Letters from the Lost Man, Part 12

Simple efficiency is so easily screwed up. And the alarm clock isn't always so effective, especially when you forget to set it. This is how I find myself standing in line at the local bookstore coffee shop for a breakfast of espresso and a blueberry cream cheese muffin. There's something I resent about this, but I can't figure out exactly what it is. Maybe I'm mad because I know I'm going to crash hard about thirty minutes after wolfing this down. Or maybe it's just that the girl behind the counter doesn't seem to realize that people have to get to work at this hour of the morning.

Ten aggravating minutes later, I step out of the bookstore, artery-clogging, heart-hasting breakfast in-hand. Immediately, I am accosted by a man who has obviously seen better days. His tattered jeans and filthy winter jacket worn in the toasty mid-summer morning seem to do nothing to draw attention from his few splayed brown teeth or the way the dirt on his face transitions evenly into his patchy brown stubble. He's carrying what looks like a big black blanket under his arm.

"Hey, listen, man," he says to me, his slurred speech propelling his sour, alcohol-laden breath toward my unprepared nose. "Listen, I got my wife and kid in the car two miles up the road. We ran outta gas last night and I been tryin' to get some help. If you could just spare five bucks, it would really help me out."

I can't help but raise a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, man, I never carry cash," I lie.

He eyes the bag containing my muffin hungrily. "Well, if you could just spare some change, maybe. We're tryin' to get to the hospital. See, I broke my thumb and the veteran's hospital won't see me 'cause they lost my paperwork. Gave ten years of my life for this country and got an honorable discharge and now they won't even help."

I grit my teeth impatiently. "Hey, man, I really am sorry. I don't have any change. I wish you the best of luck," I tell him, turning to hurry back to the car.

"I'm awfully hungry, walking up and down all night," he calls after me. "Gotta get to the hospital and see Dr. Spector. He'll help."

I freeze. Looking back slowly, I ask, "What did you just say?"

"I said I gotta get to the hospital and get my thumb looked at," he says, holding up the grimy digit.

"What was the doctor's name?" I clarify insistently.

His thick eyebrows come together. "I don't know, man, I ain't been there yet."

For the first time, I'm really looking at him. Now that I'm taking the time to study his features, there's something eerily familiar about him. I narrow my eyes. "Who are you?" I ask.

"I'm, uh..." he says uncertainly.

"What's your name?" I demand loudly. Bookstore patrons coming through the parking lot look over curiously.

"I...I don't remember," he stammers.

"You're lying!" I shout. "Tell me your name!"

He flinches and recoils a bit, starting to step backwards. "Listen, man, I don't know who you are, but you're starting to freak me out."

"Is there a problem here?" a stern voice calls out from nearby.

I look at the source of the voice. A police officer is walking up, hand on the gun by his hip.

"Oh...no, officer, it's fine. I was just..." I look back to indicate the strange homeless guy, but he's gone. I look around in confusion.

"Are you feeling all right, sir?" the policeman asks me with a tone of suspicion.

I nod slowly, staring at the spot where that guy was just standing. "I'm fine, officer. Sorry for the disturbance." I look over at him and force a smile. "It's early," I explain weakly.

The cop nods back, still eyeing me with uncertainty.

"I'll just be...heading to work now," I tell him with a questioning tone.

"Maybe you had better do that," he suggests.

I take the hint, and my leave. As I weave my way through traffic and sip my coffee, the whole incident fades in my memory until it seems almost like a strange dream. Could I really have just randomly started yelling at a homeless guy? All he did was ask me for change. And he said something else...what was it? And where did he go when the cop came up?

It's too early for this. I just shake it off and continue sipping my coffee as I hurtle down the highway at 80 mph. My muffin is calling to me through the bag. I glance over at it, my mouth watering. Setting my cup in the holder, I reach for my breakfast.

The sudden blare of a horn snaps my attention back to the road. I've drifted dangerously close to a car in the next lane. I swerve to get back into my lane. For a sickening moment, I feel the tires lose traction. I spin the wheel in the opposite direction. Rubber catches asphalt and there's a screech as the back end of my car swings around in an arc. For an instant, I see the terrified face of the guy passing me as my car spins to face his. He accelerates and the last thing I see before the world flips upside down is his receding rear bumper.

Hot coffee splashes onto my right hand, but my scream is drowned out by the breaking of glass and the groaning din of metal hitting the asphalt at high velocity. Though I try to regain my bearings in the rotating crash, my limbs flop around limply, smashing into various surfaces and breaking or bruising more than I care to think about. The seatbelt suddenly strains against my hips as my roof smacks once more into the ground. I close my eyes and try to cover myself while glass, metal and plastic bombard me from all angles. Over the noise of my vehicle succumbing inevitably to the laws of physics, I can hear tires squealing and horns sounding from various directions.

After what seems like an hour, the car stops rolling and comes to a rocking halt in the middle of the road. It smells like burnt motor oil and coffee. Somehow, I lived through it. I can't help but wonder if the muffin was really worth all this. I open my eyes and look over. The bag with the muffin is sitting on the roof next to me. The odd placement of it and the building pressure in my head helps me realize that I'm upside down. Trying to place myself in a position that won't leave me falling on my head, I undo my seatbelt. I guess those things really do save lives.

