Psychiatrist (1543 Series Story 2)

Failed Attempt

1.

Malcom awoke on his living room couch, his head pounding, and his entire body feeling sore, as if he had gone through a rigorous workout the day before for the first time in years. But he hadn't done anything of the sort that much he knew. He tried to think back to the previous night, but found that his memories were hazy and undefined, as if looking at them through a thin piece of ice; somethings were clearer than others, but for the most part, everything was slightly distorted in one way or another. It was like trying to look at your reflection in a hopelessly cracked mirror; it was, at the moment, a lost cause.

He sat up on the couch, his hand instantly going to his head, which was pounding and throbbing with each minute movement that he made. It was like a hangover on steroids, only he hadn't drank anything the previous night, or at least he didn't think he did. Malcom slowly looked up from the floor at the clock on the wall, and upon seeing the time, jumped to his feet; however, the movement was for too fast, and immediately a wave of dizziness rushed over Malcom and he found himself helpless as he collapsed to the ground, barely managing to break his fall with his hands. Slowly the dizziness wore off and by the time Malcom was able to push himself up to a sitting position, he realized that whatever this was that he couldn't drive, let alone work, like this and suddenly decided to call in sick. By the time he was able to shakily walk towards the phone, he knew that he was doing the right thing; no reason to get himself killed in a car accident that could be avoided by simply calling in sick for the day instead of trying to be stupid and drive, when he was having problems just walking.

Malcom called the mental hospital and told them that he wasn't feeling well and wanted to call in sick, the nurse forwarded that to the warden of the hospital and then told him that it was alright and totally understandable. She wished him well and Malcom thanked her, then hung up without another word and shakily walked back towards the couch that he awoke on. As he did he realized that he didn't - or couldn't, he couldn't tell the difference between the two at the time - remember lying down on the couch the previous night; come to think of it, he couldn't even remember arriving home. The last think he could remember was racing towards home from the abandoned asylum, after that everything became hazy and muddled. It vaguely reminded him of his college party days, when he had drank a few drinks too many the previous night before and couldn't remember much, if any, of the previous night, but he hadn't drank that much in years. Nevertheless, Malcom laid himself out on the couch, feeling the dizziness die down a little, but still feeling hungover - despite the lack of alcohol consumption. His head still throbbed and pounded with every minute movement. It was worse than any hangover he had ever had, and yet it wasn't even a hangover; at least not of the body, but maybe a hangover of the mind.

Malcom pushed the thought away as foolish and border line insane, but then some memories about the previous night came to him; all of them in little bits and pieces but it was a start. He remembered something about someone in a wheelchair; he remembered hands reaching out from doors, trying to reach him, trying to tear him apart; he remembered a man named Mel, but it wasn't the same Mel from his work, this man had different eyes and wasn't so threatening in his demeanor. But even those memories were like a shattered mirror, giving off different angles and different images within each broken piece. But as he sat there and thought harder and harder the memories came back slowly but surely and soon his memories were like whole mirrors, not without any cracks mind you but they were no longer shattered into millions of pieces like before, which was good. It was as if the mental motion that shattered the mirror of his memories had been reversed so that it was never shattered in the first place.

Malcom remembered very clearly the words that Mel - or rather Mel's spirit - told him the previous night, the words themselves seem to be stamped into his mind in a bold font, echoing around his consciousness so that they never truly left his center of thought: Kill him, those were the words, not only that, they were the last words that Mel - Mel's spirit - had spoken, thought actually, to him the previous night. Malcom knew who he was and he knew what it meant to try and kill him. But he saw it as something that he must do. It was important. And so, he began to think and to plan when and how he would kill him, assuming that he could even be killed in the first place. But somehow, someway, Malcom knew that he could be killed; it had to be true that he could be killed or else Malcom knew that he'd be simply throwing his life away. Yet, Malcom found that death didn't frighten him, that he didn't care if he died or not. Malcom knew what he had done, and what he might do, and if it took his dying to stop that, then that was fine with him.