Title: Thomas
Author: Susan
E-mail: touchstone98@tx.rr.com
Classification: story
Keyword: angst
Rating: PG
Archive: No archive without permission.
Disclaimer: Some of these characters are mine.
Some aren't. It's that simple.

Notes: When I began writing this story way back
at the beginning of 2004, I was obsessed with 
the ideas I had for it and thought I would have 
no problem writing it to its completion. Little 
did I know I would then experience a massive 
writer's block that would last for several years. 
For those of you that first started reading this 
story six years ago, I apologize for taking so 
long to delve back into Thomas's world. I can 
only hope that you find your trip there as 
intriguing as I did.:)

More author's notes and thoughts at the end.

Summary: Somewhere, someone misses me. I know it.
*****************************************************

Thomas 
by Susan
~~~~

one--



My name is Thomas.

No middle or last name, just Thomas.

In truth, I'm sure it's something else, but it's
what they call me here.

When I first opened my eyes and found myself lying 
in this bed, not only couldn't I tell anyone who 
I was, but they couldn't tell me who I was either.

I was told that I had no identification on me and 
that I matched none of the current missing persons 
records on file from the past six months.

I was also told that both my legs were badly injured 
and the chance that I would be able to walk again 
without limping was slim.

I refuse to believe any of it.

I've never given up on anything in my life, (at 
least I don't think I have) and I refuse to give 
up on the chance that I'll regain my memory and 
that I'll eventually be able to walk out of here 
on my own.

I also refuse to believe that there isn't someone 
out there frantically looking for me right now.

Somewhere, someone misses me.

I know it.

~~~~

I remember very little about that first day.

There were lots of voices and beeping monitors 
and needles.
Needles in my arms, the backs of my hands, and 
even on the soles of my feet.  It seemed like 
the nurses were poking me with those damn needles 
every hour on the hour that first day.

I don't remember anything the doctors did to my 
legs that day nor do I remember how they got 
damaged so badly in the first place.

And I still don't.

Part of me wants to know who (or what) could do
this to me, and then there's the other part.

The part that never wants to know.

~~~~

I don't remember much about the second day either.

I remember throwing up and being rolled over onto
my side by two nurses so they could clean both me
and my bed.

I remember one of the nurses holding my head up 
and putting a straw in my mouth so I could take 
a sip of water, then asking me if I knew what my
name was.

And I remember crying when I couldn't tell her.

I don't want to remember anything else.

~~~~

It's been a week since I've been in here now, and 
though I still remember very little about the past 
seven days or the days previous to them, I have 
taken comfort in the fact that I am now able to 
sit up in bed long enough each day to write in 
this journal.

When I first asked my nurse Allie to bring me a 
pen and some paper to write on, she was concerned 
about me overexerting myself, but apparently I 
can be very persuasive when I want to be because 
the next day when her shift started not only did 
she bring me a pen, but she gave me a 100-page 
spiral notebook as well.

I already know it won't be enough.

~~~~

"Hey there, Thomas. How you doin' this morning?" 
asks Allie, a smile on her face as she walks over 
to my bed.

"You don't look so hot. Rough night?" She starts
her usual pulse check, and I do my usual wincing 
the moment her cold fingers touch my skin.

"You could say that," I reply, anxious for her 
to be done.  As kind as she is, I don't like 
anyone touching me.

She smiles at me again and finishes checking my
pulse, then writes it down on my chart. "Did you 
remember something?" she asks hopefully.

She asks me the same question every morning, and 
every morning I answer her the same way. "No," I 
mutter, wishing that I could say something more.

"Well, you will," she says with certainty, sticking 
a thermometer in my mouth.

'But how do you know?' I want to ask her. 'How do 
you know I'll remember something? You don't even 
know me. *I* don't even know me.'

"I've taken care of many patients with memory 
loss, and many of them were eventually able to 
remember things, not all at once, but gradually...
and you will too," she says reassuringly.  

Allie checks my IV bag, picks up my chart again, 
then takes the thermometer out of my mouth. "99.3. 
Not bad," she comments, recording it on my chart. 
"It's finally coming down. This is good news, 
Thomas."

I nod my head politely at her declaration, but 
I don't consider it good news. 

Good news would be figuring out what the hell 
happened to me and then making the person or 
persons responsible pay for what they did.

Good news would be hearing Dr. Adams tell me 
that I'll be able to get out of this bed and 
walk out of this hospital by the end of the 
week.

Good news would be having someone tell me who 
I am.

"Everything looks okay, Thomas," she declares, 
breaking me out of depressing reverie. "I won't
be checking on you again for awhile if you want 
to try to go back to sleep. Is there something 
I can get for you before I leave?"

Yeah Allie, there's something you can get me.

How about a life?

~~~~

I just took a two-hour nap.

I know it's not much, but it's the most 
uninterrupted sleep I've had since I've been 
here...plus I didn't have any of those awful 
dreams that I've been having almost every day.

I wonder what they mean.

The thing is, I can remember that they scare 
me, and I can remember that in every dream 
someone is doing something to hurt me.

I just can't remember any of the details.

Dr. Adams suggested that I talk to one of the 
psychologists they have on staff here, but I'm 
not sure I want to trust someone with my feelings.

What if after talking to someone, I learn something 
about myself that I don't want to know?

What if I'm not who I think I am?

~~~~

It's dinnertime now, and I should be eating, but 
for some reason I can't seem to take my eyes off 
the TV screen. The ABC News is on, and I have the 
strangest feeling that I've done this before.

I'm not exactly sure what I've done, but sitting
here watching this man report the news seems 
familiar to me.

And it feels comfortable, like I've been doing it 
for years.

Is it possible?

Is it possible that my memory is starting to fight 
its way back to the surface, or is my imagination 
playing a cruel trick on me?

No, it has to be real.

The feeling is too strong, the pull too great.

Picking up the call button, I press it several 
times and anxiously wait for one of the nurses 
to come in.

Less than a minute later, one of them does. It's 
Paula, one of the older nurses who's taken care 
of me a few times.

"What is it, Thomas? Is everything okay?" she asks, 
her eyes quickly scanning my IV, the position of 
my legs, the monitor on the left side of my bed.

I sit up straighter in bed, look up at the 
familiar face of the newscaster that's speaking, 
then excitedly reply, "I think I remember something."

~~~~

Last night I remembered three things about myself.

I watch the ABC News while I eat my dinner.  I 
usually sit on the couch while I'm eating. I like 
Chinese food.

I know it's not much, but it's something.

It's something...

~~~~

"So Thomas, are you ready for your first physical
therapy session this morning?" asks Cindy, another 
one of my regular nurses.  She sets down a fresh
pitcher of ice water on my tray, then puts her
fingers on my wrist to take my pulse. 

*Am* I ready?

I know I'm anxious to get out of this bed and 
get my upper body moving. Moving my legs is a 
different story.

Dr. Adams told me that not only were my kneecaps 
broken and fitted with replacements, but several 
tendons around both my knees and ankles were torn 
as well, making it pretty much impossible for me 
to move without being in agony.

Still, if I'm going to get better, I have to move.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I reply, though
part of me is scared to death of how much it's
going to hurt.

Cindy writes down what my pulse is on the chart,
then slips the cuff on my arm to check my blood
pressure. "My friend Mark works down in PT, and 
I know he'll be easy on you," she says reassuringly, 
sensing my apprehension. "But not too easy," she 
adds with a smile as she takes the cuff off and 
writes down the numbers.

I manage to smile back, but it's only a half-
hearted one.

"Someone should be by to pick you up in about 
fifteen minutes," she states, lifting up my sheets 
and checking the circulation in my legs. Both my 
knees are heavily wrapped in bandages, and I also 
have on some special socks. They look funny on me, 
but they're supposed to keep me from getting blood 
clots in my legs so I'm not complaining.

"Okay," I say, still not sure how I feel about 
what's about to happen.

"I'll check on you when you come back from therapy," 
says Cindy, gently patting my right leg.

I nod, but say nothing.

I'm too busy bracing myself for the pain about to 
come.

~~~~

I feel like hell. I probably look like it too, 
after what I've just been put through. My 
therapist gave me only two exercises to do, but 
it took me nearly an hour to do them, and the 
pain was so excruciating I almost passed out, 
which is why I don't have much else to say about 
it right now.

God, I hate this.

How am I ever going to find the strength and the
willpower to make my legs work again?

And how am I possibly going to do it by myself?

I don't know. I just don't know...

~~~~

This afternoon while I was eating my lunch, it 
suddenly occurred to me that I've been in here
over a week now, and no one's come to ask me 
about medical insurance or how I'm going to pay 
for my hospital bill.

It's not like I'm some rich celebrity or the 
mysterious heir to some family fortune who can
just whip out a check for a few grand and think
nothing of it.

Or am I?

Is it possible that I'm somebody famous who was 
in a terrible accident, and now my lawyer wants 
to keep both my identity and the circumstances 
surrounding the accident hidden from the public?

Is that why no one's come to see me? Because 
this is all supposed to be kept quiet for some 
reason?

No, that doesn't make sense.

Then again, this whole thing doesn't make any 
sense.

Will it ever?

~~~~

I just finished counting up the pages that I've 
written in this notebook since Allie gave it to 
me.

It's twenty-five.  

Twenty-five pages of my thoughts, my emotions, 
my speculations.

Twenty-five pages directly responsible for helping 
me keep my sanity since I've been in here.

I've got to admit it feels kind of strange though. 
I know the THOUGHTS are mine, and yet the WORDS 
look like they're written by a complete stranger.