I squirm out of my seat and start crawling toward the opening where there used to be a windshield. The distant sound of sirens drifts over the hum of a freshly made traffic jam. As broken glass crunches under me, I realize how much pain I'm in. I'm sure I have a few broken bones, not to mention several cuts, scrapes and bruises.

"Hey, you okay, buddy?" a voice calls out to me. There's a guy kneeling in front of my overturned car reaching for me. "Gimme your hand."

I reach over and he helps pull me out from under the wreckage. I nod to him gratefully and turn to survey the damage. It's pretty bad. The sound of sirens gets closer. An intense feeling of déjà vu washes over me. I'm pretty sure I've never been in an accident like this, but there's something about it that seems really familiar.

"Let's move away," the helpful guy tells me, nodding toward the smoke beginning to rise from the engine.

With his help, I limp away from the mess, eying it as though it were a ticking bomb. The volume of the sirens increases significantly. I can see the fire rescue speeding toward us on the shoulder. I look back toward the wreck. A prickly chill runs all through my body...there's a woman in my car.

Hanging upside down from the driver's seat is a blonde woman, her eyes closed, scratches and bruises all over her face. "Oh my god," I say, starting to walk back toward the vehicle.

"Whoa! Whoa, hey buddy. You should stay here," the guy who helped me says.

I look back at him incredulously. "But, we have to save that woman," I explain.

He looks over to the wreckage. "What woman?"

"That wom-" I start to point out to him, but when I turn back to the car, she's gone.

"It's okay, man," the guy reassures me. "Listen, the paramedics are here. Let's get them to take a look at you."

I nod slowly and let him guide me to the approaching help. Maybe I'm in shock. I can do little else besides stare blankly as the paramedics look me over. They decide I need a hospital visit and close me into the ambulance and take off. Through the back window, I can see the smoke from my wreck rising into the sky. What the hell is going on with this morning?

The ride to the hospital seems to go by in a flash, though that might be because I was spacing out the whole time. They bring me in on a stretcher. It feels good to lie down. I'm feeling pretty tired at this point, but one of the paramedics warns me about going to sleep. He says I might have a concussion. They wheel me into a hospital room and a nurse comes in and hands them some paperwork and starts checking me over.

"Richard, it's me...Loretta," she says.

I sit up quickly. "What?" I shout.

"Sir, please lie down and remain calm," the nurse urges. She looks slightly different than she did just a moment ago.

"B-but..." I stammer in confusion.

"Loretta, Richard. C'mon, remember," the nurse's mouth moves as she appears to go about her business.

"My name isn't Richard, it's..." I start to explain to her, but for some reason, I just can't remember my name.

The nurse looks concerned. "Okay, sir. I'm going to go get the doctor," she says to me, then to one of the paramedics, "Keep an eye on him."

I watch her go. My head starts to hurt. Everything's swimming. I hear the paramedic start to say something to me. His voice sounds muffled. He's shaking me. It's no use, buddy. I'm going down. The darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision. Ah, blissful unconsciousness.

***

Sticks and Stones...

Poor Gen. Dave Petraeus. It must be difficult to be a man in his position. On one side he has the perpetrators of the biggest conflict of this generation putting him in charge of said conflict and asking him to give America a warm fuzzy about its progress. On the other side he has a wiser American public, weary and wary of the misinformation, propaganda and all-out deception of a war-hungry administration, futilely grasping at any defense of its poor decisions.

MoveOn.org purchased an ad in the New York Times featuring a large photo of the general and a headline that pondered, "General Petraeus, or General Betray Us?" It accuses Petraeus of "cooking the books" on the progress in the Iraq conflict. No doubt, things are not going as swimmingly as the general's report seemed to suggest (not that I'm saying he thinks it's going swimmingly). Time after time we hear word from the administration that progress is being made, only to have that word contradicted and dashed by the media, who continue to report the unabated deaths of Iraqis and Americans alike in this increasingly thickening "quagmire".

At this point, it's difficult to take any positive reports on the situation in Iraq seriously, and as responsible citizens, it is our duty to question our leadership for nothing less than the truth. As such, it's not surprising to see public outcries like MoveOn.org's in the New York Times. The wording of the ad was, perhaps, a bit harsh, and those of us who speak out should be sure to phrase our dissent in a way that doesn't give the opposition more ammunition to help redirect the focus of the issues at hand.

Case in point, Senate voted on a bill to "strongly condemn personal attacks" on the general and the US military. This resolution, proposed by Republican John Cornyn (R-TX), and subsequent overwhelming majority approval just shows how desperate defenders of the war are to...well, defend the war. With so many important issues the senate could be resolving right now, they actually took the time to vote on a resolution that brushes dangerously with the first amendment, not a first for our demonstrably capable (read with sarcasm) congress.

And before anyone pipes up about libel and slander, I urge you to look up those concepts and do your homework before you say something that tells all of us that you have no idea what you're talking about. Libel has to be falsifiable for it to be considered as such, and try all you like, there's nothing you can say to convince the American public in general that Petraeus and the administration isn't heavily sugar-coating the information. The MoveOn.org ad doesn't qualify, but Senate's actions come frighteningly close to censorship, and you all know how I feel about that!

