Daymares 8

The cracks seems to mock me with their slit-faced grins. Yawning wide with mirth as they note I have succumbed to the frame about my head and the tubes that feed me. I try to twist my head - to swivel from side to side and see what this room may have to offer that beyond the haughty glare of my foes.  But I am locked tight in place, a tilt of the eye is the best I can do. Peering down my nose gets me nowhere,  not even a bump in the sheets that I could concievably recognize as toes.

What I can see all too clearly are the blades rotating over my head.  The twisted sets of scissors carefully pointed and shaped for the harvesting.  Who the hell came up with this demented plan anyway?  Why do they need the images I carry?  Why do they need those I create?  Who else are they doing this to?  Are there acres of rooms here?  Is this like a farm, just beds and tubes and blades, and of course us, the people suspended waiting for the light to fade and the harvesting to begin?

I wish I could say I remember when I wasn't here.  I suppose at times I do.  I just can't be sure if that is real anymore.  I can't be sure that anything is real.  For all I know the syrup world is reality and this is just a nightmare.  Though I am fairly certain that this thought is far too good to be true. 

For the moment I bathe myself in the scent of tiger's tea.

A grinding noise catches my attention, if for no other reason than there are no noises like that here in this place.  Everything runs smooth.  Even the thunderstorms are surprisingly calm, I think perhaps they pipe them in and flicker the lights outside to amuse me, or us, depending on how many there really are.  The grinding noise has not stopped.  I can here the sound of shoes slapping on tile.  Perhaps I am not alone?
Another pair, this set heavier, followed by a click, click, click. Perhaps heels? 

The grinding continues, I must admit it is beginning to become annoying.  It was rather a pleasant surprise at first.  A bit of a change of pace.  But frankly it is making my headache.  I hope all the running feet will make it stop soon.  Something with wheels that squeak rumbles by with low mumbles.  More people?  Perhaps.  My stomach is beginning to do flips.  I had always rather wished for there to be actual people here with me.  Preferably not slung up like I am.  People with the freedom to move. And now here they are, running about after that horrible noise.  I am somewhat elated.

The noise comes to an abrupt halt.  I count the shoes, the heavy pace, the mumblers with wheels, the first light runner.  Each one a little blessing.  They are here. But, where are the heels?  Where are the heels?  It begins to dawn on me that the people out there, the ones I had hoped for,  they are probably the ones that keep me in here.  The ones responsible for making the blades whirl and the tubes drip.  What if my stomach flipping and heart pounding or day-tripping has flipped some switch of jiggered some dial?  What if I caused the grinding?  What if the heels are coming her?.  I can hear them  now, walking slowly this time. Click, click, click, for some reason the sound is just not as endearing this time.