The way the letters are formed, the way I write 
my r's and the loops on the bottom of my y's. 
The words just don't look right, and yet I can 
actually see my hand writing them.

I wonder if maybe I kept a journal before. It 
feels like I have, which in and of itself is also 
kind of strange because most men don't keep 
journals, and if they do, it's usually to keep a 
record or a log of important events for work, not 
to write about their thoughts and emotions.

I wonder if my job requires me to keep a journal 
of certain events, and if it does, what kind of 
job is it? 

Based on the randomness of what I've written in 
this notebook so far, I think it's safe to say 
that I'm not a professional writer.

~~~~

It's almost dinnertime again. I wonder what 
they'll serve me tonight.

And I wonder if while I'm sitting here eating 
it, I'll remember something else about who I am.

Sometimes right before I go to sleep, I'll see 
these flashes of various scenes in my head, but 
then when I close my eyes and try to concentrate 
on them harder, they disappear.

Then again, maybe that's why the images never 
become clearer. 

I'm trying too hard to *make* them appear when 
in actuality I should just *let* them come to 
the surface when they're ready to.

Of course, I'm not even sure it's plausible for
a person to manipulate their mind like that, but
something in my gut is telling me that it is and
that if I let my memories come back naturally
instead of trying to force them, they'll come 
back faster.

Tonight when I fall asleep, I think I'm going to 
try to find out.

~~~~

I'm in a room.

Not a hospital room, but a sterile one. Four white 
walls with a table, door, and window.  

I feel cold and uncomfortable, and it is then that 
I realize that I have nothing on except a small 
white towel draped over my waist.

And it is then that I remember.

I know this place.

I know this room and this smell and this feeling.

Pain.

Excruciating pain.

~~~~

I'm in another room now.

It's where They take me after the tests and 
pretend to care about me.

A woman is stroking my head, her long fingers 
poking through my hair as if she's never felt 
anything like it before.

Looking up at her expressionless eyes, watching 
her touch me, I feel like I want to throw up.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe 
instead.

~~~~

The room I'm in this time is dark.

Though it's so dark I can't see anything around 
me, I know it's a different room than the other 
two.

I feel a fan blowing air on me from above as well 
as fans on both sides of me, and yet I don't feel 
cold.

I just feel alone.

I open my mouth to call for help, but my throat
is so thick, my tongue so raw, that I can't say
anything.

All I can do is wait for light to come.

~~~~

When I open my eyes, I immediately recognize the 
room I'm in. Rolling over on my side, I look up 
at the clock and see that it's a little after 
2:00 a.m.

And I remember.

I was dreaming before, and yet I don't think they 
were dreams at all. 

The rooms, the pain, the woman with the strange
fingers...it was all real, I'm certain of it.

But how could that be? Why would I be in such an 
awful place?

And even more importantly, WHO brought me there?

The sound of my door opening suddenly startles 
me from my thoughts, and I blink several times, 
trying to get my eyes to focus in the dark.

Laura, the nurse who's been taking care of me 
during the night shift this week, walks over to 
my bed and turns up the brightness switch on the 
light behind my bed. "Having trouble sleeping 
tonight, Thomas?" she asks.

I've had trouble sleeping *every* night since 
I've been here, I want to tell her, but instead 
I just nod my head.

"You look a little warm," she comments, lightly
placing her palm on my forehead. "You feel warm 
too. I think you might be running a slight fever."

"I am?" I say, so consumed with the dreams I just 
had that I hadn't even noticed the fact that my 
entire body was now covered in a thin layer of 
sweat.

"It looks that way," she says, sliding a thermometer 
into my mouth, then going into the bathroom.  

When she comes out, she has a damp washcloth in 
her hand. She softly pats it on my forehead, my 
cheeks, then on both sides of my neck.  After 
that, she removes the thermometer from my mouth 
and looks at it.

"101.2," she declares, setting down both the wash 
cloth and the thermometer so she can write down 
the numbers on my chart.

My head feels fuzzy, my ears clogged as I pull 
myself up into a more upright position so she 
can check me out. Once I'm situated, I straighten 
the sheets over my legs, then let my head flop 
back against the pillow.

"Seriously, what's goin' on, Thomas?" asks Laura, 
continuing her nightly check of my blood pressure, 
my bandages, my pulse. "Anything you want to talk 
about?"

Looking up into her soft compassionate eyes, I 
feel like I want to tell her everything.  

I want to tell her that I was in a place where 
pain was all I knew. I want to tell her that I 
hated the place and the people in it. I want to 
tell her how they violated me and how alone I 
felt.

But I can't.

I can't tell her something that I'm not completely 
sure of.

All I can tell her is what I know.

"I can't talk about it," I softly reply as I 
swallow the pill she gives me, then wash it down 
with a small cup of water. "I mean, I want to...
it's just that all the pieces aren't there yet, 
you know?"

"I know, but they will be," she says reassuringly, 
leaning over me again, adjusting the pillow behind 
my back. "It's just going to take time, Thomas."

Time.

God, I'm beginning to hate that word. Whenever
anyone ever talks to me, that's all they say. 
The doctors, the nurses, the physical therapist, 
the psychologist...they all tell me it's going 
to take time.

But how much time?

When will I be me again?

"I'm sure you probably get tired of hearing that,
but it's true. You've been through something that
your mind can't quite remember and understand yet, 
but it will," she says confidently.

"I hope you're right," I whisper.

"I've seen a lot of things happen since I started
working here, a lot of them things I never thought
possible...so yes, I believe I am," she says with
a smile as she clicks the light switch and darkens
my room again.

Helping me lower myself back down into the bed,
Laura feels my forehead a second time, her fingers 
briefly touching my hair before she takes her 
hand away again.

It's such a simple thing, and yet I suddenly feel
overwhelmed by it.

Having someone touch me, care for me. 

Listen to me.

I look up at her and bite my lip. "Thank you for
taking care of me," I say quietly, hoping that 
it's dark enough so that she can't see the tears 
beginning to pool in my eyes.

She smiles and gently pats my leg, then heads 
towards the door. "Get some rest, and I'll be back 
to check on you again in an hour," she says as she 
shuts the door. 

Wiping the dampness away from beneath my eyes, I 
reach down and touch my damaged legs, and think 
about what she said.

Could she be right about my mind simply not being 
ready to remember everything yet?

Maybe, but if that's true, how much longer will 
I have to wait?

The medication in my system making me too drowsy 
now to think about anything more than that, I 
close my eyes and let the quiet ticking of the 
clock lull me back to sleep.

--------------------------------------------------

two--


"Good morning, Thomas.  Feeling better?" asks 
Laura, her voice and her demeanor entirely too 
cheerful for me this early in the morning. 
 
"Better than what?" I grumble, rubbing my eyes. 
 
Ignoring my gruff response, she puts her hand on 
my forehead. "Much better," she says, taking her 
hand away. "It feels like your fever's gone...
and you look better too." She puts a thermometer 
in my mouth. "Were you able to get much sleep at 
all?" 

I nod my head. 
 
"When I checked on you around 4:00, you were out,  
and then when I checked you again at 6:00 you 
were still asleep so I know you got at least two 
good hours of rest," she says with a smile.  She 
takes hold of my wrist so she can check my pulse.  
"You know, sleep is the best thing for you right 
now. The more rest you get, the faster your body 
will heal." 
 
No, the best thing for me right now is to find
out who the hell I am, I think as I watch her 
press her thumb down into my skin. 
 
A minute later she writes down what my pulse is 
and takes the thermometer out of my mouth. "98.8...
much better," she remarks. "So, it says here on 
your chart that you have therapy this morning at 
9:00," she says as she pulls the sheets off my 
legs and checks my bandages. "How's that going 
for you so far? Do you feel like you're making 
any progress?" 
 
Why are you asking me all these questions? Can't 
you see I don't feel like talking right now? 
That's how I want to answer her, but I don't, 
instead replying with a simple, "It's hard." 
 
"It's also necessary. If you don't get up and 
move, you're only going to make things worse." 
 
I let out a sigh. "I know that. It's just that... 
it's just that it's really hard when you don't 
have someb..." 
 
I look away from her then, stopping myself before 
I give away too much. 
 
"It's okay to say it," she says, taking a step 
closer to my bed. "It's hard when you don't have 
a strong support system to help you."

It's damn near impossible, I think as I look up 
at her kind face.

She's an older woman with a blunt haircut, blue
eyes, and just the right amount of character 
lines on her face.

"But you're not really alone, Thomas. Everyone 
here wants to help you in any way we can," she 
adds.

"I know that."

And that's about the only thing I know at this
point.

Ten days here, and no one's come here looking 
for me. No one's contacted the hospital. No one's 
reported me missing or posted pictures of me on 
the internet.

No one.

Sensing my discomfort, she says, "You can't give 
up, not when you've come this far. You have to 
believe that you're going to get better and that 
there's someone out there who cares about you 
and is trying their damnedest to find you."

I want to believe you, Laura. I want to believe
there's someone out there right now, worrying
about me and doing whatever it takes to find out 
where I am.

I want to believe so many things...

"I hope so," I say softly.

She picks up my chart and starts heading for the 
door, then turns around to look at me. "If you 
need anything, we're here to help you, Thomas. 
Remember that," she says with a reassuring nod.

I nod back, but say nothing.

~~~~
 
Another morning of hell in PT, but unlike the 
other times, today I feel like I actually 
accomplished something.

They put me on a bike and had me move my legs 
back and forth using the pedals for five minutes, 
and I actually did it without passing out from 
the pain.

