Beyond the walls of sani.., p.6
Beyond the Walls of Sanity, page 6
Gerlacher cleaned his blade with a small piece of silk. Both the silk and the knife went back into his jacket. “What charity would you like to honor?” he asked.
“Humane Society,” you responded. The cats and dogs of the world were worth saving. Everything else . . .
He heaved himself out of his chair and left the room.
(no, that’s not how it happened)
Look. He forgot the switchblade . . .
If you picked it up, go to C-21.
If you left without taking it, go to C-23.
C-21
Knives are dangerous, especially in hands like yours.
You can almost here Dr. Nebuchenezzar saying this. He isn’t, though. You’re remembering this. He wasn’t there, when Gerlacher came to you about the PALM—WRI—54/q form. The good doctor wasn’t even a figment of your imagination then.
He’s more than a figment now, you think. Watching you. Knowing your every thought.
Do you remember Marylynn Velasquez? Dr. Nebuchenezzar asks suddenly. He’s so close; it’s like he is in your head. You thought you could trust her. You thought she wanted the same thing you did. And it turned out that what she really wanted was to talk you into doing a threesome with Larry Tollisson.
As if Larry would respect her more afterward, you think. What a stupid girl.
When you said no—because: ew, right?—she told stories about you. Word got around. Rumors started. People started to stare. Some even talked behind your back, whispering amongst themselves. Thinking you couldn’t hear them.
But you could, didn’t you? That was one of the first tricks you learned.
And Marylynn? Fortunately, her daddy was a plastic surgeon. He fixed the scars on the outside, but he couldn’t do anything about the ones on the inside. She hid them from him, of course, desperate to be a dutiful and respectful daughter. Oh, but you you and everyone else knew otherwise, didn’t you?
It’s been a long time since you’d held a knife like this. Knives are always useful later, you told yourself.
As if you needed an excuse, Dr. Nebuchenezzar writes in his notebook.
You don’t see his note until later, but he’s writing it now, his pen going scritsch scritsch.
You turn away from the table—the one in your memory, the one that is almost more real now than the therapist’s office—and approach the door. It’s a plain door. Off-white. It looks like it came off an assembly line that spits out a couple hundred doors an hour. How many doors could a factory make in a year? you wonder. In ten years? Forget unexplored places on maps. Doors will connect every place anyone could ever want to go. You’ll never be lost again.
That’s a joke, by the way. There will always be a way to get lost. Like now, for instance. Given the way your brain is fragmenting.
Where were you going? Oh, yes, back to Dr. Nebuchenezzar’s. There’s unfinished business to attend to.
Go to C-24.
There’s something you need to do, isn’t there? No, not that. That will come later. Something you need to do right now, before this gets totally out of hand.
Go to C-26.
C-22
“Of course it is all lies,” Dr. Nebs says. “This is the Night Office, after all. They don’t want you to know the truth, because they fear it will destroy your mind.”
“Even more than that time when I had to face that Mind Ripper from Outer Carpagenia?”
“Even more so than that time, yes.”
“That thing almost convinced me that the Night Office was secretly trying to enslave humanity.”
Dr. Nebs takes too long to nod in agreement.
“Are they?” you ask.
“Are who?”
“The Night Office.”
“What about them?”
“Are they actually enslaving the human race?”
Dr. Nebs shrugs. “I only know what you know.”
“And what I suspect.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to mention that, because it would be unprofessional of me to have such an . . . unsubstantiated opinion.”
“Is that part of what this assessment is all about? Are they checking to see if I’m becoming . . . a liability?”
“Have you been co-opted by a shoggoth?”
“No.”
“Then you aren’t a liability.”
“What if I don’t believe the bullshit they tell me?”
“Don’t let it get in the way of doing your job, is the best advice I can give you in that regard.”
“That’s helpful.”
He offers you a pleasant smile. “Thank you. I’m trying to be helpful.”
“I mean, I made you up, so I would expect you to be helpful—”
He starts to say something and then stops.
“What?” you ask.
“Actually, your psychological profile suggests that you would be more inclined to create a therapeutic personality that was antagonistic. In fact, the Night Office suggests that course of action.”
“Do they?”
“They do.”
“So if I was doing this right, I’d be doing what they want.”
“If you want to look at it that way, yes.”
“By making you all helpful and shit, I’m actually being a rebel.”
“While that may be satisfying, that might not be the best option.”
“What is the best option?” you ask.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Yes, I do,” you say. “I need to trust someone.”
Go to C-76.
“No,” you say. “I think you are trying to confuse me.”
Go to C-84.
C-23
“I’m surprised,” Dr. Nebs says when you open your eyes. “I had expected you to take the knife.”
“No,” you say, careful to not show any emotion. “Why would I take the knife?”