My point is, in these emotionally and politically charged times, lots of words are flung around by all sides. It's easy to get caught up in the game of language when quippy headlines, powerful speeches, and mudslinging advertising are given so much attention, but we must remember that words are not actions. If they were, the current administration would be able to turn Iraq around by merely continuing to say that everything's okey-dokey. Neither "side" should be bothered by the other wielding words as weapons because words are only as powerful as we allow them to be, and Senate made MoveOn.org's words powerful indeed.

Letters From the Lost Man, Part 11

It's Dark. But this isn't the usual darkness. There's light somewhere. Instead of the regular inky blackness, there's a reddish hue to everything. And it's not silent. Voices are murmuring all around me. I'm compelled to open my eyes.

Yes, that's what it was. My eyes were closed. I feel a little woozy. It's kind of nice, actually. I try to sit up. My body feels really heavy for some reason. I look down at my chest. A large brown leather strap has me buckled securely to the bed. My wrists and ankles are likewise bound. I feel like I should be panicked, but I can't seem to get up the energy.

"Dr. Spector, the patient's awake," I hear a voice say.

That visage, that awful gap-toothed smile, enters my vision. "Well, hello there," Dr. Spector says with a kind of creepy joy that makes me wonder what he's done to me while I was unconscious.

"I was afraid we lost you there, for a moment," he says as his beady eyes flick rapidly over me.

"What are you doing to me?" I demand, my speech sounding sluggish.

Dr. Spector feigns offense. "Why, we're helping you," he says in a creaky voice that is in no way reassuring. "It's better you don't think about it. The treatment works better that way."

"Treatment?" I repeat with disgust.

The doctor clucks and shakes his head. "My, what stories has that horrible Ms. Vine told you? That we're performing inhumane experiments on you?" he asks, his expression becoming sincerely grave and a bit angry.

"It is true," he continues, "your treatment is experimental, but it is for your own good. Trust me; it is better than the alternative. If we are successful, it will revolutionize the way people with your...condition...are treated."

Something about the conviction in his voice prompts me to ask, "What is my condition?"

Dr. Spector's serious tone vanishes and he shows the gap in his teeth prominently. "Never you mind. If we are successful, you will never even know anything was ever wrong."

"Yes I will," I reply defiantly.

The doctor's smile fades. "You won't," he says quietly, drawing close, "and don't expect Ms. Vine to come to your rescue any more."

From his tone, it's obvious he's insinuating something. "What have you done to her?" I ask.

"I haven't done anything," Dr. Spector says, straightening up. "What has been done to her she did herself. That little escapade you two went on nearly killed her. It still might, but never mind that for now."

I don't reply. An image of Loretta hooked up to a bunch of machines flashes through my mind. I barely register the prick of a hypodermic jabbed into my arm. Whatever the nurse is injecting, it works fast. I can already feel reality swirling.

"You see," Dr. Spector's voice echoes through the drugs rushing in my ears, "the next time you wake up, your life will be normal. And you won't even remember any of this. A pity...you would probably thank me if you knew what I'd given you."

I strain my eyes looking sideways to focus on him through the dancing imagery that's playing across my vision. "I'll...remember," I struggle to insist.

"Ri-chard...my name is..."

Welcome back to the blackness.

***

I jump suddenly to a sitting position. My breathing is heavy. I'm drenched in a cold sweat. I look to my right. Through the darkness I see the red symbols: 4:26 AM. Damn, woke up too early. I still have two hours to sleep. These nightmares are getting ridiculous. What was this one about?

Hmm, don't remember. Oh well, guess I'll go to the bathroom and try to get back to my precious sleep. I get out of bed slowly, careful not to wake Linda, walk across the hall and empty my bladder. My wife stirs slightly as I climb back into bed, but stays asleep. Pretty soon, I'm...drifting...off...

Why do cheap alarm clocks emit the most horrific electronic screeching imaginable? I guess it's 1) because they're cheap and 2) because it's effective. They should try using these things on people in comas. If I was half dead, I would still jump up and race to the snooze button. It takes incredible self control to not turn it off with a baseball bat.

Ok, so I guess I'm awake. I kiss Linda, who greets me with a sleepy smile.

"Mornin', dear," she offers consolingly.

Off to the shower. I scrub myself as clean as someone who is half conscious can, exit the shower and brush my teeth. After the deodorant, the clothes go on and I run a comb through my slightly damp hair. Then it's down to the kitchen for breakfast. I bolt down some cereal and gulp some coffee before kissing Linda farewell and hurrying out the door to make it to work.

It's a nice little routine, simple and efficient. It gets me clean, fed and out the door to get to work relatively on time. Not that I have much to look forward to at work. By day, I'm a mild-mannered database programmer for a large government agency. Trust me, it's not as glamorous as it sounds.

"Hey, Mike," a familiar voice greets me.

"Hey, Tom," I reply. Tom is my cubicle neighbor. Something funny strikes me about his greeting. "What did you call me?"

Tom blinks. "Mike," he answers, "that is your name, isn't it?"

