He woke up to the world he had become accustomed to. A different dimension than the one he was from. There was no recollection of how he came to be there other than waking up there the first time. 
Sitting up, he looked at the bedroom of the house he now lived in. Everything in the room was the same as it was in his world. All the furniture and decorations were Victorian, as he was from the Victorian era. Unlike his own world, this one was devoid of color; everything was black, white or a shade of gray.
    Once he fought past the fact that he still wasn’t home, he got out of bed and looked around at himself in the mirror. Nothing had changed. He still wore the only set of clothes he had, a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. They appeared as if he hadn’t had slept in them; unwrinkled and pressed. His hair still perfectly combed back and his face freshly shaven, even though he hadn’t seen a razor in weeks.
    Inside the chest of drawers and closet, he discovered they were bare as they had always been. He made his way to the kitchen, only to discover the cabinets lay bare too. Despite his need to check, he know food would never appear, in this world he never felt hunger.
    Proceeding to the front room, he opened the front door and stepped outside. It was still there, the flat desert that stretched out as far as the eye could see. He blocked the gray sun and its blistering rays, so he could look towards the sky. Up there, in the vast emptiness, was a lone bird that flew in the same circular pattern day in and day out. The way it never flapped its wings, but constantly glided at the same altitude drew him to the conclusion that it was false, that was the he was the only living thing in this realm.
     Back inside he leaned with his back against the door, his face buried in his hands. “ALONE” had been the name of the portrait he had seen at the museum in his own world. It was of the living room of this world in every detail. In a leather-cushioned high back chair sat a man staring at an old Victrola, with a calm look on his face. 
    He stared at the painting with envy, wishing he was the one sitting in the chair. All he wanted to do was escape the turmoils of life. Be somewhere to himself, where he could breathe. Somewhere like the painting.
    Now that it appeared his wish had been granted he realized to late that the man in the chair wasn’t wearing a peaceful look, but a solemn expression on the brink of insanity. A face he now wore. 
    Looking at the painting in the museum, the prospect of being there for weeks never crossed his mind. It never occurred to him it would be solitary confinement and a mental hell. In a world with nothing to occupy his mind it began to wonder. He thought of his family; his father whose health was failing him quickly, his naive wife Josephine, and their one-year-old son who was born deformed and retarded. A million questions flooded his mind. Was his father alright or even still alive? Was his wife all right without him? Had she found away to support and give their son the proper care that he needed in his absence? Were they worried about him? Did they think him dead? It was all too much. He could stay there, leaning against the front door, asking questions he could never answer, all day.
He lifted his had up and made his way over to the Victrola. He turned the crank on its side until he could not more and sat in the chair. Staring at the player, exactly like the man in the painting. There weren’t any records in the house, but the player played a single song that he listened to for hours on end to take his mind off his worries. Plus, there was something hypnotizing about the dark melody of the two guitars and two singers haunting melody that captivated him.
    Just like every day, he sat there listening to the music for hour, not moving a muscle. Then, in the middle of the song, the music cut off and a female voice took its place. This, too, was an everyday occurrence. The voice sounded young and uncharacteristic of this world. It talked to him, asked how he was and so forth. Despite the voices attempts at conversation, he just sat there, staring at the player.
    The room fell silent. After a few moments, he felt light pressure on his shoulder, like someone had place a hand on him and the voice spoke again. “Look, we’re only here to help you. If you don’t start talking and responding to us we can’t gout you back out into society one day. You’re savable unlike the rest of the residents here at the London Asylum.”