He studies you. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Probably,” you reply. You do wonder much you can hide fro yourself.
He gives you a knowing smile—a cold smile. “We’ll come back to that,” he says, making a note. “How about we talk about your feelings instead?”
“Sure. Let’s do that.”
“Do you have a pet?”
“No,” you say.
He taps his pen against his journal. “Don’t be rude,” he says.
“What?”
“I know when you are lying?”
“Regardless, that’s not a topic I want to talk about.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“It’s private.” You focus on the picture you have at your desk. The one-eyed cat. The one everyone asks about. You always tell the same lie. “Of course you do,” Dr. Nebs says. “You have to maintain the illlusion. You have to make it real by saying over and over.”
“Some like that.”
“What about her? Did you tell the same lies about her?”
“Who?”
“Her.” Dr. Nebs puts enough emphasis on the word that there is no mistake about who he is talking about. “Are the two of you still . . . ?”
“We’re fine,” you say.
Go to C-88.
“Nothing lasts in this business,” you say. “Especially relationships.”
Go to C-90.
C-24
“This is unexpected,” Dr. Nebs says when you stride into his office. He’s sitting in his leather chair, like he does when he has patients, but there’s no one—
(flash of movement out of the corner of your eye; was that someone leaping out the window?)
—in session with him right now.
“I had to see you,” you say. You go over to the couch and examine the windows. They are all closed and locked. For some reason, the glass is highly reflective, and you see the room more readily than you can see outside. You look at—
(was it a reflection you saw?)
—and then turn away. You don’t like what you see. There is madness in those eyes.
“Why don’t you sit down,” Dr. Nebs says. His hands are folded over his notebook and fountain pen. He doesn’t seem terribly concerned. It’s almost as if he is accustomed to these spontaneous interruptions. “Tell me what is bothering you,” he says. “I’m listening.”
“I’m losing my mind,” you say.
He raises an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are experiencing some reality that is quantifiably different than your normal reality,” he says. “There is something strange about the world, but you can’t quite articulate it. It makes you uneasy. Makes you question everything. Makes you wonder what you are missing.”
“What am I missing, Doc?” you ask.
He lifts his shoulders. “It’s not my place to say,” he says. “I am merely a witness. I am not a participant.”
“You can’t—or won’t—make changes,” you say.
He shakes his head. “These sessions are about you. Not me. I record your observations. I do not judge. I do not offer interpretation.”
“But that’s not what you write in your notebook,” you say.
His lips tighten to a firm line. “My notebook is not for you,” he says.
“Maybe it should be,” you say.
You remember the knife, and you take it out of your pocket. It’s a metal case with a small stud at one end. When you touch the stud, the blade springs out.
If he is concerned about the knife, he doesn’t show it. You imagine you aren’t the first patient to threaten their therapist with violence. He regards you calmly, waiting for you to make the next move.
Stab him already! He’s waiting for you to do it!
Go to C-27.
Sense the calm radiating from him. You don’t want to hurt anyone. You just want to understand what is happening.
Go to C-29.
C-25
“Alison Cambrie. You remember her, don’t you?”
That bitch teased you mercilessly in high school. She was part of the cheer squad. Dated that guy on the basketball team. What was his name—well, it doesn’t matter. She sat behind you in that one history class. Western Civilization. Taught by Mr. Hurley. He was a spineless one, wasn’t he? His hands were always sweaty, and he always lingered in your row when he was handing back papers. It wasn’t you. No, you were always buttoned up, collar pressing against your neck.
It was Alison. Tight sweaters. Short skirts. That Alison.
She liked calling you names. She and her friends, all gathered around their lockers at the end of the hall. You had to go past them after History, and no matter how you tried to slink past, hiding behind gaggles of underclassmen, she would spot you. Her catcalls would chase you down the hall, your face burning with embarrassment.
She knew.
She had caught you looking at her during home games. You didn’t care about basketball. You barely understood the rules. But you never missed a game, did you? You were always there, high in the bleachers where no one would notice you. Where you could watch the cheer squad. Where you could watch Alison, in her tight school sweater and her short skirt.
And then, that night after a game where the team had been trounced rather fiercely by your biggest competitor, you had seen Alison and whatshisname arguing. It was late; it had been raining. He was angry about something, and he hadn’t brought the car around to the gymnasium door, forcing her to walk across the lot. Her hair was wet, clinging to her face and neck. Her eyes were bright.
He was shouting at her, and when he put his hand on her arm, she tried to pull herself free. He wasn’t happy about that. He grabbed her harder. She struggled. He pulled her toward his car. You don’t remember what happened next, or you didn’t see what happened because you were getting out of your car.
