Topic: Some Trips Are Stranger Than Others (18+)

Jeremy Lincoln

Date: 2016-09-12 11:28 EST
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

Date: 2016-09-13 10:32 EST
Reality had never been on very good terms with him. Every once in awhile he would remember this and question his senses. The day of his escape was one of those rare somewhat-lucid moments.

As he lay on his hospital bed he prayed for something to save him, even though he didn't believe anyone was listening. Maybe if the cracks in the ceiling were a little wider his words might get through. If they were wide enough he could even crawl out. That wasn't too much to ask for. Just a hole. Which is what he got.

The ceiling hadn't cracked open. It was more like something came through it. Or appeared on it. He wasn't quite sure about the specifics. Some kind of tunnel. It swirled crazily, was almost too bright to look at. But he forced himself to look. Wide brown eyes staring at this hole in the world. He reached an arm towards it, wondering what it would feel like. That's when it fell on him. Swallowing him.

He was shoved down its throat, but it wasn't painful. It actually felt kind of warm. Then wet. Then dark. And the warmth was gone, replaced by a wind that smelled like rotten fish and garbage.

The sound of voices came to him next, but they were muffled and directed elsewhere. A shuffling of feet as people passed by him, apparently unconcerned by the fact that he just appeared out of nowhere on this....where was he" The ground felt like it was made out of stones. He sat up to get a better view.

There was still a river, but it held old-timey boats. Big ones. It looked like he was sat in the middle of a cobblestone road next to some kind of docks.

The glances people gave him as they walked by were more annoyed than surprised. Maybe that had something to do with the hospital pajamas and slippers he was wearing. Others tended to see them as a big red flag that this was someone they should probably avoid.

But something was off about these people. He stood to get out of the way of foot traffic and watch them, trying to figure out what made them feel so out of place.

Some guy in jeans and a leather jacket, like he just stepped off the set of Happy Days, was walking a motorcycle. A woman from a renaissance fair passed in the opposite direction. A man with weird techno-goggles. Another who looked like a hobbit. And...was that a minotaur in a ripped Slayer t-shirt"

His first guess was that he had ended up in some low-budget movie studio lot. Maybe the angry looks directed at him were because he had interrupted a shoot. But he didn't notice any cameras or guys in high chairs yelling, "Cut!"

Then a more likely thought occurred to him. Maybe he never left his hospital room. Maybe the new meds they gave him were just really good. Making his way down the road only helped reinforce this theory.

Loud ringing from an open storefront drew his attention. Inside was a burly extra from Conan the Barbarian, swinging a large hammer to shape the sword laying on an anvil. This wouldn't have struck him as particularly odd if next door wasn't a pawn shop with cell phones, cheap guitars, and a television showing what seemed to be a news report being given by a troll on display in the front window.

This weird mix of new and old continued as he strolled, dodging the flow of the madhouse crowd. It was like time and space just had enough and puked up everything onto one street.

What the hell. If he was tripping, then he may as well have some fun with this place. The stuff in his head couldn't really hurt him, right' Eventually he'd end up back in the real world. Yeah. There was nothing to worry about.