Ethel and the healer guide me through an entrance area where a woman sits at a desk. After telling her my name, she does something with a terminal in front of her. Eventually, she hands the healer some paperwork.
“Already an order, is this right?” the healer asks as he reads over the piece of paperwork.
“That’s what’s documented,” the woman behind the desk says with a shrug.
“Then I guess that’s what we do,” the healer says hesitantly as he takes the paperwork back. He glances at me briefly and then walks forward past the desk. Ethel presses on my shoulder to get me to follow.
The two of them guide me through a couple of hallways into a small room. There is a cot along the back and a small table with some drawers in the front corner. Ethel is holding my bag of items, and I note that she doesn’t offer it to me.
The healer hands me a folded pile of clothing and says, “Change into this. I’ll be back shortly.”
They leave before I can ask for my things.
I close my eyes and try to stop the tears that still fall, but it’s a useless endeavor. Instead, I do the only thing I can think of and follow the healer’s orders, stripping out of my clothes and changing into the items he gave me. It turns out to be a shapeless, grey, short-sleeved top and loose pants with a tie at the waist in the same color. In the absence of anything else to do, I fold my clothes neatly and then sit back on the cot with my hands folded in my lap.
When I look at my hands, I can’t help but rememberwielding the sword and the angel’s blood dripping onto the street in front of me.
Then the door opens, pulling me from the memory as the healer walks into the room. He sets something down on the small table. As he does so, he says, “Good, at least you follow orders.”
I look up at him, still trying to understand the circumstances I find myself in. He collects my items of clothing and puts them into a small bag.
“If you work hard, you will get these back at the end,” he says.
Then he sets the bag on the ground and picks up the items he set on the table and holds them out to me. They turn out to be a cup of water and a small, shallow dish with several pills on it. The pills are different shapes and colors, and I find myself staring at them without moving. Belatedly, I realize he’s speaking to me.
“Take the pills and swallow them,” he says.
The silence presses on as I continue to stare at the pills in the dish.
“Are you able to understand me?” He looks at me harder and takes a step closer to me.
I halt him by finally making myself take the pills, deposit them in my mouth, and swallow them with the cup of water. One pill sticks in my throat, and I swallow harder. He remains where he is, watching me until I manage to swallow it. Then he turns and walks through the door. When it closes behind him, I lie back on the bed, my knees bent and feet resting on the mattress. With nothing else to do, I look at the ceiling.
Slowly, the room begins to spin, and I feel as though there is movement at the edges of my vision. I eventually comprehend that it must be the pills. At least the tears stop, and the ugly feeling in my stomach goes away. As the room spins, I find it’seasier with my eyes closed, and with my body now relaxed, I fall into a restless but dreamless sleep.
When I wake, I’m not sure if I’m in a dream or not, as everything has a dreamlike quality. My ears ring, my vision is cloudy, and everything seems to move on its own.
The door opens, and I clench my eyes shut to keep from getting dizzy. I hear a voice but can’t understand what they’re saying. The noise of the voice stops, but there’s a hand wrapped around my arm pulling me up and dragging me out of the room.
It’s purely instinct that allows me to remain on my feet as the hand pulls me down a narrow space and into a larger open area. The larger room spinning undoes whatever control I have over my stomach, and I fall to my knees and vomit. The hand releases me, and I somehow identify disgust coming from whoever it belonged to.
I’m pulled up by my arm as soon as I stop vomiting and dragged to a soft surface, a couch, I think. I curl up on it, making myself as small as possible. I cling to the fabric covering it as I try not to get flung off the piece of furniture with the spinning of the room.
As time passes, the room continues to spin, but I begin to grow accustomed to it. I still curl in upon myself on the couch, but at times I’m able to open my eyes. The only thing that helps the nausea is keeping my eyes closed.
I note, fuzzily, that there must be others in this space. Sometimes voices are audible. Sometimes the voices are soft, sometimes loud, but I can rarely understand what they’re saying. I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they are coming from the other figures moving around in the room. Then again, I’m pretty sure the table in front of the couch moves regularly of its own accord, so anything could be true.
After some additional time passes, more pills are given to me. I try to resist swallowing them this time. I’m not sure how I’ll survive if the room continues spinning and the furniture keeps moving.
Instead of going away, though, two people roughly pin my arms to my sides and shove the pills in my mouth. They pour water down my throat while pinching my nose shut until I swallow. Tears slide down my cheeks.
A body leans against me, a mouth close to my ear. “Keep that up, and we’ll just inject it into you,” the voice says, and I choke down a sob.
More time passes, and I’m led,dragged,to a restroom. I relieve myself, clinging to the toilet to keep from falling. Then I’m brought to a room with a man in it who might be the healer who traveled here with me. He examines my leg and rewraps it in a fresh bandage. Then I’m taken to a small room that I vaguely recognize. I’m pushed flat onto a small, fairly soft surface. The lights go out, and I eventually lapse into a deep and yet restless sleep.
Then it all repeats.
The passage of time ceases to matter.