You remember the sound of the rain on the hood of the car. You remember the distant shush of traffic on the main road. You remember the gleaming whiteness of his skin, in the sodium glow of the lonely parking lot light. You remember the sound of her crying.
And you remember your hands, tight around the cold handle of your switchblade. Ah, you shouldn’t have brought the knife with you. You knew better. But some deep animalistic reason told you to bring it to the game.
Later, when the police got involved, the story slipped out of your control. He said you had attacked both of them. That you wanted to steal Alison’s necklace—the one he had given her not three weeks earlier. That you wanted to humiliate him. That was why you had threatened him. Why you had taken the necklace.
The necklace was nothing more than a tiny silver chain with a little silver cross on the end of it. He said you wanted a trophy. Something of hers.
What did he know about totems and trophies. Dumb fuck.
But still, you said nothing, and Alison said nothing, and so it was his story that went on the record.
You missed the rest of the semester, and when you were allowed to come back to the school, she wasn’t there any more. Different school. Different state. It didn’t matter. She was gone.
He remained. Even more of an asshole after that. After he saw how much power he had over you.
A year later, he slapped another girl.
You took the little finger of his off-hand. You weren’t cruel. He was a star player after all.
Now that was a trophy.
“Yeah,” you say to Dr. Nebs. “I remember Alison Cambrie.”
“Good,” he says. He scribbles in his notebook. “I was worried you weren’t yourself.” He smiles at you. “Space jellies have a hard time retaining host memories.”
“Of course,” you say, feeling a little flustered.
“Now, let’s talk about the rest of your team. How did you feel about them during the mission?”
“Do you mean: did I like them?”
Go to C-31.
“Are you asking me if they were space jellies?”
Go to C-43.
C-26
The tiny bell jangles as you push open the door of the bookstore. You pause on the threshold. Behind you, the street is already fading into a fog that is too perfect to be real. Your mind is letting the past slip away.
It’s okay. You can’t go back anyway.
You enter the bookstore, and the bell jangles again as the door swings shut. There’s something about that sound that tickles the back of your head. Are you forgetting something?
(what did you do during that last mission?)
The bookstore is as you remember it: warm, cozy, and filled with books. Mr. Fish is curled up in his basket. He looks half-asleep, but you know he is watching you.
There’s no sign of the proprietor, but you know he’s in the stacks somewhere. He’s not worried someone will come into the shop and try to steal a book or rob the cash register. For one thing, there’s no cash in the drawer.
Mr. Fish is all the security the store needs, anyway.
You wander over to the display case near the counter and rub your thumb against Mr. Fish’s side. He yawns, showing a pink tongue and lots of sharp teeth.
The bookstore owner shuffles out from the stacks of books. He looks like a nattily dressed antiquarian. His glasses hang on a gaudy chain of tacky jewelry, and his hair is spectacularly windswept, which is a bit of a trick given he never leaves the store. He is carrying a tray with a teapot and two china cups.
“Ah, hello,” he says brightly. “You are just in time.”
Of course you are. This is how it always is with bookstores.
He sets the tray down on the counter and deftly pours tea. He offers you a cup and picks up the other. He blows on the tea for a moment and then sips noisily.
You follow suit. It’s Lambent Sunrise, of course. Nothing too stringent or bitter. Just warm comfort.
“What can I help you find today?” He asks.
You put your hands in your pockets as you try to figure out where to start. There’s something in your right hand pocket. You take it out and put it on the counter.
It’s a switchblade knife.
He sips at his tea again.
“I’m a little concerned that I am carrying this around,” you admit. “I thought that was all well behind me.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not sure I’m on the right path.”
The twitch is deeper this time, and there’s a hint of something in his gaze as he regards you. Disappointment? Sorrow? Resignation? It’s hard to tell, and you’re probably projecting anyway.
“Where did you get it?” he asks.
You show him your hand. Look. There. A smear of blood on your index finger.
“Ah,” he says. “You’ve picked a side.”
“It would appear I have,” you say.
“The right one?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “Not yet.”
“Are you going to disappoint them?”
You put your tea cup down. “What if they disappoint me?”
He shakes his head. “They undoubtedly will,” he says.
“That’s not helping,” you say.
Mr. Fish makes a noise in his chest.
The bookstore owner puts his hand down and quiets Mr Fish. The old man sags for a moment, as if the weight of his cardigan is suddenly too much to bear. But he catches himself and finds a smile that will fit on his face. “It would seem as some time has passed since I last saw you,” he says. “Your hair is different.”
“I’m growing it out,” you say. You don’t bother to mention why. The official explanation of what happened in Carrisbane was an unfortunate explosion at the fertilizer plant south of town. The local population had been evacuated, and Heavy Battery had burned everything down to bedrock.