I think for a second. "I'm sorry, Tom...I'm not quite awake," I explain.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he agrees. "Good thing our jobs are so interesting and keep us awake throughout the day."

"Oh, yeah!" I agree with exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Listen, just a head's up," Tom says, "Greer's going to be making his rounds early today, so..."

I roll my eyes. "Man, that guy's a dick. How do I get his job?"

"Easy. Go bang your head against a filing cabinet for a few hours. By the time you're done, your IQ should be low enough to qualify."

"Morning gentlemen." Ah, just the voice we didn't want to hear.

"Hi, Ted," I greet as Greer takes the last few steps to our cubicles.

He shoots me a nasty glare. He hates it when people call him by his first name. "Hard at work, I trust," he says through a plastic smile.

"Oh, you know us," Tom answers. "Busy as beavers."

"Good," Greer says, "because Mr. Weisman is getting a bit anxious about the NetBox project deadline. I'm sure I don't have to remind you how important this is to the agency."

"Well, the last two modules are going to be ready for test by the end of the month. You know that's weeks ahead of our deadline," I say, unable to stop myself from sounding a bit defensive.

Tom chimes in, "Yeah, besides, you know all the tables are already built and most of the interface is there. Hell, they could start using it now if they wanted to."

Greer looks back and forth between me and Tom. "Well, then... Don't let me keep you from your hard work." With that he walks off with his nose in the air.

"Man, what the hell is his problem?" Tom asks as Greer turns the corner.

I shake my head. "Someone shoved a larger than usual stick up his ass," I suggest.

Tom nods. "Well, I guess we should probably get to work."

I nod back in agreement. Well, time to turn toward my monitor and start hacking away at the keyboard. I look at the screen. A cursor blinks next to the SQL command prompt. I'm drawing a blank. After staring for 10 minutes, what I'm supposed to be doing becomes no clearer to me. Not knowing what else to do, I type 'help' at the command line.

A bunch of sql commands scroll up the screen followed by short descriptions. The only thing that stands out is the 'use' command. It seems to be the only one that actually manipulates anything. I type 'use' and a space. I think for a moment as the cursor blinks patiently at me. My fingers move absently over the keys and a database name appears on the screen.

sql> use med_proj3

I hit enter. The command line outputs 'Database changed'. The prompt flashes at me again. Without realizing what I'm doing I type, 'select * from exp_inp where lead_last=spector;' and hit enter.

Data begins scrolling rapidly down the screen. There's a lot of information here. If I want to look at it all, I'll have to print it. I'm not really sure how to do that. Actually, I'm not even really sure how I just did what I did. I'm supposed to be a database programmer, but none of what I just typed looks familiar to me. I've obviously retrieved some kind of data from a database, but I don't know why or even how to interpret it.

"Hey, buddy. Whatcha doin'?" Tom says suddenly. His voice sounds really close.

I look over. He's standing right next to me and leaning over to peer at the screen. "Oh, ah..." I respond nervously.

"That doesn't look like NetBox to me," he says seriously. "You're not poking in anything you shouldn't be, are you?"

I glance at my screen. "Honestly, I don't really know how I got this," I explain.

Tom nods. "Listen, Mike, why don't we go for a little break. We'll get some coffee...clear our heads."

"Ok," I say distantly, feeling a bit like I need a break. I stand up to go, and Tom switches off my monitor.

"You'll come back to it later," he assures me when I look at him questioningly.

Coffee is very refreshing. The caffeine gives me just the boost I need to refocus on my work. All thoughts of this morning's strangeness fade away as Tom and I collaborate on the next steps in the project. The day passes quickly and, before I realize it, five o'clock rolls around. I pack up for the day, wish Tom a good night and head home.

"How was work, hon?" Linda asks as I lean over to kiss her hello.

"It was good," I reply. "Actually, it was really good. We made some good headway on NetBox. Greer came by and harassed us early in the morning, but he's going to feel like an idiot when we wrap this up 3 weeks early."

"Aw, that's my brilliant programmer," she beams.

The evening passes like most others. We watch a little TV, eat dinner, watch some more TV, then go to bed and read for a while before going to sleep. It's a routine much like the morning one. Simple...efficient. As I close my eyes to sleep, I welcome the coming darkness. It embraces me. I let go of this world.

***

"Suck it, Censorship!"

Well, well, it seems Kathy Griffin has won an Emmy for pointing out to the world how unsuccessful she is. I wonder if next season her show will be called My Life on the C-List: Movin' On Up! But titular ramifications aside, something else happened when the D-Lister stepped up to accept the award, and it was made into an even bigger deal than the fact that Kathy Griffin...WON A FRIKKEN EMMY!

Apparently, Ms. Griffin doesn't put much stock in Jesus’ role in her personal achievements, as evidenced by her telling Jesus to "suck it" in her acceptance speech. This, of course, has raised many a religious hackle and has prompted E! to edit the telecast of her speech in a manner found acceptable by our fundamentalist overlords, may God bless them forever. Most of these are the same people, mind you, who probably chuckled at the emails forwarded to them by their friends with attachments showing the Muhammad cartoons that got certain European countries in trouble in recent years.

