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A Fractured Illusion

A Fractured Illusion

Memories

Who are we? Do our surroundings define us? Do we define ourselves? Join Harvey as he spirals into the voids of such enigmas, fracturing at the seams to seek clarity.

By Aabir Roy

As Mike drew out a bunch of jingling keys from his pocket, I began a series of manoeuvres, allowing me to lean my suitcase against the wall. His firm and steady hand opened the gate with a quick swivel and proceeded to approach me.

Finally! We meet! I am Mike Ross.” he said after extending his hand mid-air. “Hello there,” I replied. I grasped his hand, and the words “Great to meet you” jumped off my mouth. His alarmingly powerful handshake frightened me instantly. “I hope I can help you with setting up your new house! Just give me a call”, and an assisting hand pulled out in front of me, holding a business card. I held it up, and a brief look allowed me to see the words “Mike Ross – Head of Marketing at Darby Litt” written on it. I pulled out my business card from my back pocket and passed it to him in exchange, after which he read the words “Harvey Specter – Senior Partner at Pearson Specter Inc.” with great interest. A brief smile soon followed this.

Sounds great!” I replied. “See you some other time,”

Bye,” he replied.

I headed inside my house, seeing it for the first time. It was empty and was yearning for furniture to increase its beauty. I kept my suitcases on the floor and cleaned myself up in the restroom. Afterwards, I sat on a plastic chair, one of the few pieces of appointments that were available, and thought to myself what I should do next. “Maybe I should trot in the park?” I wondered. With no other ideas, I decided to check out the park. I placed the car keys in my pocket and headed down to the basement. Upon pressing a button on the key, my Tesla Roadster had unlocked the door. I sat in the car, played some “Earth, Wind and Fire” songs, and began my trip.

As I drove along the roads, families walked with their children to the end of the block, hoping to sunbathe under the afternoon glimmer on the beach. A wide smile, with a hint of excitement, had encompassed faces everywhere; something was in the air.

The car soon screeched to a stop; I had reached the park. I started to walk towards a beautifully decorated hedge entrance, with the words “Hamilton Park” hanging on the top. I continued walking through the park and soon came across a pond. Luckily, a bench was placed just opposite the pond, allowing me to take a seat, and admire its outstanding views. I even proceeded to name a pair of Swans swimming around in the pond Rasquin and Tchaikovsky, after the composers of the magnificent Swan Dance. I turned my head to my left and took a glance at the tulips and the swarm of bees sitting on them, taking their share of nectar out, and heading back to their bases, and making honey. Of course, the tulips are a clever bunch, too, so they secure that the bees catch pollen too.

I started to realise just how much more exotic, posh, calm and welcoming this community was. My previous “home” was just a hellhouse filled with the screams of children from my neighbours, a society laid with pavements that are most probably as old as age itself, and the occasional robber who would happily come along and make full use of the community’s convenient denial to the need for proper security systems. “Why didn’t I move here before?” I asked myself. “Darn, this house is closer to my office as well,” I reasoned. Soon, I focused my attention on a light illuminating from the water. It glistened brighter and brighter, making it lucidly scintillating to the eye.

I was looking at an aureate lampshade, which covered the room in its resplendent outputs. Where was Tchaikovsky? Did Rasquin float away? What happened to the tulips?

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I took a look at my surroundings; I was in a small, cold room. If it weren’t for the one lit lampshade, the room would have been dead black, with no windows to the outside. Upon turning my ears to the natural world, I faintly heard the bellows of instruments playing Swan Dance. “Why am I not in the park?” I wondered. Desperate to find a way out, I realised that there was not a single door in the room; no windows, no doors… where on earth was I?

Upon hearing a chime, I pulled my rose-gold phone out of my pocket and read an email notification “Daniel Hardman – Where are you, Max Gatsby” You are late for work, again. Wait till Tim hears about this”. I could not recollect, for the life of me, who even was Daniel Hardman. And who was Max Gatsby? I am Harvey Specter, aren’t I?

At this point, I did not dare to reason with myself who I was; I feared it would send me tumbling down another flight of confusion. I flicked my wrist, only to find my Patek Philippe missing. I turned my head towards my left, only to see a figure in the shade. Soon, I saw you staring at me from across the room. You sat on the couch, pushed against the wall with the giant mirror.

Who are you?” you asked. Behind the mirror, startled by my words, flew a large, purple butterfly and an off-white moth that began circling the room; it was close to improbable to differentiate the aviators.

Who am I?” I replied as the strains of the piano and violin rose weakly from below. The piano soon fractured away, leaving the tunes of the violin to sway athwart the room.

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