. There might be answers in there.
she avoided the desk at first; it was cluttered with a handful of what looked like digital writing devices of some kind and littered with at least one stylus? pen? pokey-looking something. The dresser was what drew her initial attention, there in the far right corner at the room's relative back, standing there with it's quintet of drawers and it's clustered photographs and that glitter of pale green glass - perspective. Memory. Maybe. Maybe.
Hopefully.
One drawer: clothing. Another drawer: more clothing, including at least one duplicate uniform. The third: quite empty. The fourth: equally so and the fifth? Mmm, that was tea. That was definitely, definitely tea. Some of it smelled of mingled anise and honey - unusual, but quite nice. That explained the shining, coppery teakettle on the desk's far right edge at the back, at least. And that green glass glittering- "What an unusual-looking bottle. I wonder where it's from." Clean outside, clean inside and free of any label - there was no telling. Bugger. A dead end.
But oh, those photographs. Each frame was different, independent of it's fellows; this one was wooden, solid, rounded at the edges and sharp at each corner; that one was a flurry of spiraling silver; the other was thinly-hammered, pale gold and shining. And none of the faces besides her own were familiar.
None. were. familiar.
"Is that a landscape?" The silver frame was the first to be picked up, shifted hand to hand and examined. Open water, aqua and highlighted in subtle green hints, white sand flecked in true shell pink, palm leaves in distant perspective - no, the angle was wrong for a landscape seascape? It was a view from the air. How odd.
The wooden frame was only touched, only turned and not lifted from it's place entirely. the image was a crowded one, a blurr of elbows and shoulders and colored shirts against a backdrop of metallic silver-grey. Six women, all different, all running the colorful spectrum of Asian-white-Hispanic-black-white-green? Was that last one really green? Five had their arms around each others' shoulders and the sixth, the green one, stood at the fifth one's left, a finger's length out of contact.
the others didn't ring any mental bells.
But the fourth one was her.
And on the photograph's blank side, written in brilliantly orange lettering, was:
Someone please be grateful I took these!
Emily tyler
At least now, she had a name. "Emily Tyler." She tried it once, then again. "I'm... Emily Tyler." Hmm.
Oh, and that last photograph? The gold-framed one, of the forty-something couple and their obvious daughter?
She didn't even touch that one. Just looked.
For a long, long time.
More interesting than a loss of memory and the appearance of a pub at the universe's end, that is.
The first door didn't have a number. The second showed a strange, wholely unfamiliar symbol. The third... rooms in this place were numbered in halves? How had the 19.5 gotten there?
Hers appeared eventually, after two or three turns and as many corresponding turns back. "One-seven-zero-one D." 1701D. Key fitted lock, lock followed doorknob, doorknob turned round, round and--
*Click*.
From the outside it wasn't much; numbers, letters, wooden door. Inside wasn't all that different. Here was a soft, time-worn carpet in thread-faded ivory, thinner in patches and thicker in others; and there was a single bed in the center of the floor, it's quilt a gentle cloud grey embroidered in traceries of tawny green leaves and winding vines. Against the righthand wall - that was a desk, all square and sharp angles when one discounted the half-inch-long chip out of one corner exposing the paler wood beneath it's finish, and that was a chair tucked beneath it, cushioned in that same gentle grey. those were hazy ivory curtains and... yes, that looked like beadwork just at the line where their lower hems came together, tiny, fine detail glass and glittering a rainbow wherever the light touched. Here were white walls painted - hand-painted? in the same delicately green pattern as the quilt bore in stitching. And over there was a single, warmly wood brown dresser--maybe there. There might be answers in there.
she avoided the desk at first; it was cluttered with a handful of what looked like digital writing devices of some kind and littered with at least one stylus? pen? pokey-looking something. The dresser was what drew her initial attention, there in the far right corner at the room's relative back, standing there with it's quintet of drawers and it's clustered photographs and that glitter of pale green glass - perspective. Memory. Maybe. Maybe.
Hopefully.
One drawer: clothing. Another drawer: more clothing, including at least one duplicate uniform. The third: quite empty. The fourth: equally so and the fifth? Mmm, that was tea. That was definitely, definitely tea. Some of it smelled of mingled anise and honey - unusual, but quite nice. That explained the shining, coppery teakettle on the desk's far right edge at the back, at least. And that green glass glittering- "What an unusual-looking bottle. I wonder where it's from." Clean outside, clean inside and free of any label - there was no telling. Bugger. A dead end.
But oh, those photographs. Each frame was different, independent of it's fellows; this one was wooden, solid, rounded at the edges and sharp at each corner; that one was a flurry of spiraling silver; the other was thinly-hammered, pale gold and shining. And none of the faces besides her own were familiar.
None. were. familiar.
"Is that a landscape?" The silver frame was the first to be picked up, shifted hand to hand and examined. Open water, aqua and highlighted in subtle green hints, white sand flecked in true shell pink, palm leaves in distant perspective - no, the angle was wrong for a landscape seascape? It was a view from the air. How odd.
The wooden frame was only touched, only turned and not lifted from it's place entirely. the image was a crowded one, a blurr of elbows and shoulders and colored shirts against a backdrop of metallic silver-grey. Six women, all different, all running the colorful spectrum of Asian-white-Hispanic-black-white-green? Was that last one really green? Five had their arms around each others' shoulders and the sixth, the green one, stood at the fifth one's left, a finger's length out of contact.
the others didn't ring any mental bells.
But the fourth one was her.
And on the photograph's blank side, written in brilliantly orange lettering, was:
Someone please be grateful I took these!
Emily tyler
At least now, she had a name. "Emily Tyler." She tried it once, then again. "I'm... Emily Tyler." Hmm.
Oh, and that last photograph? The gold-framed one, of the forty-something couple and their obvious daughter?
She didn't even touch that one. Just looked.
For a long, long time.