The Silent Courtroom

Darkness engulfed Marco as he found himself alone in the suffocating confines of an empty courtroom laden with dusty air. Unseen spectators loomed in the shadows. At the far end of the hall stood a colossal tribunal bench, behind which sat obscure figures cloaked in authority.

A single spotlight snapped on, isolating him in its garish glare. He looked down to find himself in his military uniform, but the medals and insignias were distorted, appearing familiar yet unrecognisable. The weight of his boots felt extra heavy and rooted to the floor.

“Marco Albarez, you stand accused,” a penetrating voice declared. The shadowy judges leaned forward, their collective gaze pressing down in palpable scrutiny. Screens flickered to life along the walls, displaying distorted images of battlefields—buildings crumbling, fires raging, faces etched with fear and despair.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Marco tried to say, but his voice was swallowed by the void. 

Evidence flashed around him: soldiers marching through dusty streets, civilians scattering, explosions tearing through serene landscapes. Each image struck like a blow, fueling the weight of the chains he now realized were coiled around his wrists and ankles. The links were engraved with words like “Honor,” “Duty,” “Liberation,” but they felt more like accusations than accolades.

“Why did you fight?” one of the shadowy figures demanded, their voice a chilling blend of curiosity and scorn.

“To serve... to protect...” Marco stammered, but doubt gnawed at his convictions. The reasons felt hollow, rehearsed.

The murmurs intensified, evolving into a cacophony of conflicting voices. “Liberator or oppressor?” “Hero or criminal?” “Savior or destroyer?”

Suddenly, the floor beneath him cracked. Oozing from the gaps rose a dark, viscous substance that began to rise, overtaking his feet and legs. Marco watched as the shadowy judges merged into a single, towering figure—a mantis-like silhouette with eyes that glowed like embers piercing the darkness.

The creature descended from the bench, swelling as it moved, its motions deliberate and unsettling. 

“Do you understand your guilt?” the entity loudly intoned, its voice dissolving Marco’s mind and body.

“But, I didn’t commit any crimes,” Marco protested, panic tightening his chest.

At that moment, Marco jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his pounding heartbeat filling the room. The sun’s morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting elongated shadows across the polished wooden floor. He sat up, gasping for air, the remnants of the nightmare thick and terrifying.

Ruth entered the bedroom, concern etched into the lines of her face. “Another one?” she asked gently, sitting beside him.

He nodded, running a trembling hand through his damp hair. “They keep getting worse.”

“I’m so sorry you’re still suffering, honey. I’ve been thinking about that experimental treatment you mentioned last summer.” She hesitated, then spoke. “That traditional medicine that’s popular in California. What’s it called—ayahuasca?”

Marco turned to her. Ruth was an addiction psychiatrist, grounded in evidence-based practice. She had always been skeptical of unregulated therapies. “You were clearly very against it last time we spoke about it,” Marco replied, feeling relieved to be awake and returning to himself.

“I was,” she admitted. “But we’ve tried everything else—medications, therapies, mindfulness, support groups. Seven years, and nothing has brought you peace. Some treatments made you even worse. Maybe it’s time we consider more options.”

He searched her face for doubt but found only earnest concern. “You’d really support this?”

“I just want to see you heal,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. “Even if it means stepping outside my comfort zone.”

A week later, they found themselves driving toward a secluded retreat nestled in the mountains beyond the city’s reach. The road wound upward, leaving the urban landscape behind for a realm where nature was thick with plant terpenes, animal calls, and wondrous beauty. Marco felt a tumult of emotions—anxiety, fear, confusion, hope. Ruth glanced at him as they parked near a modest wooden hall surrounded by towering acacia trees.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her own apprehension thinly veiled.

He took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They approached the entrance, where a small group of participants gathered quietly. At the doorway stood the shaman—a visiting Shipibo healer from the Peruvian Amazon rainforest. His eyes held a depth of wisdom that seemed to bridge worlds, and his traditional garments were adorned with intricate kene patterns.

Inside, mats and cushions formed a circle on the floor. Candles flickered softly, casting dancing shadows that blended with the scent of burning palo santo fragrance. The shaman began to prepare the ayahuasca brew, his songs filling the space with a supportive melody.           

As they took their places, Ruth reached over and touched Marco’s hand. “I'm here,” she whispered.

He nodded, grateful for her presence. The shaman distributed small cups of the thick and bitter, dark liquid.

The ceremony commenced. The shaman’s icaros reverberated through the space like a river, melodies unlocking hidden chambers within those present. Marco closed his eyes, surrendering to the medicine.