Now listen, I'm not saying that people shouldn't be considerate of other people's sensitivities, but you can't criticize people for being PC (that's political correctness) Nazi's out of one side of your mouth and express outrage at people for singling you out in their political incorrectness out of the other. That makes you a hypocrite. It's irrational and catches you up in logic that makes you have to either stop making fun of other people or deal with it when you’re made fun of.

Have you ever stopped to wonder why it's called political correctness? Because it's for politicians. Most of the country would never vote for a candidate who stood up and made very public derogatory comments about someone's religion, race or gender... Well, maybe not never, but still. It's damaging to a politician to even be connected with statements that could be considered prejudiced in any way. It is helpful to their campaigns if they can be as inoffensive as possible. This is a dynamic they created, so I say let them have it, but don't mistake their self-imposed restrictions as commandments for the rest of us.

Comedians make their livings being offensive in some way. Maybe not all of them do, but they do by at least pointing out the offensive things in life. It is difficult nowadays for a really successful comedian to go very long without offending somebody, and it's usually the people who have the least reason to be offended that are. Comedians tell jokes. Grow a sense of humor. I can laugh at myself when my friends are poking fun, and I do it right back to them, but we all know it's not for real.

Maybe it's not the most well-formed argument, but there is clearly something wrong in this country if we have to censor a comedian for being funny. You know the old question of whether a tree falling in the forest makes a sound when no one's around to hear it? Well, it makes one wonder, is free speech really free when no one's allowed to hear it? Censorship sucks, and that's straight from the liberal, left-wing nut job's mouth.

Letters From the Lost Man, Part 10

The silent black...what a welcome feeling. Here, where death is my friend, my confidant, nothing can hurt me. One would think the emptiness would drive you mad, but this is where I find no less than my self...my true self. Unless, of course, I'm already crazy. But how can I be crazy? That doctor bored open my skull and took out...

What? What's been taken from me?

I reach up and feel my head. It's wrapped in gauze. I feel a soft pressure over my entire back...the bed. I'm in a hospital bed. It's dark.

"Richard!" a voice whispers insistently.

I blink a few times...still dark. "Hmm?" I moan.

"Shh!" the voice urges.

"Who's there?" I whisper back.

There's a pause. "Richard, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm an assistant to the doctor who's...treating you. My name is Loretta Vine."

The way she hesitated before choosing the word "treating" resonates in my head. I sit up, feeling a little woozy doing so. "I sort of remember," I mutter quietly.

"Richard, there's something terrible going on. I...I don't have much time."

"What's wrong?" I ask dumbly.

Loretta sighs anxiously. "Everything is a lie," she hisses.

That seems to make sense, but at the same time, I'm a little confused. "Everything?" I prompt.

"Yes, everything you remember...everything they told me. This whole project is a lie," she answers.

I shake my head, a pointless motion in the darkness. "Wait, start from the beginning."

"Not now," she whispers hurriedly. "We need to try to get out of here before they find out I'm gone."

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Let's go," I say eagerly.

"There's a guard outside the door," Loretta explains. "I need to deal with him first."

A little light suddenly clicks on. At first it seems blinding, but as my eyes adjust, it becomes clear that it's just a pen light. Loretta holds it in her mouth while manipulating a syringe and vial.

"What's that for?" I ask a bit nervously.

"The guard," she says, clicking off the light. "Lay back down."

I'm not entirely sure of what's going on, but seeing as how it's a familiar feeling for me, I obey. I hear her walk across the room and open a door.

"Guard," she says with slight concern in her voice, "I need your assistance, please."

There's some shuffling as the guard enters the room. "Are the lights work- Ah!" exclaims suddenly. "What the hell was that?" I hear him ask.

"I'm sorry," Loretta says mechanically.

"What did you do?" the guard asks. His speech sounds slurred. There's a thud.

"Okay, Richard," she calls to me.

I sit up. From the light coming through the open door I can see the silhouette of the guard slumped on the floor. My heartbeat quickens as I feel what I can only describe as reality. Stepping out of the bed and onto the cold floor intensifies the sensation that I am finally in the real world. My legs shake a little as I stand on them for the first time in...well, who knows how long? They feel weird, kind of like I've been bicycling nonstop for days. I steady myself against the bed.

"Are you okay?" Loretta asks.

"Hang on," I answer, "let me get my bearings." I rock from side to side and try lifting my legs one after the other. I can sense Loretta's impatience, but she says nothing as I try to reacquaint myself with using my muscles this much. At least I can stand. I couldn't have been confined to a bed for too long.

I take a step away from the bed. Then another one. It seems to be working. I move toward the door. I'm a little stiff, and I imagine I won't be able to move too quickly just yet, but with the possibility of finding out what's really going on seeming finally within reach, I'm sure I can hold it together long enough to get out of here.

Loretta stands from searching the guard. "You don't, by any chance, happen to know how to use one of these?" she asks tentatively, holding out a familiar shape.

I take it in my hands. It feels as familiar as it looks. Somehow, even in the dim light offered by the corridor outside my room, I can tell it's a Smith & Wesson SW40 Sigma series semi automatic pistol. It's very comfortable in my hands. I can't help but worry that this feels a little surreal all of the sudden. Loretta snaps me back to reality.

