I am walking up wide steps on the outside of a building. They seem to go up for many storeys but I do not tire. This is strange to me because I bring a lightweight wheelchair with me, and that I seem to tire easily when walking at a measured pace. Others are climbing the steps. Some are sitting, resting. Some lie on a step, either for comfort or for sleep. It is no trouble maneuvering around those resting as the steps are both wide and deep. After immeasurable time I and others reach the top. The building continues for several more storeys. I cannot tell you the view from this floor because I dare not look back or down. Looking back may trigger a nausea response from perceived rotating things. The large landing and side of the building consume my view and I am grateful for it. A group of us walk toward glass doors in the side of the building, through which is an atrium and a large, circular information center. The area reminds me of an idealized 1950s or 1960s airport gate. Many groups of chairs form waiting areas near the tall windows overlooking the city. I avert my gate. Several people sit inside the circular infromation desk guiding those entering and exiting the area. I seem to have a ticket or pass already, and am directed toward large wooden doors with the name of a college. How queer to have a college at the top of a building! I’m informed my luggage has been sent ahead.
I awaken, sitting in a comfortable chair. “Hannah, how can you sleep during this fascinating discussion?” The speaker is my roommate, Chloë. Her raven-black hair ripples as she playfully laughs at my tiredness. She doesn’t mean anything by the ribbing, because we all seem to have some kind of glitch and we have to help each other. A College for Glitched Girls? Chloë often has night terrors; we share a bed so I can comfort and resassure her after an attack. She had a nightmare last night and woke up screaming. I held her close and told her she was safe while her wild eyes faded and she calmed. I’ve stopped asking about her nightmares and she never confides them to me.
She and I are seated opposite, with more plush couches and chairs between us, surrounding a low table stacked with books, snacks, and drinks. We are in a library at one of the building’s corners. The library must be two or three storeys tall with full height bookcases along the two inside walls, complete with rolling ladders to reach books high on the shelves. Interior balconies with more tables and chairs give multi-level use of the large room. The acoustics in the room are well maintained because the several of us women sitting around the table have no problem hearing each other, and we are not unduly disturbed by other conversations.
The conversation the others are having, that is, besides me dozing and Chloë making a trademark sardonic response at my expense, doesn’t interest me. I cannot say if the topic is too esoteric to follow or too mundane to care. I rise from the chair, stretching, then turn and gaze out the window. “You shouldn’t do that,” I hear as the conversation fades from my hearing and my gaze is pulled toward the outside. It is golden hour in the afternoon. The sun is brightly radiant and casts a lovely orange hue across the city. What is that rotating? I can just make something out from the corner of my eye. It’s like if I look at something directly, everything is fine. But if my eyes slide around it weird things appear in my vision. Is the sky rotating, or a building in the distance? Or one of the flying machines literally performing a spin? I shut my eyes and reach out a hand to find the top of my chair for support, willing myself against the nausea that rises in my throat. I hear a rustling and I sense two or three of the women around me trying to block my view out the window. It takes some moments to recover and I thank them.
As I turn, I am unfortunate to gaze out the window as my vision slides across the cityscape and something rotates in my peripheral vision. It is too much for me. I’m locked in and can’t ignore it. The nausea is there, instantly rising again. I sink to my knees. I can’t stop it. I’m going to purge myself and I do. I vomit and heave. But I am not alone. A container is in front of me and catches some but not all of my vomit. I feel hands pulling my own dark hair back from my face. A cool and soothing cloth is held to my forehead as I continue to purge for what feels like several minutes. Chloë is behind me, holding my hair and rubbing my back. Abbie holds the container and Sarah is holding the cloth to me. We all help each other. Abbie is prone to seizures and Sarah has fainting spells, maybe narcolepsy? And it isn’t just our little group. Other groups in the room form where each of the women finds someone compatible to help them. We aren’t antagonistic and we aren’t in competition. The College accepts us, glitches and all.
A few days later, those of us who want to go out assemble for a guided experience. Chloë, Abbie, Sarah, and I, along with another group of four, decide to go out. We’re going on an architecture tour of several buildings near us. We eight are getting hats, sunglasses, and other going-outside items together. I bring my walking stick in case my left leg becomes tired from paced walking. We enter a large elevator—there’s an elevator? why did I take the outside steps?—which quickly descends to ground level. We exit the building through a nondescript door into a well-maintained alleyway. Ah, a service entrance. We exit the alley onto the sidewalk of a large avenue. Tall trees with shading canopies line the sidewalk as we make our way a few blocks to our first stop. “Don’t look up!” Chloë reminds me, smiling. I point at my sunglasses and large sunhat in response. No one has been able to tell me what is in the sky that provokes my nausea response so strongly.
Copyright © 2024–2026 Hanna Goodbar.
Based on a recurring dream I had December 17, 2024 and again January 14, 2025. This story and Emily:1 take place in the same universe, probably. I lost the notes for this dream and recently found them again. Emily:1 was my recollection a year later in 2026.