Patient No. 2476: Reprocessing

It was much darker than I had anticipated.

Hesitating for a moment to get my bearings, I breathed deeply to settle my racing heart. The initial entry was always a shock to my senses, but the descent had left me trembling. I could feel every nerve ending, like needles beneath my skin. My perception of sound and light were still not online. But I could taste my toothpaste from the morning. I could feel a solid surface beneath my feet. I forced a slow, cautious spin to look around.

I was standing on a path between towering walls reaching upward to a ceiling of impossible height. A dim glow was radiating from somewhere behind the walls, giving me a vague sense of the space around me.

Gradually, I could see the walls were not walls, but cabinets. Stacks and stacks of drawers faced one another on opposite sides of the path, running onward for a distance I couldn’t perceive. Filing cabinets, neatly aligned, in uniform shape and size, as far as I could see and beyond. This was my patient’s memory bank — a workable depiction of an immaterial reality — and my worksite for a very brief window of time.

A strong gale — sounding more like an impatient sigh — erupted from every direction, and I felt a shudder rising from deep below my position. Hurry up and do it already, I chided myself. Starting off at a quick pace, I studied the cabinets more closely and found them labeled in a neat print.

ATHENS 2012, I saw.

In the column next to that drawer, BAHAMAS CRUISE 2009 and below that, NIAGARA 2014.

What is this? I thought helplessly, moving quickly down the path, scanning more labels as I went.

ANITA PORTER 2011

CHELSEA BRIDDEL 2015

SUNY BUFFALO 2017

Why had I been dropped here? The system made no sense. For all its neat appearance, nothing seemed to be ordered properly. How was I supposed to find what I had come for?

Not that you can judge, I reflected inwardly. My system was far less sophisticated, of course. I had explored my own storage framework, of course, and it was complex to say the least. For me, more recent files had been grouped into tidy stacks of folders that stood together in clusters of related incidents and affairs. Scattered outward from a center position, however, the stacks and clusters of file folders devolved into piles and hoards. Loose papers and scraps drifted about, free of any file, through a space brighter, but no less colossal, than that through which I was wandering now.

I just needed to identify the rules of organization in this unfamiliar space. Labels pertaining to people, places, and events from completely different dates were shuffled together. If I was going to find the missing file, I needed to get some idea where to look. But nothing made sense.

As I hurried along the path, I abruptly reached an opening in the walls on either side. An intersecting path. I stopped and gazed left to see more filing cabinets like the ones behind and ahead of me. Rows and rows of drawers intersected with the path, leading from the gap where I stood.

Looking right, I was greeted with a different view. Open shelves, still standing as high as the ceiling, but their contents exposed, lined up in neat rows branching out from this tangent.

Which way? I thought, panic creeping up as I realized how long I had been in already, calculating how long it might take me to complete this task. I debated – left or right?

Faintly, I caught the high notes of a familiar tune. A distorted guitar. Off-beat drums. 90s rock? I bit down on doubt and turned toward the shelves, following the sound as it grew louder.

The contents of the shelves were bizarre and obscure. I could no more understand what I was seeing than figure out where I was heading. I just kept moving.

Where would it be, that misplaced file? It had caused so much distress and pain, always lurking in the most unexpected places, popping up most heinously at critical moments. I just need to put you back where you belong, I thought.

The shuddering quake beneath me started again, sending me skittering. I was not welcome here, and the longer I stayed, the more dangerous my presence would become. I raced along the path, listening for the song, which grew in volume as I got closer. And then it was joined by another sound.

Laughter. And something else… road sounds? Realization dawned on me, and I was frantic. I had to find the file before – before…

I turned a corner to dash down an aisle of shelves, certain of my direction as I headed toward the sound.

Objects lining the shelves raced past before I could make sense of them. Some were soft around the edges, with diffuse shapes that shifted and rolled. Others seemed to stab outward with sharp, hardened appendages. One object lit up with an inward glow, shining brighter as I passed it. My attention drifted as I glanced curiously at the light, a faint sparkle emanating from within.

I rushed straight into the cloud before I noticed it was there. A darkness so deep and weighted, it muffled the sob that immediately wrenched its way out from my lungs.

Despair. Black and dripping and drowning. I had frozen with the alarm of it squeezing in around me. I turned, reaching out with all my senses for a clue where to go. The music was still going, laughter still bubbling out, though greatly suppressed by the cloud of anguish around me.

I stretched and advanced toward the source of the sound, cautiously. Reaching, with my entire being, to grasp whatever was delivering the melody.

“Agh!” I screamed, pain taking over my mind and body as I felt the caress of something warm and wet. From a nearby shelf, something was gripping me tighter than the cloud of despair.

Suddenly, the sound of music was drowned out by the unmistakable screech of tires and thunder of machines colliding with violent force. I smelled the metallic stickiness of blood. The cloud grew heavier around me as the pain continued to control my senses.

“Where are you? Where ARE YOU?” I was crying desperately now, all caution forgotten. I began to feel a pull from above. Someone was calling my name, screaming it. But as I groped around on the shelf, fighting the urge to yank myself away from the heat and wet that was squeezing me tighter and tighter, pulling me up onto the shelf, squeezing me into a small, dark place, I had it.

Grasping the thin, dry file folder, I mustered all the hope and triumph still in me and reared back, loosening myself from the wicked bloody thing on the shelf, stumbling and stuttering to the opposite wall of shelves. I hissed at the burn of a glowing red object that rolled forward to make contact, a disfigured bust of a man whose face I didn’t recognize. The mutilated red mouth sneered and cackled at me. I felt a shudder roll through me that was all my own.

