Caravellum

I open my eyes, bracing for the impact that hadn’t come. I stand in a hall. Wooden posts mark an aisle down the centre of the room. Long arrays of framed images decorate the side walls, illuminated softly by miniature LED spotlights. I peer into the nearest one. It is an image I’ve seen before, specifically every first Tuesday of the month for the past decade. A group – six plus a highchair – gather around a table in a Chinese restaurant, remnants of a meal and empty bottles piled upon the plastic tablecloth. As if echoing from the image, I hear a familiar laughter, and the figures in the image speak. 

“No, I swear it’s true. I woke up in the middle of the night and he was standing there, letting loose into the kitchen bin.” My housemate repeats to the table.

“Hang on, in my defence, I remember thinking the toilet door was locked.” My voice protests from behind the frame. 

“So you pissed in the bin?!” His partner laughs.

“I was also quite drunk.”

“Wait, wait, it gets worse.” He continues.

“Surely not?”

“The swivel lid was still on.” There is a rupture of laughter as my friend, half in tears, battles through the story. Their baby joyously bangs his hands upon the table, knocking his bottle and spilling water into my lap. He calls out his first word with an explosive ‘p’.

“Piss!”

The gasps turn to a roar of laughter, then silence as the image returns to stillness. 

I look to the next one. The box lies open upon my outstretched palm. She stands there, glowing in the setting sun, with her hand over her mouth. Eyes crinkled with joy, she nods.

The warmth within me clashes with the confusion of seeing these memories extracted. At the end of the hallway is a grand door, obsidian-black and austere. An attendant stands planted before it, dressed in a grey cardigan and slacks. As I approach, they give me a smile.

“Hello.” I start.

“Hello indeed.” They say.

“This might seem like an odd thing to say, but I’m not entirely sure how I got here.”

“That is to be expected.”

“What is this place, and how did you get these images?”

“This is your gallery, and I am your curator.”

“My curator?”

“Indeed. All galleries must have one.”

“Right.” I look at the figure. “This may seem a stupid question.”

“None of them ever are.”

“Is this a dream?”

The curator shakes their head.

“No, it is not.”

“And these images are of my life?” I ask and, in that moment, I realise that the impact had come.

“Ah. This is…”

“Different from what you expected? So people say.”

I look back at the collection of images.

“How much time do I have?” I ask. “I thought this would be flashing before me.”

“You get more than a flash.” The Curator laughs. “You get as much as you need.”