I’M A LITTLE PARANOID when I find the red thread again.
I almost wish I hadn’t found it at all, that I’d just walked obliviously on by, my thoughts preoccupied by that stupid ceiling-floor. I found it when I crossed to the far hall in yet another four-way intersection, and spied the finger of red on my right. Sure enough, there I found the unravelled end of another red mitten.
Oh god, I haven’t moved at all—I’m stuck in an endless loop. Maybe this is hell.
I’m ready to throw my hands in the air and succumb to thirst or starvation, when suddenly the string moves. It pulls away from me, a little further down the hall. Then it jolts to life again and slides still further.
I run after the string. Maybe it isn’t mine. I’d woken up with only one mitten—its mate could still be out in the world. Could this ... could this belong to my Italian friend, or mugger, or whatever he or she proves to be? Maybe they’re also trapped here and trying to Theseus their way out.
“Hello?” I shout down the hall. “Anyone there?”
Nobody answers me, but the red vein on the floor leaps to life, so I quicken my pace. Is the person tied to the other end running? Are they in a blind panic, as I had been? Corridors race by, but I’m only watching the string. It wriggles like an eel and wends its way around corners.
The red string picks up speed. It’s gradually leaving me behind. I break into a full sprint, but the thread picks up its pace too, and continues to slide just slightly out of reach. Soon, I’m only turning corners in time to catch a glimpse of it at the end of the hall, before it races out of sight.
“Stop!” I shout. “Let’s work together!”
There’s still no answer and the thread doesn’t slow down.
The last I see of the red thread, it writhes through a hole smashed in the drywall—a hole that looks suspiciously like the one I’d created. But by the time I follow it through, it’s long gone.
“Come back!” I shout down the corridor “Bastard! Give me my pants!”
There’s no answer, because of course there’s no answer.
A set up? Is this the carrot, meant to lure me through the maze? That must be it.
There’s someone behind this—maybe a corporation’s worth of someones—and I’ve played right into their twisted game. It’s The goddamn Truman Show and here I am, jumping through hoops, to the delight of the easily entertained.
I can’t help myself. Frustration finally rips from my throat. A low groan turns into a growl as I throw a fist into the drywall, then a foot. I punch, kick, and stomp at the wall as if this one piece of drywall is responsible for everything: the maze, my missing clothes, and—
I’m crying. When’s the last time that happened?
I break my knuckles open. Red specks of blood pimple the drywall wherever my knuckles grace it. Clouds of white dust choke the corridor, turn my red fists pink.
Finally, when my hands are too sore to form a fist, I tear off my stupid cowboy hat, throw it onto the ground, and kick it through the hole in a spray of white.
Then I sit, panting, before the huge wound I’ve ripped into the maze. Once again, the chalky powder settles in my clothes and hair and clings to my fingers.
The white hallways seem unfazed by my wanton destruction or my quickly slumping shoulders. I puddle into a small, sobbing heap on the floor. Apart from my heavy breathing and the lights humming overhead, the maze lies utterly silent.
“I think,” I say aloud, my voice hoarse, “I could use some help.”