"Let's go," she says, stepping into the hall and hurrying out of sight.

I follow as quickly as I can, sliding against the wall where I can. I meet her at the end of the corridor. I can't help but noticed that she's dressed like me. She doesn't look official at all, not like the last time I saw her. Maybe that should worry me, but it doesn't.

"Hide that somewhere," Loretta says with a nod to the gun. "If someone notices us on the camera it will be a lot better if they don't think we're armed."

I look at my clothes. While the airy light-blue pants and white short-sleeve shirt are better than a hospital gown, they are definitely not made for every day use, and certainly not for concealing weapons. I tuck the gun as best as I can into my waistband and try to cover it with the shirt. I'm not convinced, but it should be hidden to a security camera.

Loretta nods in apparent agreement. "The way down this hall is clear," she tells me. "We need to get on the elevator and go down to the ground floor. There's a rear entrance that's used for subject transport. We might be able to make it out that way, but we'll have to sneak past the night receptionist."

"Will that be a problem?" I ask, not really sure if I want to know.

"Not compared with what we'll have to get through to leave the compound," she says ominously. "Let's go quickly."

Together we run down the hall and to the elevator. When the door opens, we step in and Loretta presses "1". I look at the numbers over the door. We are on the 25th floor. It seems to take forever to make it all the way down, but we do without interruption. It's silent most of the way down.

"Loretta?" I ask as something occurs to me.

"Hmm?" she replies, watching the floor numbers tick down.

"Was my door the only one with a guard in front of it?"

For the first time tonight, she really seems to look at me. It's only for a second, though, as she turns away almost immediately. "Well, one of very few," she says softly.

The ensuing silence almost becomes uncomfortable, but fortunately the elevator doors slide open into an empty hallway. Loretta steps out and waves for me to follow. I can feel my heart beating in every part of my body as I watch the end of the hall. Please, no one come marching around the turn.

We make it to the end and Loretta peeks around the corner. "No one in the lobby. The receptionist is sitting at the desk. I can see her reflection on the door," she informs me.

I lean over her to get a glimpse at the scene. There's a plain lobby with drab carpeting and a few simple chairs. A set of glass double doors reveals little about the world outside in the dark of night, but the resultant reflection shows the receptionist is indeed seated behind a counter, staring at a computer screen.

"Okay," Loretta says, pushing me back in hiding. "You stay here. I'm going to go distract her. When she gets up, come quickly down the hallway and we'll both leave. Our time will probably be up after that. Security will be hot on our tails. Just stay with me and do everything I say."

"Yes, ma'am," I say as she heads toward the lobby.

Loretta walks up to the counter and smiles at the receptionist. "Hey, Rebecca, how are you?"

Rebecca blinks. "Oh, hey Loretta. I'm doing pretty good. I almost didn't recognize you in that getup. Were you in surgery with Dr. Spector today?"

"Oh yeah," Loretta says with a roll of her eyes. "It got a little messy. Can't wait to get home and out of these. Listen, I think Dr. Sandeep sent me a fax to the number back here. Can you check on that for me?"

The receptionist cocks her head quizzically. "Here?"

Loretta nods. "Yep. You know, it's on the transfer form. I gave him the office fax number, but he didn't write it down...or he lost it. You know doctors."

Rebecca snickers at that. "Okay. Let me go check," she says cheerfully as she gets up.

"Thanks," Loretta calls after her, but she's looking at me.

I bolt down the hall as quietly as I can. My legs feel even more odd while I'm running. My feet thud strangely on the carpet. The door gets closer and closer and my gut clenches as I reach for it. Loretta is right behind me. The phone behind the counter rings, and the sudden noise breaks my concentration. I leap for the door and push it open, but trip on myself before I can get all the way out.

"Nurse Vine?" Rebecca's voice calls curiously from behind the counter.

Loretta doesn't even glance at her. She hurriedly helps me back to my feet and rushes me out onto the bare concrete. Just before the door closes all the way, I can hear the receptionist’s voice one last time.

"I need building D security to ST entrance! We have a-"

"Quick," Loretta says, "this way."

I go in the direction she pushes me. I barely have time to register the scrapes on my elbows from my fall as alarms all over the compound begin to sound. We're running toward a parking area lined with what look like ambulances.

"This one," Loretta indicates one of the vehicles. She pulls open the driver's side door as I struggle to push myself into the passenger seat. All this activity is very taxing on my atrophied muscles.

I'm barely able to close the door before we back out of the spot very quickly. The tires squeal as Loretta throws it into drive and hits the accelerator. I can see the shadows of people running out of the building we just exited. A voice echoes over the compound through a loudspeaker system, though I can't tell whether it's shouting commands to security or to us. I'm thrown against the door as Loretta cuts a sharp left.

"Guess I'd better buckle up," I say dryly. She doesn't seem to notice.

