His room had a therapeutic view of the Delaware River peeking between condemned, crumbling warehouses and rusting iron works. Sometimes the sun would hit the water just right, and if he sat perfectly still in front of the window the dazzling reflections would blind him to the world. Those were his favorite moments. The urban decay, his stark and nearly barren room, the unwanted attentions of the doctors...it would all fade away in the sparkling flashes from the tainted river.
Jeremy Lincoln. The only reason he remembered his name so clearly was because they would make a point to repeat it to him every day. It did nothing to help him hang on to who he actually was. His mind was an unreliable thing. While staring at the water, sometimes he would get snippets of a life that must have been his. White picket fences. Uniformed drones with bookbags lurching through bright hallways. The face of a haggard woman who always seemed near tears. Nothing substantial. Nothing that lasted long enough to lead him back to his past.
The days blurring together, one into the next, were also very unhelpful to his sense of clarity. Dragged to the showers by orderlies and scrubbed down. A fresh pair of pajamas to pull on. Breakfast in the cafeteria. Time in the common room, where the same show always seemed to be on TV. Back to the cafeteria for lunch, followed by a chaser of the day's meds. Then off to his room for the rest of the night. Repeat as necessary. It seemed that it had been necessary for a long time. But he stopped paying attention, or even caring.
All these routines were preferable to the alternative. Those were the days when the doctors decided that they'd watched him long enough. It was time for tests. The physical tests were bad enough. They could never get enough of his blood, always needing to take more. And it seemed a gentle touch was something they actively sought to eradicate from their bedside manner. All sorts of probes being stuck in places he wished he would forget, but those memories held firm.
That was nothing compared to the mental tests. He hated them.
The testing room was white. Empty except for a table, two chairs, a wall-to-wall mirror he always sat facing, and next to his chair was a machine with a tangle of wires. These would be attached to him, some glued, some clamped, all uncomfortable. The doctor would sit next to him and talk to the air. Ever since the one test with Doctor Harris there was the addition of an angry, roided-out orderly named Vic who would stand near the door.
"Doctor Philip Carow, Bright Horizon Psychiatric Hospital, Tuesday, March eight, two thousand sixteen, eleven fifteen a.m".with patient Jeremy Lincoln." This was the litany. And the only time he ever knew what day it was.
"Good morning, Jeremy. How are you today?"
"Ok." He thought he used to give snarky replies to this, but he didn't see any point anymore.
"Excellent. We're going to build on your progress from our last session. Is that alright?"
"Ok." His answer didn't matter. It never mattered.
The machine beside him was silent. A single orange light glowed in the front, but otherwise he couldn't figure out what it was doing.
"Very good. Now concentrate. The same as last time."
The doctor placed a thick metal plate on the center of the table. It looked like a miniature flying saucer.
"Visualize your intent. See the disc rise. See it hovering above table."
He stared at the flying saucer. He imagined it lifting off, preparing for its escape into outer space. He wished he could go with it.
The plate remained motionless on the table.
One of the clips from the machine was attached to the ridge of his ear. As he continued to sit there, staring at the plate and wishing he could fly away with it, the clip revealed its purpose. The electrical charge caused him to jump in the chair, a pitiful, despairing yelp escaping him.
"Concentrate, Jeremy. You need to focus. Focus on the disc. Focus on what you want the disc to do."
He didn't cry. The doctors were unmoved by tears. He'd learned that lesson over time. The tears were replaced by frustration. Each zap of the clip and urging of the doctor nudging that frustration towards anger.
"See the disc rise. Bend it to your will."
A scowl distorted his face. The pain felt as if it were alive, slithering around his ear, spreading to his neck as the involuntary muscle spasms caused him to tense.
The disc shuddered on the table, then rose quickly into the air.
"Wonderful, Jeremy! That's it!?
It began to spin. His flying saucer. Faster. And faster. The details of the plate lost as its speed increased. The doctor seemed thrilled, meaningless words of encouragement dripped from his lips.
How he hated the man. The doctor was the figurehead of his captivity. Of his torment. It didn't matter which doctor. They were all the same. They didn't care. They didn't want to help. He was their lab rat. And he hated them. Yes...he would bend the flying saucer to his will. And his will was to get away.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling paint. The day had already started to fog over. But little glimpses still circled in his head. The doctor knocked out of his chair, a flying saucer sticking up from his nearly severed neck. Vic pinning him against the table, one powerful hand crushing his head against its surface. More doctors running into the room.
There were some extra meds after that. And the other doctors hadn't seemed all that upset by the condition of the one laying on the floor. Even as a second orderly joined Vic to restrain him while they shoved the meds down his throat, they told him how pleased they were with the efforts he was making. How they would continue with his treatments, develop his abilities.