I know it's not much, but it's more than I did
yesterday.

Maybe today won't be as bad as I thought it was
going to be.

~~~~

Allie brought me down here to the sunroom about 
fifteen minutes ago, and although it's hard to 
watch the other patients visiting with their 
families and friends, I have to admit it feels 
good to be around other people.

I have a sense that I'm a loner and don't mind
spending time alone, and yet ever since I've 
been here I've longed for someone to talk to.

I also get the sense that I'm a voracious reader,
although there's not a whole lot here for me to
read. The collection of books they have on their
book cart is primarily fictional, while I prefer 
to read nonfiction.

At least I think I do anyway.

I just finished reading a worn out copy of Carl 
Sagan's book "Cosmos", and I couldn't seem to 
read it fast enough.

His photographs, his scientific and philosophical 
theories, the poetic nature of his words...they 
really spoke to me.

And what he said about the possibility of other 
civilizations in outer space was absolutely
fascinating.

Is it really plausible that there's intelligent 
life on any of the other planets, and if so, 
*how* is it possible?

I wonder...

"You doing okay in here, Thomas?" asks Allie, 
interrupting my philosophical thoughts as she 
walks up behind me.

"I'm fine," I reply, my eyes catching sight of 
what's going on outside the window. 

"I'm going to need to take you back to your room 
in about fifteen minutes."

"I don't suppose I could stay a little longer,"
I suggest hopefully, my attention now focused 
on the boys playing basketball at the park 
across the street.

She smiles. "Okay, twenty minutes, but that's 
it. It'll be time for dinner soon," she says, 
checking on another patient in here, then 
leaving.

I turn my wheelchair more to the left and watch 
one of the boys make a great spin move, then 
shoot a perfect jumper, and as he goes around 
collecting high fives from his teammates, it 
suddenly occurs to me that I've seen this before.

Hell, I've *done* this before.

Pick-up games at the playground in the afternoon, 
shooting hoops until dark, then rushing home just 
in time for dinner.

And I'm pretty sure I was on a team too, although 
I don't remember what position I played.

I wheel myself even closer to the window and watch  
them play some more, when all of a sudden I get a
flash of something else.

Squeaky shoes scuffing the floor as I make a long 
range shot at the buzzer, everyone patting me on
the back, smiling so much my jaw hurt... 

But unfortunately, just as quickly as the memory
comes, it's gone again, leaving me with only a
glimpse of what my life once was.

Brushing my fingers over my thickly bandaged legs, 
I close my eyes and try to remember more, but all 
I see is darkness.

And all I feel is empty.

~~~~

I just finished eating dinner, and for the first 
time since I've been here, I actually enjoyed it.  
I'm not sure why the turkey sandwich and even the 
green jello tasted so good to me, considering 
the fact that I feel as much like shit today as 
I have all the other days I've been stuck here, 
but it did.

Maybe it's because I was so hungry after doing 
PT twice and spending the afternoon in someplace 
other than my room, or maybe it's because it was 
actually something that I like to eat.

In either case, I ate everything on my plate, and 
I'm still hungry. I could really use something 
salty right now, although I know that's the last 
thing I need to be eating.

Still, I'd give anything for a bag of potato chips 
to munch on.

I got Allie to bring me a spiral notebook before.  
Maybe I can get her to smuggle in a small bag of 
barbequed chips for me later.

~~~~

Two hours later, Allie comes into my room, a bag 
in her hand, but it's not what I was hoping for.

Inside it is another notebook, a 250-page one.

"I thought you'd be needing another one of these 
soon," she says, handing it to me.

"Thanks, but I was hoping for something saltier 
with a little less fiber in it," I say dryly.

"Ah, I see you've got your sense of humor back. 
You must be feeling better," she declares, a 
smile crossing her face. She reaches down and 
takes hold of my wrist to check my pulse.

I got my sense of humor back? I didn't even know 
I had one to begin with.

"My sense of humor?" I ask hopefully, wondering 
what she knows about me that I don't know.

"Yeah, I'd say you've got a pretty good one, at 
least you did have several days ago anyway."

"Oh? What happened several days ago?" I ask, 
trying not to sound too anxious.

She writes on my chart, then puts the cuff around 
my arm to check my blood pressure. "Let's just 
say you're an interesting guy when you're on 
Vicadin," she replies with a wink as she watches 
the cuff fill with air. 

My mind immediately goes into overdrive then, 
wondering what she means by 'interesting'.

What if I said something stupid to the nurses or 
one of my doctors?

Or even worse than that, what if I said something
to them about the dreams I've been having?

"Relax Thomas, you haven't said or done anything
inappropriate since you've been here. In fact, 
you've been a real gentleman...which is probably 
why you're so popular with the nurses," she 
teases, the creases around her eyes deepening as 
she smiles at me.

She removes the cuff, places it back in its holder
and writes on my chart again. Seeing the worried
expression on my face, she steps closer to my bed
and adds, "Seriously though, we like you, and we
want to help you in any way that we can so that 
you can get out of here and back to your family.   
I'm sure they miss you very much and are going 
crazy trying to find you."

Her kind words touch me in a way I wasn't 
expecting, and I stare down at the sheets on my 
bed, not wanting her to see the look in my eyes.

"Have you remembered anything more about who you 
are or where you're from?"

Well, let's see... I like turkey sandwiches and 
barbequed potato chips. I played basketball when 
I was a kid and enjoy reading nonfiction books, 
and apparently I also have a good sense of humor, 
though I still have no concrete evidence from her
to suggest that it's true.

"I remember a few more things," I answer, my head
still down, "but nothing about where I might be 
from."

"Look, I know you've heard this before and you'll
probably hear it again, but your memories are 
going to come back to you. It may be a little at 
a time or it may be that you just wake up one 
morning and remember everything, but you'll get 
them back, Thomas," she says quietly, patting my 
arm, then leaving to go check on another patient.

She's right. I *have* heard it over and over again, 
and quite frankly, I'm getting damn sick of it.

Yes, I appreciate all the help everyone here has 
given me. Yes, I'm grateful for the wonderful 
medical care I've gotten since I've been here.

And yes, I think all the doctors and nurses are 
right about me remembering everything.

But when?

When can I finally stop wondering and start living 
again?

~~~~

My mouth is dry.

I lick my lips, and they're dry too and cracked 
in several places. I lick them again, but this 
time I feel the skin on my bottom lip split apart, 
and I taste blood.

I try to bring my hand up to my mouth to wipe the 
bitter taste away, but my wrist is strapped down.  
No, it's held down with a metal clamp, along with 
my other wrist and both my ankles.

And standing above me is a woman, a familiar woman. 

She's leaning over me, poking her long fingers 
through my hair again, and I frantically shake 
my head back and forth, trying to avoid the 
painful scraping of her nails against my scalp.

"Get your goddamn hands off me!" I yell, but she 
doesn't stop, instead leaning even further over 
me and pressing down even harder.

"Stop it! You're hurting me!" I scream, as I feel 
one of her fingers go all the way inside of my 
head.

I can feel it moving around in my brain now, 
and then it's joined by a second finger, wiggling 
and circling, and searching, searching, searching...

And then I feel nothing, the pain so intense I 
pass out.

When I open my eyes again, the strange woman is 
gone, and so are the metal clamps around my wrists 
and ankles.

And I'm back in my hospital room.

I reach up to rub my eyes, then look over at the 
clock.  I've been sleeping for nearly six hours 
straight, but I've never felt more exhausted.

And my mouth is uncomfortably dry.

Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I swallow
and lick my lips, but they're so dry and rough, 
they crack beneath my tongue, and I begin to bleed.

I quickly bring my hand up to my mouth to wipe the 
bitter taste away, and it is then that I remember.

I was just dreaming the same thing, dreaming of a 
strange place where I was held against my will and 
of an unimaginable pain that I can't even begin to 
describe.

Dreaming of a time when I've never felt more afraid.

And it is then that I know it wasn't a dream at all.

It was a memory.

~~~~

I remember now.

I remember the woman who took a piece of my brain
right out of my head. Why she took it and what 
she did with it, I don't know, but I remember it.

And now I know what I can do to prove it.

I reach over and press the call button for one 
of the nurses. Luckily, Laura's working the late 
shift again tonight.

"You need something, Thomas?" she asks, her voice
muffled on the sound system.

"Yes. Could you come in here, please?" I reply.

I press my hand to my head, feeling for a scar, 
a bump, anything that would prove that someone
tampered with my brain.

I feel nothing.

"What is it, Thomas?" asks Laura as she quickly
walks through the door. "Do you need to use the 
bathroom?"

"I need a mirror."

"A mirror?" she answers, a puzzled expression on 
her face.

"I really need a mirror right now," I say again, 
this time with more urgency.

She studies my face a moment. "I'll see what I 
can come up with," she says, heading back towards 
the door.

"Thank you," I reply softly, leaning back against
the pillow.

I wait until she leaves the room, then bring my
hand back up to my head again, checking in a
different spot for something, anything...

But again, I feel nothing.

Could it be possible that what I saw and felt 
never happened, that the strange woman with the 
long fingers never took something from my brain?

No, I feel it too strongly for it not to be real.

"Okay, here you go," says Laura, walking back
through the door. "I know it's not very big, but 
it's all I could find at 4:00 in the morning," 
she adds, handing me a small mirror, its diameter 
only about five inches.

I quickly turn the light over my bed on to a 
brighter setting and hold the mirror up in front 
of my forehead.

Laura puts her hands on her hips, leans back on
her heels. "So, you want to tell me what this is 
all about?"

Tilting the mirror at a different angle with one
hand, I push my hair aside with the other hand 
trying to see if there are any marks on my scalp,
indentations, lines, anything, but all I can see 
is nothing.

Again.

"I remembered something," I answer, still intently
moving the mirror around and searching a different
part of my head.

She drops her hands from her hips, leans forward.  
"Something about why you're here?"

"Maybe."

"What is it, Thomas? Do you know what happened to
you?" she asks, her eyes widening in anticipation.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I reply,
finally setting down the mirror in frustration.
"Try me."

Should I tell her what I think I know? 

Should I risk sounding like an idiot, or should 
I keep things to myself until I know more?

As anxious as I am to share my thoughts with 
someone, I can't tell her or anyone else. 

Not yet. Not without proof.

Proof.

What an interesting word...and a familiar one.

Yes, I know this word. Someone I know has said 
it to me before.

Many times.

Proof.

The one thing I want and need more than anything
else right now.

Proof of what was done to me and why. Proof of 
who I am and why I was brought here.

Proof that would give me back my life.

"Thomas?" asks Laura, lightly tapping my arm 
and interrupting my newest revelation. "What 
is it? Are you okay? You had a strange look 
on your face just now."

Tightening my hold on the mirror in my lap, I 
bite down harder on my already cracked lips 
and look up at her, then quietly reply, "I'm 
not sure."