We swerve through the parking lot and small roads that wind around the facility. Wherever this place is, it must be massive. The blare of sirens begin to rise over the sound of the security alarm as other vehicles take up the chase. Loretta peers grimly out through the windshield and handles the ambulance like a racecar. We speed toward a small security booth. Without even slowing down, she tears through the lowered security gate. The guard inside the booth doesn't look surprised, but he does huddle against the wall to avoid flying debris.

"We out?" I ask hopefully.

"No," is Loretta's only answer.

I look ahead. A little down the road in front of us is a high chain-link fence capped with a nice coil of barbed wire. Blue and red lights flash on the road beyond. Police cars pull up and blockade the fence.

"Shit!" Loretta hisses through clenched teeth. She veers off the road and onto the uneven grassy earth. The ambulance bounces wildly as she struggles to control the steering wheel.

We're thrown forward as we hit the fence and lose some serious momentum, but we make it through. Broken and warped chain-link screeches against the hood and roof of the vehicle. The back of the ambulance slides to the right, and for a moment we're facing the stunned police. Loretta whips the steering wheel around and I can feel us completely lose traction.

We spin left. As soon as we're perpendicular to the direction we're sliding, the ambulance lurches and the world outside the windshield begins to spin sickeningly. We're thrown from our seats as the ambulance roof hits the ground and we're propelled into another gut-wrenching roll. For what seems like an eternity, we crash into the earth from every side and personally meet every surface of the inside of the cab. Every deafening thud and creaking shatter brings another painful beating from plastic, metal and broken glass. Loretta yelps at each hit. Reality begins to ripple. The pain is taking me away.

"No," I mutter, vaguely aware of a rocking sensation. We've stopped rolling. I can hear the sirens getting closer. Now they're fading.

"No," I whisper one more time as the pervasive darkness creeps in. I think I can hear voices. I'm slipping from existence yet again. Please don't forget this. Richard...my name is Richard...

***

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 9

Yes, I'm alive...and yes, this is the latest in the Letters from the Lost Man saga!

***

For the first time, I welcome the darkness. Any reprieve from my "waking world" has become something to be anticipated. I'm remembering more and more every time, and I feel like I'll be able to figure this all out if I just concentrate. So, here I am...clearing my mind.

That almost sounds funny. Here in the darkness, I can only assume I am within the recesses of my own consciousness, and it's empty in here. Even when I speak to myself, it sounds hollow, devoid of any real life or thought. Here meditation is easy. I simply relax and let my mind expand into the nothingness. Maybe if it expands enough, I'll reach the edge of this darkness and find myself again...my real self.

***

"Richard!"

Who is that? The voice sounds familiar.

"Richard!"

She isn't calling me, is she? Is my name really...

"Richard?" the young woman prompts with a puzzled expression as she approaches, panting from her run up the grassy hill.

I blink at her a few times. "Jane, I'm sorry...I must have been daydreaming," I explain haltingly in a British accent.

"You must come quickly," she urges. "They've found Elizabeth."

My eyes widen and I take off down the hill while Jane stumbles to keep up. The possibilities of where and how Liz was found race through my mind, and most of them are quite unpleasant. Despite the fact that I can't exactly recall when she went missing and why it's important to me, my stomach twists anxiously, hoping against hope that she's okay.

I burst through the huge double doors at the front of her family's luxurious estate. No one is there to greet me, but I can hear voices in the study to the left. I dash toward that room just as Jane rushes in the front doors behind me. We both run into the study and push our way through a small crowd of family members and servants.

Stretched out on the sofa is the small, delicate form of Elizabeth, her dress torn in filthy tatters, her face smudged with dirt. A doctor kneels before her, examining her thoroughly. After several minutes, he stands and addresses the room.

"She is going to be fine," he reassures us. "She needs some rest and a good bath. She may have a few bruises, but she is otherwise unharmed."

Through the many sighs of relief, a small, shaky voice calls out, "...Richard."

I look past the doctor to see Elizabeth looking up at me weakly. I move past him to kneel at her side. "What is it, my dear?" I ask, taking her hand in mine.

Instead of a smile, she responds with a look of distrust mixed with fear. "How could you?" she asks, tears welling in her eyes.

I can only react with confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand, love."

"How could you?" she shouts as tears stream down her cheeks in rivulets.

"What is the meaning of this?" her father demands, stepping out of the crowd.

I shake my head. "I assure you, sir, I don't know," I say bewildered.

"Constable, take this man away!" he shouts, his face flushing with anger.

A uniformed man advances from the back of the room and grabs me by the shoulders. "Come on, gov, lets go 'ave a chat," he says firmly.

Reeling in utter perplexion, I can only obey. Certainly there's been some sort of misunderstanding. Once I speak with the constable, this will be all cleared up. Surely Elizabeth is confused by her ordeal. After she's had a chance to rest, everything will be back to normal.

***

"Alrigh', you swine, I'm goin' to ask you once more!" the constable howls threateningly. "Where were you on the nigh' Miss Evansworth disappeared?"

Even with my face in my hands, the stark stone walls of the interrogation room loom around me forebodingly. The dank smell of the place makes me feel a little sick, not because of the odor itself but more that it reminds me of a dungeon...a place I'm sure I'll get to know very soon.

"I told you, I don't remember," I insist. "I wish I knew, but I don't. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to harm Elizabeth. I love her." While I'm not sure why I just said that, it feels like truth on my lips.

