For the second time that grey Monday, John found his
consciousness surfacing, although he didn’t know it was the second time that
day, or that it was Monday. Out of the ward window he could tell it was grey,
though, with icy streaks of rain lashing against the pane in waves. The curtain
alongside the plastic frame waved gently in and out revealing the poor fit of
the window. The peach shapes had gone, replaced by black and green ones. John
strained to remember what that memory was, he felt it was recent. But it could
have another ‘memory’, more events and names to carry around, merging dreams
and reality carelessly. A voice, a man’s, was calling him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Staples, how are you feeling?’ Michael
leaned towards John, staring intently into his eyes. The fog from around the
edges receded a little and John could recognise the principle features of
Michael’s face, the chubby fat around his jowls and the patchy whiskers
extending from his sideburns.
‘Who are you?’ asked John, his mouth cracking with dryness.
‘My names Michael, and I’m one of your doctors. I’ve been
reading your notes and your journal, I think we need to talk. I have a
treatment I would like you to try,’ Michael smiled, perching himself on the
edge of John’s bed. He had a preference to do this experiment with a semblance
of agreement from John Staples. Naturally he couldn’t tell him all, nor could
he indicate how long they would use him. Privately he would prefer to carry out
a trial run, record and return him to his real life while the trial was
evaluated. Ultimately he would like to include this man Staples in the
experiments as a willing volunteer, on the payroll with clearly agreed
time-scales. But he knew no man or woman would agree to what they wanted to do,
for the time they would want to do it for. Nor would Martin entertain it,
citing risk to the project. He looked at the expectant gaze on the man’s face,
the sedatives slipping out of his bloodstream, down to the optimum level and
constitution. He continued:
‘You have a form of schizophrenia, a very rare form. We can
try and control it using medication, but first we need to try some regression
methods to determine the best way ahead.’
‘Where’s Doctor Jackson?’ asked John, slowly comprehending
the previous statement. He felt he should be concerned to be told he had a
psychiatric condition but strangely he felt calm. He was unaware that part of
the chemical cocktail he had been fed since his first meeting with Sam included
drugs that reduced his stress levels.
‘He’s been called away to another patient, but he asked me
to look after you in his absence.’ Michael cleared his throat before
continuing, ‘we would like to start straight away, if it’s possible Mr
Staples.’ John looked at the doctor sat on his bed and believed he had been
told all he needed to know.
‘No problem,’ he said without hesitation, ‘what
do we do?’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
I can be followed on Twitter too - @RayASullivan
or on Facebook - use raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com to find me
or on Facebook - use raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com to find me
Why not take a look at my books and read up on my Biog here
Want to see what B L O'Feld is up to? Take a look at his website here
Worried/Interested in the secretive world of DLFs? Take a look at this website dedicated to DLFs here, if you dare!
No comments:
Post a Comment