~~~~

I feel like shit.

Not because I'm still healing...although my knees 
are throbbing right now...but because I couldn't 
sleep last night. I think I finally dozed off 
around 7:00, which, counted in with the couple 
of hours I got in after midnight, leaves me with 
a grand total of about three hours of sleep.
To be honest, I don't know how I can even see 
straight enough to be writing this.

How the hell am I ever going to make it through 
PT this morning?

~~~~

I was able to doze a bit after eating breakfast, 
but now that I'm awake again, I find myself 
constantly thinking about her.

The strange woman. Her long fingers pressing 
into my brain. I'm certain that it happened, 
and yet I have no proof. Part of me knows that 
it's physically impossible for a person to 
take out a piece of another person's brain with 
their hands, and yet the whole concept sounds 
strangely familiar to me.

Is it possible that I read it in a sci-fi book?

I know it wasn't in Carl Sagan's book, but maybe 
it was in something else I read when I was the 
person I am...or maybe I saw it in a movie or 
something.

Whatever the case may be, I still think she's 
important to figuring out what happened to me, 
why I have these injuries, and why I was brought 
here.

But how is she connected to all of it?

Is she the one who took me away from my loved 
ones? Shattered my knees? Wiped my memory clean? 

And if so, why?

Why would someone want to hurt me so badly?

"Morning, Thomas," announces Allie, her voice
snapping me out of my reverie. "Ready for another 
round of therapy?" she cheerfully asks, pushing 
the wheelchair over to me.

"Not really," I answer bluntly, closing my 
notebook and setting it back over on the tray 
stand.

"What's the matter?" she asks as she lines the 
chair up beside my bed. "Didn't sleep well last
night?"

"No, I didn't," I mutter, throwing the sheets 
off of my legs.

"I'm sorry." She locks the wheels in place and 
steps beside me so she can help me up. "Your 
knees bothering you?"

"A lot of things are bothering me."

"Wanna talk about it over a game of cards later?" 
she asks, helping me slide to the edge of the 
bed.

Over the last few days, she's been playing cards 
with me on her break...sometimes canasta, 
sometimes poker, and though I don't remember 
being a card player, I apparently know the ins 
and outs of both games and know them well.

"I don't know," I reply, groaning as I push 
myself up out of the bed and plop into the seat.

"Boy, you're full of witty responses this 
morning, aren't you?" she remarks, obviously 
trying to lighten my mood and get me talking.

It doesn't work.

"You try feeling witty when you feel like shit, 
and then we'll talk, okay?" I grumble, adjusting 
my legs into the best position.

"Okay..." she says, uncomfortably looking down 
at the floor so she doesn't have to look at me.

Realizing my insensitivity, I quickly try to 
backtrack. "Look, I didn't mean to...it's just 
that...I'm sorry," I stutter. "It's not your 
fault that I'm like this," I add, hoping that 
she'll accept my awkward apology.

"It's not your fault either," she says matter 
of factly, patting my shoulder, then steering 
the wheelchair towards the door.

Grateful for her understanding, I turn my head 
back and look up at her. "So, does your offer 
to play cards later still stand, or did I blow 
it?" 

She thinks a moment, then smiles. "Only if it's 
poker," she replies.

~~~~

Mark told me at the end of PT today I was making
such good progress that there was a chance I 
could start using crutches to get around with in 
a few days.

Part of me wants me to keep driving myself, wants
to do whatever I need to do to get better and get
out of here.

And then there's the other part of me.

The part that feels safe inside this hospital, 
but isn't so sure about what it's like anywhere 
else.

The part who doesn't know who he is and is afraid
he won't like what he finds once he does know.

The part who has no place to go once he leaves 
here.

Where will I live? What will I do for money? Who
will take care of me and help me start my life
again?

My mind suddenly racing with possibilities now, 
I grab the remote and start flipping through the 
channels, hoping that some mindless television 
will distract me from thinking about things I
know I'm not really ready to deal with right 
now. 

It doesn't work.

~~~~ 

I feel so restless today.

I want to get out of this bed and walk around, 
but I can't.

I want to start reading a new book, but there 
aren't any on the book cart that I haven't 
already read.

I want to watch something that isn't a talk 
show, soap opera, game show, or CNN, but that's 
all my TV has on in the afternoon. 

And I want to sit outside and actually feel the 
spring breeze on my face instead of sitting in 
the sunroom and imagining what it feels like.

But more than anything, I want to make myself 
stop thinking about the fact that I've been 
here for eleven days, and not one person has 
come here to see me.

How could I have been so wrong about what I 
thought I knew?

I was certain that there was someone out there 
looking for me, trying to find their way here, 
but apparently there isn't a single person who 
misses me.

No family. No parents, no wife or kids.

All I have is myself, and I've never felt more 
alone. 

~~~~

"So, you wanna play poker or what?" asks Allie, 
a cheerful smile on her face as she waltzes 
through my door, a pack of cards in her hand.

"Has anyone called the hospital looking for me
today?" I blurt out, asking my own question and 
completely ignoring hers.

The crease in her forehead deepens as she sets
the cards at the foot of my bed. "What?"

"In the time that I've been here, has anyone 
contacted the hospital inquiring about me? I
mean, there's got to be a record of me missing
from somewhere, don't you think?" I ask, sitting 
up straighter.

Grabbing hold of a chair, she pulls it up next
to my bed. "When you were first brought in, we
called the police immediately." She glances 
down at the floor, then continues, "But they 
couldn't find a record of you in any of the 
data bases that they have access to."

"But I had to have come from somewhere," I insist, 
not wanting to believe that there wasn't at least 
*someone* out there who knew something about me.

"Yes, you did, but unfortunately, we still don't
know where that is, Thomas," she states sadly.

"And why not?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, a confused look on
her face.

"The reason why no one around here knows where I 
came from is because they never asked me," I say, 
raising my voice in frustration. "You said that 
the police have been here before, but I don't 
even remember them being here, let alone talking 
to them."

"Well, that's because you were pretty out of it 
the couple of times they were here."

Yanking the sheets off my legs, I reply, "Well, 
I'm not out of it now. I know exactly what I'm 
doing, and right now what I want is to talk to 
someone who's going to listen to me," I say, 
yanking the sheets off my legs.

"I can call the police for you, but do you 
really have anything to tell them about yourself 
that they don't already know?" she asks bluntly.

"No," I answer, roughly rubbing my forehead, 
then slamming my hand down on the bed.

Allie stands up from her chair, steps closer to 
my bed. "Look, I know that what you're going 
through is tough and that you're frustrated, 
but..."

"You don't know what I'm going through," I say, 
gruffly interrupting her.

"Okay, you're right. I *don't* know, but I do 
know this. I saw you when they first brought 
you in here, and I see you now."  

She takes a deep breath, thinks for a moment. 
"And you've come so far, Thomas. The progress 
you've made in therapy, how much healthier you 
look, the things that you're able to do now...
The day you were brought here, I wasn't sure 
you were even going to make it through the 
night," she says, her voice beginning to waver.

"I was that bad?" I ask, suddenly wanting to 
know more, *needing* to know more. I leaned 
back against the pillow, looked down at my legs. 
"Tell me about it. I want to know everything."

"Everything?"

Yes, everything.  

Tell me what I looked like, how the doctors 
treated me, if I said anything or not. Tell me 
what happened the night I was brought here and 
what the police did to try to find out who I 
was.  

I wasn't ready to hear it all before, only 
wanting to know the things I was ready to deal 
with, but now I needed someone to be honest 
with me and tell me the truth no matter how 
painful it might be.

"Thomas?"

"Yeah?" I reply, snapping myself out of my 
reverie.

"Are you sure about this? I mean...you've waited 
all this time, and now you suddenly have all 
these questions? Why now? Why not several days 
ago when you first started feeling better?"

I look down at my legs again, nervously rub my 
hands over my thighs. "Because I wasn't ready 
then," I answer.

Sitting back down in the chair, Allie picks up 
the deck of cards from the end of the bed and
brushes her thumb over the edges. "Are you sure 
you don't want to play some poker? I'm feeling 
kind of lucky this afternoon," she suggests, a 
weak smile passing over her face in an obvious 
attempt to steer me away from the subject.