As the psychoactive effects began, Marco found himself back in the labyrinth; this time, the walls were alive with a light of their own. The mantis-like figure reappeared, its gaze both alien and familiar, yet now garbed in a rainbow energy. This time, its exoskeleton included a massive silver weapon unrecognisable to Marco. It extended a chain toward him, the metal links glinting in an invisible shimmer.

“Why do you bind yourself?” the creature’s voice, penetrating yet caring, echoed within Marco’s mind.

“I don't know how to be free,” Marco responded, automatically, his voice trembling. Memories surged forward—chaotic scenes of the battlefield, orders barked and obeyed, the faces of those he killed. The weight of guilt and confusion bore down on him. 

The shaman appeared beside him in the vision, his eyes compassionate. He reached out to touch the chain, and for a moment, it seemed to dissolve under his fingers. 

“Why do you carry this weapon?” the mantis-like figure asked.

Marco looked down at the rifle in his hands. It felt alien, an extension of himself yet utterly disconnected from who he was. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the emptiness. “I was told to...”

The mantis tilted its head, eyes never leaving his. “Does it belong to you?”

He hesitated. “No... it doesn’t.”

As he grappled with the creature’s words, the environment around him began to shift. The silhouettes of soldiers transformed into faceless shadows, their forms flickering like dying flames. The weight of the rifle grew unbearable. Marco’s hands trembled as he tried to hold on, but the metal, burning red hot, seared his skin, generating a sharp feeling of disgust and pain from the smell of burning flesh. With a strangled cry, he released the weapon, watching as it dissolved into the darkness.

Relief washed over him. The shadows coalesced into a massive dark wave, crashing toward him with relentless force. He braced himself, but the impact never came. Instead, he found himself standing in a tranquil forest, the sounds of nature enveloping him. The mantis-like entity appeared again, now smaller, almost approachable.

“Why do you fight?” it asked softly.

“I don’t know anymore,” Marco replied, his voice laden with weariness. “I thought I was protecting something... but I don’t remember what.”

As Marco felt himself surrendering the pain and confusion of serving as a soldier in a war he failed to understand, a sense of peace and universal trust permeated him. Then, the joy of his long-forgotten childhood years conquered him, reminding him of his love for his family and friends. 

Scenes of jovial holiday vacations and birthday celebrations saturated Marco in feelings of love that were authentic to his lived experience. Several courageous scenes from his childhood then emerged, including where he protected his younger neighbor from a vicious dog on the streets. 

However, behind the protective memories and feelings, a darkness was stirring. The serene environment suddenly shattered. Harsh bright lights flooded his vision, and the sounds of nature were replaced by chaotic shouts.

“Nobody move!” a voice boomed, authoritative and unyielding.

He blinked, the mantis creature had returned, morphing into an aggressive figure clad in tactical gear, red eyes glowing through a visor obscuring its face. Around him, the other participants of the ceremony recoiled in confusion and fear. Uniformed officers swarmed the room, weapons drawn, their presence a stark violation of the healing space.

Overcome with fear, Marco vomited into the bucket next to him, causing an officer to point its weapon at him.

“Nobody move, I said”, the officer said, his voice rising in intensity and aggression.

The shaman’s melodic chants had ceased. Ruth reached out for Marco, her eyes wide with alarm, but they were swiftly separated by the intruders.

“Stay where you are!” an officer screamed, pushing Marco back onto his mat, causing him to flip his purge bucket, spilling vomit over the ground and his own feet.

He tried to speak, to explain, but his words were lost amid the commotion. Participants were pulled to their feet, hands restrained behind their backs. Some were still ensnared in their visions, eyes glazed and movements sluggish.

An officer approached the shaman, who stood calmly amid the chaos. “You’re under arrest for the possession and distribution of illegal substances,” he declared, locking the healer’s hands with cold efficiency.

Outside, the night air was crisp. The participants were lined up, their faces a mosaic of shock, fear, and lingering traces of their psychedelic journeys. The flashing lights of police vehicles painted the surroundings in a harsh, intermittent glow.

An officer with a notepad stopped before Marco. “Name and reason for being here?” he demanded.

“Marco Albarez,” he replied numbly. “I am seeking healing.”

The officer raised an eyebrow, saying nothing before moving to the next person. Nearby, Ruth was speaking earnestly to another officer.

“He’s a veteran,” she explained. “He’s been struggling for years. We were just trying to find some peace.”

“Save it for the judge,” the officer replied curtly.