With wavering drive, I careened out of the shadow of hopelessness, not knowing whether I was heading back the way I came, but needing desperately to escape the blackness and find the subtle light of this foreign place. Fear shook me again as I turned toward the cabinet stacks and realized the cloud was following me.

My heart crashed in my chest as I hurried down the darkened path, glancing at the file folder in the faded glow of the far-off light. The label read THE WRECK but gave no other clues as to where it might belong.

Fortunately, I had prepared for this.

The sound of my name was echoing around me again, louder. I could sense a desperation growing as everything around me began to quake and groan. I lost control of my movement and wobbled for a moment, then set off again.

As it turned out, I had first landed in precisely the place I needed to begin, and I set my sights down that beginning path as I reached the place where it crossed. Turning left and barreling into the cabinets without slowing, I tamped down all of my senses to drown out the calling of my name.

Focusing my sight, now, I scanned the labels on the drawers.

90s GRUNGE ROCK LYRICS

UNFINISHED HOMEWORK

I scoffed at the quirk of this and immediately regretted the loss of focus as I stumbled and corrected.

Can’t be much farther, I thought, as my heart continued to pound wildly, and the very walls seemed to lean as the quaking continued. Somewhere in the distance, objects were crashing and clamoring down from the shelves.

GRANDMA JUNE

1935-2012

MR. PEACHLY

10TH AND 12TH GRADE?

I turned back for the briefest moment, not daring to stop moving, and saw that I had made little progress in getting ahead of the foggy gloom as it traced my movement up the path. And just as I turned to forge ahead faster, I caught a flashing glance of the label.

An angry moan emerged from below and above, all around me. I felt the urgency of the sentiment and reached out to open the drawer.

SUMMER ROAD TRIP

2018

I glanced at the file I was gripping tightly. I knew what it probably contained, and I knew it wouldn’t feel right to look, but my curiosity bloomed in that moment, as it always did.

Before I could open the file, I was wrenched upward, into the air. I reached out and gripped the drawer handle, pulling myself toward the neatly sorted file folders inside. Frantically searching for the right place to put the misplaced file, I felt the black cloud of hopelessness wrap around me and squeeze.

I struggled to see the words on the labels, enveloped in the choking darkness. But finally, there it was:

TACONIC STATE PARKWAY

Behind this I slid the memory file of the wreckage, making certain to tuck it in as straight and neat as the other files.

Taking a deep breath, I thrust the drawer closed and let go. I was rising immediately, slowed only slightly by the cloud of despair. My name was getting louder as I was lifted above the stacks. Light was seeping into my awareness as I felt someone gripping my shoulders and shaking me.

I held on for one last moment to watch the dark cloud shrink and dissipate on the path between the cabinets, wisping away to nothing before I was brought back into myself.

-- . --

“Thank you, Patrick,” I tell my assistant as he places a steaming mug on my desk. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him as I turn my attention to the man seated before me. “How are you feeling?”

He gazes at me curiously, trying to decide how to answer.

After the procedure was complete, I had left my client in the lab to gather his wits and rouse his senses. I came to my office to do the same, as well as comb out of my hair any traces of jelly from the electrode cap. Looking at the client now, I already know what he’s experiencing.

“I feel,” he says, rubbing at stubble on his jaw, “exhausted. Physically and mentally drained. How is it possible that I’m physically tired?”

“As we discussed, I had to venture into areas of … let’s call it muscle memory,” I turn my chair and stand from my desk to pace a small circuit. I’m still working to shake the perception of warm, puddling blood from my system – the sticky sensation that had gripped me so tightly as I hunted for the misplaced memory. “I likely triggered some involuntary muscle responses as I sorted through some memories connected to your senses. Physical. Visual. Audible.”

“So it’s normal to feel like I’ve run a mara- thon?” The last syllable stretches out as a yawn. The client rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“I might have caused a stir as I was leaving.” Recalling the sound of things crashing and breaking as I raced through memory storage in his unconscious mind, I walk to stand directly before my client and lean against my desk. “You’re going to feel a bit punch-drunk at first, but no longer than a few days. Get some rest, try not to exert your mind or your body, and things will sort themselves back into place.”

“And the tra—the memories?”

“You have not lost your memory of the accident,” I curl my fingers around one another and let my hands hang down in front of me. “But the trauma of that memory will no longer cause you the same physical distress. Not now that it’s been sorted in its proper place.”

“The nightmares?”

“Aw, yes. I think I met some of them.” I stand upright and pace back around my desk. “If you do dream of the accident, you should see it unfold like any other memory. Cruising in the Bahamas. Classes with Mr. Peachly.” At this, I glance at my client and wink, a smile turning up the left corner of my mouth. He cocks one eyebrow and chuckles despite his wary composure.

“Well, I can tell something is different already,” he tells me, and I don’t know if he believes it or is simply trying to convince himself. He stands, slowly, with the caution of a post-operative patient. Reaching his hand across the desk, he says “thanks, Doc.”

“My pleasure. Don’t forget the one-month follow-up appointment. It’s critical to be sure there are no negative side effects.” I shake his hand firmly, twice, then walk around the desk to lead him to the door. “I was a very unwelcome guest inside your most guarded fortress. Your subconscious fought back. I want to be sure we didn’t do any unnecessary damage.”

“Sure thing,” he mutters, eyebrows knitting together, lips pursed, as he exits my office. He pauses in the hallway, looking left and right to find his way, as I push away the memory of a similar quest, closing the door behind him.