"I'm sure," I reply, my mind rapidly filling 
with every possible scenario for what it was 
like that night.

"Well, okay," she reluctantly agrees. Reaching
over to the table, she pours me a glass of water
from the pitcher and hands it to me. "This is
how it happened..."

--------------------------------------------------

three--


"Have you ever heard the expression 'circling 
the drain' before?" asks Allie, pulling a chair 
up next to my bed.

"I think so, but I'm not sure," I say, trying 
to reach back into my memories and pull out the 
definition.

"We sometimes use it to describe a patient that 
is so far gone that there's really nothing left 
for us to do but wait for them to die," she says, 
looking out the window instead of at me.

I shake my head at her insensitive description.

"Yeah, I know...it's not a very appropriate thing 
to say about a person's life, but sometimes there 
just aren't any other words to describe the 
condition of some of our patients. It's hard, 
you know...telling a family that their loved one 
doesn't have much time left and that there's 
nothing we can do about it." She lowers her head.  
"I hate it," she mumbles.

I let the implications of her words sink in, and 
it is in that moment that I realize what she's 
trying to tell me.

"The night I was brought here...I was 'circling 
the drain', wasn't I?" I ask, though I can 
already see by the look on her face that my 
conclusion is correct.

"You were so..." She bites her lip, releases a 
puff of air from her cheeks. "Your body was 
really...damaged."

Reaching down, I protectively touch my fragile 
knees, look down at my swollen ankles. "I remember 
getting lots of shots."

"That was later."

"What do you mean, later?"

"That was a few days *after* you'd been brought 
here. That first night you were completely 
unresponsive. And you were so thin and dehydrated. 
We had a hell of a time getting you started on 
an IV line, and the doctors couldn't operate on 
you because your body was so weak.  You probably 
would've died on the operating table if they'd 
tried."

Jesus.

I knew I was badly injured, but I had no idea I 
was so close to dying, and now that I know what 
it was really like for me that night, maybe it's 
a good thing that I didn't know about it until 
now.

"You all right, Thomas?" she asks, her voice 
filled with concern as she gently touches my 
arm.

No, I'm not all right, but as difficult as I 
know it will be to hear more, I need to know.  

"You already told me you didn't know who brought 
me here, but *how* did I get here?  I mean, did 
someone just dump me here in the hospital, or 
was I left somewhere else and an ambulance 
brought me here?" I ask without answering her 
question.

She studies my face a moment, no doubt trying 
to decide if she should tell me anything else, 
then replies, "An orderly found you lying on 
the floor of the men's restroom, wrapped in a 
blanket with no clothes or shoes on and no ID."

I close my eyes, trying to make myself remember,
but I can't. I have absolutely no recollection
of what she's saying.

"So, after he found me, then what happened?"

"He called for help, and you were rushed to the 
ER."

Not surprisingly, I don't remember that either, 
but I do remember something she said earlier.

"You told me before that when they found me, I 
was 'damaged.' What did you mean by that?"

A pained expression crosses her face, but then 
just as quickly she masks it again. "Thomas, I
don't think you really wa..."

"Tell me. I need to know."

She stands up from the chair, walks over to the 
window, puts her hands on the ledge, bracing 
herself. "You had bruises everywhere, some 
bleeding both internally and externally...and 
your head and face, legs and ankles...they 
were just so...I've never seen anyone so..." 
She tries to say more, but the words catch in 
her throat, and she has to stop.

But that's okay because I want her to stop now. 
I don't need to hear any more of the details.

I don't *want* to hear any more of them. 

"That's enough," I whisper.

"I'm so sorry, Thomas," she says from across 
the room.
"So am I," I say, letting my head drop back 
against the pillow.

And I was sorry.  

For asking about it in the first place, for 
not being able to remember any of what she 
told me, for not being strong enough to listen 
to everything she had to say.

For being so weak.

"I want you to listen to me," she says, walking 
back over to the side of my bed. "As difficult 
as all this is for you to hear, Thomas, you've 
proven to me and everyone else on staff here 
what a strong and determined person you really 
are. You nearly died that night, and look at 
you now."

Yeah, take a good look at me, Nancy.  

I'm a man who can't even go to the bathroom by 
myself. 

"Thanks for all your help, but I think I'd like 
to be alone now," I say, suddenly not wanting 
to hear anything else from her, but especially 
not wanting to hear anything more about how 
much I've improved during my time here.

I still can't walk. I still can't get my own 
meals or take my own showers. 

And I still don't know who I am.

In other words, I haven't accomplished a damn 
thing. 

I can tell she's frustrated with me, and rightly 
so, but I can also see compassion in her eyes, 
and for that I'm grateful. Reaching out, she 
lightly squeezes my shoulder, then says, "Just 
let me know if you need anything, okay, Thomas?"

I nod my head in acknowledgement, then watch as 
she sets her chair back against the wall and 
leaves, quietly shutting the door behind her.

"I need someone to remember me," I whisper.

~~~~

I don't remember dozing off, but apparently I 
did.

Then again, I seem to doze on and off a lot now.  

I guess it's not surprising though, considering 
how little there is for me to do here.

If I'm lucky, there are new books on the book 
cart when it comes around every afternoon, and 
if I'm really lucky one of the nurses will wheel 
me to the sunroom, which is where I am now.

After Allie and I talked about the night I was 
brought here, I was so wiped out, I ended up 
falling asleep almost immediately after she left 
my room. When I woke up, I made the request to 
be brought here, and though I've already slept, 
I guess it wasn't long enough because I just 
caught myself starting to nod off again.

Trying to process the fact that I was pretty much 
dumped here and left for dead has drained me more 
than I thought it would, and although I usually 
feel better whenever I'm in the sunroom, today I 
feel nothing but exhaustion.

I'm sure I look like shit too, which is probably 
why no one has bothered to pay attention to me.
That's okay though, because I don't really feel 
much like talking right now anyway.

Sometimes when I'm brought here, this place is 
packed with patients and their families.  Other 
times there are only a few patients here, and of 
course, there's always a nurse and an orderly 
around just in case.

This afternoon it's a quiet day with only me and 
a handful of other patients in the area, which 
means that I can actually move around a bit if 
I want to instead of having to stay in this one 
spot. I've been working on building my upper body 
strength in PT so I can wheel myself around instead 
of having to rely on someone else to do it, and 
though it's harder than hell, I can now wheel 
myself about six feet before I have to stop and 
catch my breath.

It's amazing to me that doing something as simple
as pushing myself around in a wheelchair gives
me such satisfaction, but it does. In fact, just 
yesterday my therapist Mark told me that if I 
continue to work as hard as I have been, I should 
be able to triple my distance by the end of the 
week.

"Excuse me, if it's not too much trouble, do you 
think you could move over a little so we can see 
out the window a little better?" I hear a woman 
ask me, her familiar voice interrupting my 
daydreaming.

I turn my head to the left and look at the young
woman in the wheelchair just behind me, then up 
at the nurse pushing her. Her face brightens. 
"Hey Thomas, how are you doing? I haven't seen 
you for awhile."

I immediately recognize her as one of the nurses
who temporarily took care of me before I got
transferred to a different floor a few days ago. 
"Hi Rhonda," I say, happy to see someone here I 
actually know. 

"You look good," she remarks, and I can tell by 
the way she's looking at me that she genuinely 
means it. "How's the therapy coming along? Mark 
still working you like a drill sergeant?"

"Yeah, he is."

"He's tough, but he knows what he's doing. Hang
in there, okay?" she says, pushing the patient
in the wheelchair closer to the window and closer
to me. "This is Mary...and Mary, this is Thomas.
He was one of my patients before I came to work 
on your floor."

Mary acknowledges me by nodding her head, but 
when I hold out my hand, I quickly realize that 
she won't be able to shake it.

She's hooked up to an IV bag and both of her arms 
are in casts. She also has some cuts and bruises 
on her face, which makes me think she might have 
been in a car accident and gotten thrown through 
the windshield or something.  

"Hi," I say awkwardly. She doesn't say anything
in return, just stares out the windows in front
of her.

Rhonda bends down, tells her quietly, "I'll be 
back to get you in about fifteen minutes, Mary.  
In the meantime, maybe you and Thomas can share 
a few horror stories with each other about the 
nurses here," she teases, gently patting Mary on 
the shoulder as she stands back up again.  

Her suggestion makes me chuckle. If anything, 
the nurses should be the ones telling horror 
stories about *me*. I haven't exactly been Mr. 
Congeniality since I've been here. They, on the 
other hand, have gone above and beyond the call 
of duty for me, and for that, I'm grateful.

"It was nice to see you again, Thomas," says 
Rhonda, smiling at me as she leaves.

"You too," I call out after her, and I really 
do mean it. Seeing someone I actually know and 
remember has lifted my spirits considerably.

"It may take me awhile, but I can move somewhere 
else if you'd rather be alone," I offer, turning 
my attention back to Mary.

"No, you're fine."

"Are you sure? I know when I want to be alone 
to think about things, it's usually easier to 
actually be *alone* than have some stranger sit 
right next to me," I casually remark.

"Who said I want to be alone?" she snaps, though
I can tell she's not really irritated with me, 
but with the situation she's stuck in.

"For one thing, you haven't exactly gone out of 
your way to be friendly, and for another...well, 
let's just say I've seen that expression before 
on my own face," I answer calmly.

She studies me, does a quick scan of my battered 
body, no doubt comparing my injuries to her own. 
Her eyes soften. "How long have you been here?" 
she suddenly asks.

"Eleven days. How about you?"

"They told me I've been here a week, but it feels 
longer than that," she answers.

"I don't understand," I say, trying to clarify 
her response. "Who told you? Your family?"

She looks away from me then, bites down on her 
bottom lip. "The doctors and nurses."

"But that doesn't make sense. How can you not 
know how long you've been here?" I ask, turning 
my wheelchair so I can better see her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she takes a deep breath, 
gnaws on her lip again, then quietly says, "I 
don't know how long I've been here because I 
don't remember *how* I got here."

What'd she just say? She doesn't remember how 
she got here? 
Does that mean she also doesn't remember how she 
got the cuts and bruises on her body or how her
arms were broken?

Is it possible that we were both brought here 
by the same people for the same reason?

No, it can't be. It just can't.

Or can it?

"What did you just say?" I ask, my mind now reeling 
at a steady ninety miles an hour, busily trying to 
sort through what she's just told me.

She opens her eyes back up, looks right at me this 
time and says, "I don't know how I got here, Thomas."

The way she says my name with such certainty both 
scares and excites me, and I immediately have to 
know more.

"Look, I know we just met, and this may seem like 
a really strange question I'm about to ask you, 
and you don't even have to answer me if you don't 
want to, but I need to know something," I say, 
nervously stumbling over my words in anticipation 
of her response.

"What is it?" she asks, the crease in her forehead 
deepening as she tilts her head to the side.

I put my hand on the back of her wheelchair and 
lean forward so no one else can hear me. "Is your 
name really Mary?"

A look of panic, then fear, sweeps across her face 
as she softly replies, "I don't know who I am."