"Obsessed with 'er, more likely!" the constable accuses. "An' I suppose you also 'ave no recollection of the little room in you cellar where you kep' the poor girl? Or of the black cloak she described you as wearin' while she begged for you to le'er go? This is the same cloak, I remind you, as the one we found 'angin' in your wardrobe in your very own bedroom in your very own 'ouse!"

I rub my eyes, hoping to awaken from this nightmare. "Yes, constable," I say in a wearied tone. "I quite recall those details, and as I told you before, I have no explanation for them. Perhaps someone is trying to make it appear as though I am the guilty party, which I assure you, I am not."

"So you keep sayin'," the constable sighs. "But the thing is...I don' believe you."

***

"My name is Elizabeth Evansworth. My father is Charles Evansworth, a civil engineer. On 12 July I was reading a book alone on a hill by my father's estate. I heard a noise from behind me. It sounded like a footstep. When I turned to see who it was, I was struck on the head. I do not remember anything for some time after that."

The prosecutor steps toward Elizabeth with a sympathetic expression. "Miss Evansworth, did you see who had struck you?" he asks.

Elizabeth shakes her head. "No. At least, if I did, I don't recall it. I think I was struck before I turned fully."

The prosecutor nods. "Very well. Tell us, if you can, what you remember next," he directs her.

A sadness seems to come over her as she takes a breath to answer. "Well," she begins with a pause, "I awoke in a darkened room of rough stone, a cellar I think. I was tied to a chair. Pieces of my dress had been...torn."

"It's alright, Elizabeth," the prosecutor reassures her. "Go on."

"There was a figure," she continues in a small voice, "a man. He wore a long black cloak with a hood which obscured him from me. He then spoke to me, and it was then I realized who it was."

"Tell us," the prosecutor urges. "Who was it?"

"It was..." Elizabeth pauses for several moments, struggling with the hard truth she is about to reveal. "It was the prisoner. Richard...my own Richard. He spoke to me in a strange manner. He sounded almost foreign, but he could not disguise that voice from me. I know it too well."

The prosecutor faces the jury with a raised eyebrow. "Did he say why he had done this? Why he had taken you?"

She shakes her head resignedly. "No. He simply kept asking me who he was. I told him that I knew it was him, but he went on asking me to tell him about himself...about his life. It was as if he had gone mad."

***

Well, this is different. Somehow I ended up in the middle of this strange, messed-up situation. Who knows, maybe I am crazy. It would be a really convenient explanation for all of this. But, y'know, even though everything seems out of place and completely wrong, I find myself thinking only how this verdict and subsequent sentence is going to take me away from Elizabeth. I can't help but feel like I've made some sort of awful mistake that's taking me further and further away from recapturing my life.

Oh, the judge is talking. I should probably listen to this.

"...has been found guilty of taking by force and carrying away Elizabeth Evansworth with intent to hold her from her family. It is this court's determination that the prisoner was non compos mentis throughout the duration of the crime. As such, the sentence of seven years confinement shall take place within the Greater Wisconsin Mental Institute under the care of Drs. Hanz Spector and Friedrich Golz. Their record for rehabilitation of criminals with mental defect is exemplary."

May god have mercy upon my soul. It might as well be a death sentence...

***

"Don't you worry," a young Dr. Golz tries to reassure me with a slight German accent. "Dr. Spector is a brilliant doctor and scientist. He has made great strides in the study of the brain's role in violent and criminal behavior."

I'm not reassured. What I am is tied down to a table in some kind of laboratory/operating room. I couldn't be further from reassured. As enthusiastic as Dr. Golz is, none of what he's explained to me so far sounds like science or medicine. I'd like to protest, believe me, but my mouth has been taped shut.

"Now, let's just get rid of the rest of this," Dr. Golz mutters to himself as he picks up the sharp razor from the stand next to my bed. He holds the shining metal blade over me for a moment, inspecting its edge. I can only stare up in blank terror. He brings it down and slides it down my wet scalp, shaving off what little hair was left after my earlier trim.

"There!" he exclaims as he finishes. "Now, I will administer something to dull the pain. While it is taking effect, I will go get Dr. Spector and we can begin."

Again, the urge to protest comes on, but I can only watch as Dr. Golz fills a syringe and empties it into my veins. Almost immediately euphoria begins to wash over me. I try to fight it, but every cell in my body urges me to just relax. I barely register the doctor's exit to find his colleague.

The next thing I see is the blurry image of a man's face. The face is long and cracked by a thin-lipped mouth filled with widely-gapped teeth. In the center of the face is a hawkish nose on which sits a pair of round glasses that magnify a set of black, beady eyes. The whole thing is topped by a slick of jet black hair, parted on the left.

"Now, Friedrich," the face says with a distant voice. "We will begin by drilling a hole in the top of the skull."

I feel a cold sensation as something is spread on my bare scalp. Then comes a feeling like someone is rubbing a blunt stone against the top of my head. There is a slow grinding sound echoing everywhere. Red fills my vision. I scream, but the sound is muted by tape and drowned out by the constant drilling. I give in to the blackness.

***