Back in his room, he wished the sun was out. That he could stare at the sun-dappled water. That he could escape. Answers weren't what he wanted. Just freedom. He wanted his flying saucer to take him away from this life.
What happened then was almost as good.
Jeremy Lincoln. The only reason he remembered his name so clearly was because they would make a point to repeat it to him every day. It did nothing to help him hang on to who he actually was. His mind was an unreliable thing. While staring at the water, sometimes he would get snippets of a life that must have been his. White picket fences. Uniformed drones with bookbags lurching through bright hallways. The face of a haggard woman who always seemed near tears. Nothing substantial. Nothing that lasted long enough to lead him back to his past.
The days blurring together, one into the next, were also very unhelpful to his sense of clarity. Dragged to the showers by orderlies and scrubbed down. A fresh pair of pajamas to pull on. Breakfast in the cafeteria. Time in the common room, where the same show always seemed to be on TV. Back to the cafeteria for lunch, followed by a chaser of the day's meds. Then off to his room for the rest of the night. Repeat as necessary. It seemed that it had been necessary for a long time. But he stopped paying attention, or even caring.
All these routines were preferable to the alternative. Those were the days when the doctors decided that they'd watched him long enough. It was time for tests. The physical tests were bad enough. They could never get enough of his blood, always needing to take more. And it seemed a gentle touch was something they actively sought to eradicate from their bedside manner. All sorts of probes being stuck in places he wished he would forget, but those memories held firm.
That was nothing compared to the mental tests. He hated them.
The testing room was white. Empty except for a table, two chairs, a wall-to-wall mirror he always sat facing, and next to his chair was a machine with a tangle of wires. These would be attached to him, some glued, some clamped, all uncomfortable. The doctor would sit next to him and talk to the air. Ever since the one test with Doctor Harris there was the addition of an angry, roided-out orderly named Vic who would stand near the door.
"Doctor Philip Carow, Bright Horizon Psychiatric Hospital, Tuesday, March eight, two thousand sixteen, eleven fifteen a.m".with patient Jeremy Lincoln." This was the litany. And the only time he ever knew what day it was.
"Good morning, Jeremy. How are you today?"
"Ok." He thought he used to give snarky replies to this, but he didn't see any point anymore.
"Excellent. We're going to build on your progress from our last session. Is that alright?"
"Ok." His answer didn't matter. It never mattered.
The machine beside him was silent. A single orange light glowed in the front, but otherwise he couldn't figure out what it was doing.
"Very good. Now concentrate. The same as last time."
The doctor placed a thick metal plate on the center of the table. It looked like a miniature flying saucer.
"Visualize your intent. See the disc rise. See it hovering above table."
He stared at the flying saucer. He imagined it lifting off, preparing for its escape into outer space. He wished he could go with it.
The plate remained motionless on the table.
One of the clips from the machine was attached to the ridge of his ear. As he continued to sit there, staring at the plate and wishing he could fly away with it, the clip revealed its purpose. The electrical charge caused him to jump in the chair, a pitiful, despairing yelp escaping him.
"Concentrate, Jeremy. You need to focus. Focus on the disc. Focus on what you want the disc to do."
He didn't cry. The doctors were unmoved by tears. He'd learned that lesson over time. The tears were replaced by frustration. Each zap of the clip and urging of the doctor nudging that frustration towards anger.
"See the disc rise. Bend it to your will."
A scowl distorted his face. The pain felt as if it were alive, slithering around his ear, spreading to his neck as the involuntary muscle spasms caused him to tense.
The disc shuddered on the table, then rose quickly into the air.
"Wonderful, Jeremy! That's it!?
It began to spin. His flying saucer. Faster. And faster. The details of the plate lost as its speed increased. The doctor seemed thrilled, meaningless words of encouragement dripped from his lips.
How he hated the man. The doctor was the figurehead of his captivity. Of his torment. It didn't matter which doctor. They were all the same. They didn't care. They didn't want to help. He was their lab rat. And he hated them. Yes...he would bend the flying saucer to his will. And his will was to get away.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling paint. The day had already started to fog over. But little glimpses still circled in his head. The doctor knocked out of his chair, a flying saucer sticking up from his nearly severed neck. Vic pinning him against the table, one powerful hand crushing his head against its surface. More doctors running into the room.
There were some extra meds after that. And the other doctors hadn't seemed all that upset by the condition of the one laying on the floor. Even as a second orderly joined Vic to restrain him while they shoved the meds down his throat, they told him how pleased they were with the efforts he was making. How they would continue with his treatments, develop his abilities.
Back in his room, he wished the sun was out. That he could stare at the sun-dappled water. That he could escape. Answers weren't what he wanted. Just freedom. He wanted his flying saucer to take him away from this life.
What happened then was almost as good.