~~~~

I can't sleep.

I'm not surprised though, considering what happened 
last night in the sunroom.

I met someone.

Not someone who remembers me, but someone who might 
be connected to me somehow, and now I can't stop 
thinking about her.

Her name is Mary, and she was brought here under 
strange circumstances like I was.  She also has 
several injuries like I do and is in a wheelchair.   

When I asked her if Mary was her real name, she 
told me that didn't know who she was. Now I know 
it seems totally implausible, and I'm probably 
way off base with this, but I can't help thinking 
that maybe we were both hurt by the same people, 
then dropped off at this hospital afterwards.

But what I can't figure out is why.

Why would anyone take two complete strangers, 
beat the hell out of them for apparently no 
reason, then dump them in a place where they 
could be saved?

It makes absolutely no sense.

Of course, nothing's made sense to me since I've 
been in here, but after meeting Mary last night, 
at least I might have a place to start now.

Yesterday when we spoke, I didn't think it would
be right to ask her anything more than what I did, 
especially since I'd only just met her, but I 
definitely want to see her again, and I definitely 
want to talk to her about some things.

"Hey, what are you still doing up?" asks Laura as 
she pokes her head through the door first, then 
comes in. "You're not supposed to be writing at 
this late hour, Thomas. You're supposed to be 
resting," she says, setting my chart down on the 
nightstand while she gets the things she needs to 
take my blood pressure.

"I know, but I can't sleep."

She firmly wraps the cuff around my arm, adjusts 
her stethoscope. "Are you in pain? Is that why 
you're not sleeping?" 

Actually, I've been so preoccupied with Mary that 
I haven't even thought about any of my injuries 
tonight.

"No, I just have a lot to think about," I reply,
trying to make myself relax while she checks my
pressure.

"Did you remember something else about yourself?" 
she asks hopefully.

I shake my head. "I met someone today."

"Oh, who is she?" She lifts the cuff off my arm, 
writes the numbers on my chart.

"I didn't say she was a she."

"Yeah, you did...with your eyes, your body language." 
She sets the chart back down, puts her hands on her 
hips.  "So, what's her name?  Was she a visitor, 
or is she a patient here?"

"I thought you said I needed to rest," I say, not 
sure if I'm really ready to share my thoughts about 
Mary with anyone just yet.

She smiles. "Yes, I did, but now I want details. 
Who is she, Thomas?"

Do I want to say something about a woman I barely
met, or do I want to keep things to myself until
I know more?

Surprisingly, I choose the former.

"Her name is Mary, and she's a patient here," I 
reply, yawning as I lean back against the pillow.

"Well, you'll have to tell me more about her in
the morning," says Laura, lifting the sheets and 
doing a quick check of my legs, feet, and ankles. 
"Right now you really need to get some sleep."

The soothing tone in her voice sends a wave of 
tiredness over me, and I don't even try to stop 
her when she gently takes the notebook and pen 
out of my hands and sets it on the nightstand.

"I guess I am getting kind of tired," I admit, 
letting out another yawn as I try to get myself
situated into a more comfortable position.

"I'm glad you met someone today, Thomas," she 
says, lightly patting my shoulder. She scoops up 
my chart, then starts walking towards the door. 
"I'll see you in the morning...seven o'clock 
sharp, okay?"

I nod my head at her, watch her leave, then start 
thinking about Mary again.

What will I say to her when I see her? Will she 
even want to speak to me? And if she does, what 
things will she be willing to talk about?

Am I getting my hopes up for nothing, or is she 
the key to finding out who I am?

I honestly don't know, but I do know this.

For the first time since I was brought here, I 
feel something inside of me that I haven't felt 
in a very long time.

Hope.

Looking over at the clock on the wall, I adjust
the covers on my bed, then close my eyes and try 
to relax. Morning will be here in just a few 
short hours.

And I need to be ready for it.

~~~~

I'm in a room.  

White with four walls, one door, no windows, and 
I'm lying on a table. 

And I'm naked except for some strange-looking
undergarment I'm wearing.

I think I've been here before.

Looking around the room, I see several different
kinds of machines, but they don't look like any 
machines that I've ever seen before. I try to 
get up so I can get a better look at them, but 
I'm tightly pinned to the table with wristbands
and ankle bands.

I scream for help, but no one hears me.

And no one ever comes.

~~~~

I'm in the After Room now. 

At least that's what I heard one of Them call 
it. I think it's where They bring people when 
They're done testing them.

Unlike the other room I was in, there are lots 
of other people in here with me, men lying on 
tables to my left, women to my right.

And They're in here too, studying us, poking 
their long fingers into our bodies, touching 
our hair, watching our every move with their 
large dark eyes.

What They're doing is making me sick to my 
stomach, and yet I'm absolutely fascinated by 
Them.

Who are these strange beings?

