what you wish for

2 ~ the dream

The dreams enter one by one, on a weekly schedule.

The first voice was the most prominent, though not the loudest, and I thought it to be the dealings of my conscience. The woman answered her name, Gayatri, but I was never able to see her face.

Her features were clouded and every time I stepped forward, Gayatri's frame would evaporate into the mist. Yet, the echos of her voice remained in my mind. Perhaps the answer I sought were no farther than my mind's eye.

When I focused on Gayatri and her voice, she began appearing in may dreams every night. Warnings about Henry at first, then encouragement to cooperate with him. The message that ran through my mind on this particular day was 'two steps from the yellow etched wall'.

It was on my mind when I entered the laboratory. Still when I bump into Henry, following the message of the markings to the corner wall.

When I return my gaze to Henry, I find him peering at me curiously.

"Should I be worried?" he asks, closing his dossier and tucking it underneath his arm.

It wasn't a question of concern but one of practicality, they were on a strict schedule.

"No," I answer, plainly. There was no need to divulge the details of my dreams.

"Room four," he starts down the hallway, "ten minutes."

I breath a sigh of relief. A new subject for the day.

I preferred not to test the limits of the human mind. If I pushed too hard, there would be no way to retract the damage. Or estimate the extent of it. The procedures were fragile, a message, like many limiting ones, lost on Henry.

I enter the kitchenette to pour myself a cup of cleansing tea, an integral part of my morning ritual. An early start meant there would be no way to enjoy it all. It wasn't only for ritualistic purpose, but it served for optimizing bodily function. I would have to weather the strain and lately, I had been growing weaker.

I had collapsed a few times, exiting the building. One of the outdoor guards was obliged to report the incident to my supervisor, and Henry's involvement consequently resulted in an earful.

Carrying on with the routine, I leave the teabag in the steaming water and walk to room four at the end of the hallway. I notice a yellow tinge on the opposite wall, filing the detail away in my mind for investigation later.

I enter the room, heavy with the smell of the alcohol used for sanitizing surfaces. I'm surprised to see a male patient on the table, and one that is awake. I catch Henry's eye, and though his expression remains unchanged, the faint buzzing around him indicates it best if I hold my tongue.

"Mr. Delaney," Henry starts, "thank you so much for visiting us on such short notice. Your physician, Dr. Quelling, had called our office only yesterday and recommended that you see us urgently. This is our neurotherapist, Dr. Rivera."

I raise my eyebrows quizzically, but give a bright smile when the man looks my way. Slightly dazed, he shakes my free hand.

"Neurotherapist?" Delaney repeats.

"Dr. Rivera will be running point on the team that will assist with your care and complete your psychological evaluation," Henry explains smoothly, pulling a chair to sit opposite the man. The man nods, slowly. I take a seat in the lounge chair by the wall, setting my cup on the sill.

"I'll explain the procedure before Dr. Rivera's formal evaluation," Henry says. "It won't be but an hour before you're on your way."

"Procedure?" Delaney repeats again.