But even more importantly, why did They choose 
*us* to study?

~~~~

The third time I open my eyes I'm in a different 
room.

It's dark and warm and I feel air from a ceiling
fan blowing down on me. Blinking my eyes several 
times, I adjust to the lack of light around me, 
then look around the room.

To my left, I can see the outlined shadow of 
someone lying on a table about ten feet away 
from me, but I can't see well enough to tell if 
it's a man or a woman.

"Hello," I call out, my raspy voice echoing in 
the dark. "Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you," the woman replies. 

"Who are you?" I ask, straining my eyes to try 
to see her more clearly.

"Can you help me?" she quietly asks, turning 
her head towards me. 

Her voice sounds fragile, yet strong, as if it's
taking every last ounce of her strength to talk 
to me. 

"I'd like to help you, but I can't," I answer 
sadly. "I'm strapped to this table, and I can't 
get up."

"I can't get up from here either."
"Damn it," I mutter, trying to loosen the clamps 
holding me down, but getting nowhere.

"Where are we?"

"Someplace we shouldn't be," I reply, trying to
sound like I know what I'm doing. I tug at the 
clamps around my wrists again, but they still 
don't budge. "We've got to find a way to get out 
of here."

"But how? Neither one of us can get up, and even 
if we could, it's too dark to see where to go."

"There's got to be a way." I can see her moving 
her arms now too, trying to get loose. "How did
you get here? Do you remember?"

"I don't remember anything."

"I guess that makes two of us then."

"I can't even remember what my name is. Do you
know who I am?" she asks hopefully.

I close my eyes, try to remember where I've 
heard her voice before, try to find her face 
somewhere in my memory, but I can't. "No, I'm 
sorry, I don't."

"What are we going to do?" 

"I'm not sure, but we'll think of something." I
say reassuringly, though I have no idea what the
hell we're going to do.

"Okay, I...I guess so," she stutters.

"Hey, you okay over there?"

She starts crying. "It hurts."

"What happened? Where are you hurt?" I struggle 
to turn my body to the left so I can see her 
better, but suddenly the room becomes even darker, 
the air harder to breathe. "Talk to me!" I shout, 
getting even more panicked as the air thickens 
around me.

"I can't," she whimpers, her voice so distant now 
I can barely hear her.

"What's going on? Where are you?" I frantically 
yell, pulling at my wrists and trying to force 
the hot stagnant air down into my lungs. "Tell 
me where you are!"

"Help me...please..."

"I'm trying, damn it," I grunt, desperately 
tugging on all four restraints and trying to 
breathe at the same time. 

"Thomas."

"I'm trying, but I can't...I..."

"Come on, Thomas, wake up."

There's something pressing on my shoulder, and 
I try to push it away.

"Just hold on...okay..." I mumble, my eyelids 
slowly fluttering open.

"Hey there," says Laura, taking her hand off my
shoulder, then placing two fingers on the pulse 
in my neck. 

The morning sunlight coming in through the window 
hurts my eyes, and I blink several times, trying 
to adjust to the brightness.

"That must've been some dream," she remarks, 
putting the palm of her other hand on my forehead. 
"You're warm, and your pulse is racing. Are you 
okay?"

I close my eyes again, trying to remember what 
just happened, and then I do.

Pushing her hands away, I suddenly sit straight 
up. "I need to see Mary."

"What?" asks Laura, giving me a puzzled look.

I grab her wrist, pull her face down closer to 
mine. "I need to go see Mary. I have to talk to 
her right now," I say excitedly.

She calmly unclamps my fingers from her wrist, 
then sits down on the edge of the bed beside me. 
"Just settle down, Thomas. You're not making 
sense. Who's Mary?"

"Mary, you know...I told you last night that I 
talked to her.  She's a patient here. I need to 
see her," I explain. "I *have* to talk to her."

"Okay, but first I need you to lie back and calm 
down," she says, gently pushing my shoulders back 
against the pillow.
I take a deep breath and then another, trying to
calm myself, but it's difficult. I have to talk 
to Mary, and I have to do it now.

Why is that so hard for her to understand?

Putting her fingers on my wrist instead of my 
neck this time, she checks my pulse again. I 
try to slow my breathing.  

"Now, what's this all about? When I came in here, 
you were talking in your sleep and moving your 
arms all over the place like you were trying to 
get away from somebody. Were you having a bad 
dream?" 

"It wasn't a dream."
She removes her fingers from my wrist, raises 
her eyebrow. "Then what was it...and what does 
it have to do with this Mary person you're so 
fired up about seeing?"

"I think I remembered something about myself," 
I say, looking right at her. "Something about 
what happened to me."

"That's good news, Thomas, but I don't understand 
what it has to do with a woman you barely know."

I didn't understand either, but she was there 
with me in my flashback or whatever the hell it 
was I just had, I'm sure of it.

"She was there with me in this...place...and I 
just really need to talk to her about it."

Laura's eyes widen as she stands up. "Mary, the 
patient who's in this hospital right now...she 
was with you somewhere before, and you actually 
know her?" she asks incredulously.

Finally. Now maybe she'll actually help me. "Yes, 
I know her, and maybe she knows me," I reply, 
anxiously throwing the covers off my legs, hoping 
she'll understand just how important this is to 
me. "Will you take me to her?"

She looks towards the window, thinks a moment, 
then turns to me and says, "I'll see what I can 
do."

--------------------------------------------------

four--


"Okay Thomas, I've done some checking around, and 
I think you're going to be able to talk to Mary 
sometime today," says Laura as she walks into my 
room pushing a wheelchair.

"Sometime today? I need to see her now."

She parks the wheelchair by the window, walks 
over to the side of my bed. "Look, I know you're 
anxious to talk to her, but you don't know all 
the factors involved."

"What factors?"

"Like you're a stranger to her. Like she's a patient 
on a different floor. Like she's recovering from 
some serious injuries and shouldn't be gallivanting 
all around this hospital," she says matter-of-factly.

I can tell by the expression on her face after she 
lists each item that there's more to it than that. 
"But those aren't the only factors, am I right?" 
I ask suspiciously.

She looks down at the floor, shifts in her chair. 

"What aren't you telling me, Laura?"

"She's like you," she replies bluntly.

"What do you mean she's like me?" I ask, although 
I think I already know what she means.

Laura stands back up again, nervously rubs the 
back of her neck. "She just showed up here a week 
ago the same way you did...dropped off anonymously 
in one of the restrooms with several unusual 
injuries, no ID, no clothes, no memories..." she 
says, her voice trailing off.

I knew it.

When I met her last night, I knew there was a 
connection between us, and Laura just confirmed 
it for me.

The question is - what am I going to do about it?

For all this time, I thought I was the only one 
with no identity, no family, no life, and now 
here she is in the hospital just a floor away 
from me suffering from the same type of injuries 
and memory loss as I am. 

There are so many things I want to ask her, so 
many things I want to share with her about what 
I know, and yet I have no idea how to begin.

"You all right, Thomas?" asks Laura, breaking me 
out of my contemplative state.

"When can I see her?"

"Right now you've got a therapy session, but I've 
left instructions for the next shift of nurses to 
make sure they bring you to the sunroom sometime
today and that they contact the nurses who are 
taking care of Mary on her floor to bring her there 
at the same time. I know it's not what you wanted, 
but it's the best I could do," she explains.

"And I bet you had to pull some strings to make 
that arrangement, didn't you?"

She nods her head.

"Just as you probably had to grease a few wheels 
to find out more about Mary's personal situation 
for me too, huh?"

She nods her head again. "I wouldn't do this for 
just any patient, you know."

"I know," I reply, reaching out and giving her 
wrist a grateful squeeze. "And I appreciate it."

"No one deserves to have their life stolen from
them," she says with a wistful look on her face.
"And if this Mary can help you find what you're
looking for, then I'll do whatever I can to help."

"Thanks, Laura."

"You can thank me by *walking* out of here not 
as Thomas, but as who you really are," she says 
firmly. Then she walks over to the window, starts 
to push the wheelchair towards me. "Which reminds 
me...we'd better get moving or you're going to be 
late for your morning workout."

Damn. I completely forgot that I had therapy this
morning. I'm not surprised I did though. Having
my body put through hell isn't exactly at the top 
of my list of things to do.

Still, if I want to walk out of this place on my
own, I'm going to have to bust my ass, or in this 
case, my legs, to do it.

She locks the wheels and helps me ease my way into 
the chair. "You ready for this?"

"As ready as I'm going to be," I answer, wincing 
as I try to situate my legs into a better 
position.

She pats me on the shoulder, then starts pushing 
me towards the door. "You'll do fine. I mean, look 
at how far you've come since last week."

I look down at the two clunky braces on my knees, 
the light purplish bruises around my still swollen 
ankles, then quickly look away. "Yeah, I guess so," 
I quietly agree.

~~~~
Ten minutes and an uneventful ride on the elevator
later, we arrive at the physical therapy room. 
Mark is working with another patient on the table 
at the far end of the room, and there are three 
therapists busy with some other patients on the 
mats.

"Looks like everyone's kind of busy right now," 
remarks Laura.

"We can always come back later," I say flatly.

"We can, but we're not going to," she says, pushing 
me over next to the wall. "Now I've got to get back 
and finish up some paperwork before I go home for 
the day, but I'm going to leave you right here, 
and Mark will come get you when he's ready for you, 
okay?"

"Okay." 

She bends over, says quietly, "I hope things go 
the way you want them to with Mary today."

"I hope so too," I say, wishing I were meeting 
with her right now instead of my therapist. 

"Well, you can tell me all about it on my next 
shift," she says, affectionately patting my arm.  

"Thank you, Laura...for everything."

"I'm just doing my job," she says, a sincere smile 
on her face. "Now I'm going to go over and let 
Mark know that you're ready to start, and then 
I'm out of here."

I watch her walk across the room and tell him I'm 
here. Looking over his shoulder, he gives me a 
quick wave.

After acknowledging him with a nod, I turn my chair 
to the left a little and start looking around the 
room at who else is here. I see another wheelchair 
at the back of the room, two pairs of crutches, 
and a large knee brace sprawled out on one of the 
mats.

My guess is that the teenage boy goes with the 
knee brace, the elderly woman Mark's working with 
is probably the one using the wheelchair, and the 
crutches most likely belong to the two young men 
using the stationary bikes. I single out the 
teenage boy first, then try to figure out what 
his injury is and how it compares to my own.

And that's when I see her.

She and her therapist are coming around the corner 
from the back room. She's in a wheelchair, and she 
looks exhausted, probably from the exercises she 
just did in therapy.

She also looks like she's in no mood to talk to 
anyone right now so I simply remain quiet and 
watch her from a distance.

She's smaller than I remember from our meeting 
earlier, though maybe it just seems that way 
because she's way at the other end of the room, 
and her wavy red hair, which was down yesterday, 
is pulled back in a ponytail this morning.

Her head is tipped down too, her broken arms 
awkwardly resting in her lap, and it's all I can 
do to keep from wheeling myself over to her.

How awful it must be for her, not knowing who she 
is or where she came from.

And how completely alone she must feel.

Seeing her like this, knowing what I now know 
about her, makes my heart ache in a way I wasn't 
expecting and makes me want to get to know her 
even more.

But not here, not now.

"So, are you ready to get to work, Thomas?" asks 
Mark, snapping me out of my reverie. 

"I'm ready," I answer cheerfully, trying to sound
enthusiastic so he won't start asking me a bunch 
of questions about how I'm feeling.

"Well good, because I've got a lot planned for 
you this morning," he says, not picking up on my 
ruse and excitedly pushing me towards the workout 
mats.

Looking over at her one last time as she's being
wheeled out of the room, I try not to think about
the pain I'm about to endure and concentrate
instead on what I'm going to say to her the next
time I see her.

Soon, Mary, soon...
~~~~

Just got back from another therapy session.  My 
body feels like it's been run over by a truck, 
but it was one of the best workouts I've had 
since I've been in here.

In fact, it was so good that I got to use crutches 
today.

I can't even begin to describe how great it felt 
simply to stand up again, to see things at a 
different level, to move my legs in a different 
way.

To make progress.

Such a simple thing, to make progress and to 
move forward, and yet since I've been here I've 
felt as if I've done everything *but* make 
progress.

Until now.

Though I still haven't had a chance to talk to 
Mary yet, I think she's part of the reason why 
I'm feeling more confident and positive about 
what I'm doing. Knowing that she probably went 
through the same horrendous experience that I 
did is disconcerting, to say the least, but 
having a kindred spirit so close by is oddly 
comforting to me.

Knowing that my chances of walking on my own 
are getting better has made me more determined 
as well, and I can't help wondering if maybe 
things are also going to start falling into 
place for me as far as getting my memory back 
goes.

Of course, I know I still have a long way to go 
in reclaiming who I am, both emotionally and 
physically, but today I feel more hopeful than 
I have in a very long time.

~~~~

"So, I hear you've got a date this afternoon," 
says Allie as she undoes the cuff around my arm 
and places it back on its holder.

"It's not a date," I say defensively, watching 
her write down my blood pressure on my chart.

"Okay, a *meeting* then."

"I am meeting someone this afternoon, that is, 
if you're willing to take me there," I admit, 
trying not to sound too anxious. 

"Of course, I'll take you, Thomas. I don't want 
you to get your hopes up though. From what I 
understand, she's had it pretty rough since she 
got here."

"I know."

She pats my arm, looks at me with compassion. 
"And you do know, don't you?"

"Yes," I say simply, not really wanting to dwell 
on the gruesome details of what happened to both 
of us right now.

"Well, I hope she can help you find the answers 
you're looking for."  

I consider her words, consider their implications.
Is that why I want to talk to Mary? To find answers? 
Or do I simply want the companionship of someone 
who might be able to understand what I'm going 
through?

I don't know. All I know is that I'm feeling pretty 
nervous right now.

And hopeful.

Allie moves the wheelchair closer to my bed, puts 
the safety brake on. "Okay Thomas, I'm ready when 
you are."

Throwing the covers off my legs, I hoist them 
over the side of the bed, then carefully lower 
myself into the chair. "Let's get this show on 
the road."

~~~~

The sunroom is a lot more crowded than the last 
time I was here, which actually might not be a 
bad thing. The more people here, the less 
intimidating it will be for Mary to open up to 
me, I think.

After all, she doesn't even know me.

Of course, I don't really know her either, but I 
do know *about* her, what her situation is and 
what her connection to me might be, which puts me 
at a definite advantage.

"Is this spot okay?" asks Allie, stopping in front 
of the window.

"It's fine," I answer, looking outside over at 
the park. There aren't any boys playing basketball 
today, but there are a few moms with their toddlers 
playing on the playground equipment.

"I'll be back to get you in a half hour, or if 
not me, someone else from our floor." She puts 
her hand on my shoulder, gives it a brief squeeze. 
"Good luck, Thomas."

"Thanks, Allie. I owe you one."

"You owe me a lot more than one," she teases, 
smiling at me, then heading over towards the 
other side of the room.

"You're right, I do," I say to myself as I watch 
her visit briefly with another nurse, then leave.

"Excuse me, but is this seat taken?"

Immediately recognizing the voice I hear, I quickly 
turn around and see Mary with her nurse. "No, but 
I should warn you, I'm still learning how to drive 
this thing," I reply, hoping I don't sound too 
lame as I tap the handles on my wheelchair. "You 
might want to stay over to the left of me just to 
be safe," I add nervously, reaching down and 
checking to make sure the brake is on.

"She'll take her chances, won't you, Mary?" her 
nurse says with a smile, pushing the wheelchair 
to the left of me like I requested. 

"Yes," answers Mary, her deep blue eyes locked on 
mine.

"Well, okay then, if you think you'll be all right 
here, I'll be back in about twenty minutes to get 
you."

"Thank you," she says, looking up at her nurse, 
then quickly turning her attention back to me. 
Taking the hint, the woman briefly smiles at me
again, then leaves us alone.

"I thought she'd never leave," I remark awkwardly.

"Rhonda's okay. She's helped me a lot."

"So, you know your nurse's name too, huh?"

"They've been good to me here," she says wistfully, 
looking out the window. "I don't know what I'd do 
without them..." 

Her voice trails off, and I've got a pretty good
idea of what she's thinking about because I've
thought the same thing, many times. Without the 
nurses here, I would've fallen apart a long time 
ago.

"I feel the same way."

A slight smile passes over her face, then she 
goes back to looking out the window again.

"There's not a game going on right now, but I like 
to watch the boys play basketball over there," I 
comment, trying to figure out just how receptive 
she'll be to talking about more personal things.

"I used to play basketball sometimes...I think," 
she mumbles, looking down at her lap.

"Me too..." I say softly, my pulse quickening at 
the opening she's just given me. 

Of course, now I have to decide what I want to 
do about it.

Releasing the brake on my chair, I turn the wheels 
so I'm facing her. "Look, there's no easy way for 
me to say this so I'm just going to go ahead and 
say it and get it over with and then you can just 
tell me to mind my own business, okay," I stutter, 
the words tumbling out of my mouth so fast, I'm 
practically hyperventilating.

She looks up at me, nervously licks the corner of 
her mouth, then asks, "You know about me, about 
why I'm here, don't you?"

Her bluntness catches me off guard for a moment, 
but I have to admit I'm relieved to find out that 
she already knows why I want to talk to her.  

"I was kind of hoping that maybe we could talk 
about it, yes," I reply, taking note of the faded 
purple bruise above her lip, the greenish one on
her right cheekbone.

"I was hoping that too." 

I watch her then as she struggles to shift her 
body into a more comfortable sitting position, 
but the casts she's wearing make it difficult 
for her to get much leverage. "Damn it, I hate 
these things," she mutters under her breath, 
letting out a frustrated sigh as she glares down
at her arms.

"Here, let me help you," I offer, reaching over 
and holding onto her chair so I can keep it 
steadier for her.

And surprisingly, she does let me help her, 
although I'm even more surprised by the fact 
that I don't feel the least bit awkward about 
it.

Now that her wheelchair is better grounded, she 
scoots herself back further in the seat, then 
stretches out her legs before placing them back 
on the footrests.

"That's much better now. Thank you, Thomas," she 
says, her deep blue eyes locking on mine again.

"You're welcome." I let go of her chair, put my 
hand back in my lap. "So, you said before that 
you wanted to talk."

"Yes, I do," she replies with certainty.

Okay, she's ready to talk, and I'm ready to talk, 
so what do I do now? 

Do I jump right in and tell her I saw her in my 
dreams or flashbacks or whatever the hell they 
were?

Or do I start with something simpler like, "Hey,
have you had your brain probed by any strange 
beings lately?"

"It's okay, Thomas," she says quietly. "I know
that you were brought here like me, and I know
what it is you want to talk about."

My eyes widen, my pulse starts racing again as 
her words sink in. "But how...how do you know 
about me?"

She leans forward so no one else can hear, then
whispers, "I saw you in my dreams."

~~~~

"You saw me in your dreams? What do you mean by 
that?" I ask, wondering if she'd seen the same 
rooms and experienced the same horrors as I had.

"I saw you, Thomas...lying on a table. I asked 
you if you could help me, and you tried to, but..." 

"But what?" I lean in even closer to her. "What 
happened when you asked me for help, Mary?" I 
ask, desperately needing to find out if we both 
really did experience the same thing.

"I don't think you could hear me because the air 
in the room got really thick, and then it got so 
dark in there, I couldn't see where you were 
anymore."

Her eyes start to well up with tears then, and 
it's all I can do not to put my arm around her. 
"Then what happened? Can you tell me?"

"They gave me some kind of shot in both of my 
arms, and I could feel the needles piercing my 
skin, and then...then they..."

She sniffles as she looks down at her lap, 
nervously rubs her fingers together.

"What?  What did they do to you?" I anxiously 
ask, my chest tightening in anticipation of her 
answer.

Holding her arms as close to her body as she can, 
she looks up at me again and softly replies, 
"They broke my arms, Thomas."

"What?"

"They said, 'This is for your own good', and then 
they twisted them so hard they broke," she says, 
the unshed tears in her eyes now spilling down 
her cheeks.

"Those bastards," I mutter as I roll my chair 
closer to hers. "I'm so sorry, Mary," I helplessly 
add, knowing my words can do nothing to ease the 
pain she went through, but saying them anyway. 
"I'm so sorry that you had to go through that."

And I was sorry.

Sorry that she had to suffer through something 
so cruel. Sorry that I wasn't strong enough to 
get myself loose so I could help her.

Sorry that I couldn't do a goddamn thing to stop 
any of it, even if it was just in our dreams.

She sniffles and tries to lift her arm to wipe 
the dampness from her face, but with the way that 
her casts are fitted on her arms, she can't do it 
very easily.

And so I do, gently brushing the palm of my hand
over one bruised cheek, then the other.

Her eyes widen, but she does nothing to stop me.

She simply lets me touch her and comfort her, 
and despite the fact that we've only known each 
other for two days, there's a certain familiarity 
to what I'm doing.

Is it possible that we could've known each other
in our other lives, that we're somehow connected 
in real life and not just in our visions?

Is it possible that I've comforted her like this
before, touched her cheek, brushed her hair off 
her forehead?

No, it couldn't be. We're just two people who went 
through something very traumatic and are trying 
to understand what it all means.

Aren't we?

"Thomas, I..." she stutters, suddenly pulling away 
from me. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to fall apart 
like that."

"There's nothing to be sorry for. You've been 
through a lot, and it's difficult to talk about. 
I understand that."

"Yes, but I shouldn't have...it's just that...I 
hate having people see me like this," she says, 
fidgeting in her chair.

I can tell that she's embarrassed about crying, 
though there's no reason for her to be. In fact, 
I'm amazed at just how strong of a person she is. 
To make it through such an ordeal and be able to 
pick herself back up again and trust me enough 
to talk about it.

It's pretty damn impressive if you asked me.

"You look just fine, Mary," I say reassuringly.

And she does look fine.

Despite the casts on her arms.  Despite the cuts
and bruises on her face. Despite all that's been 
taken away from her, I think she looks incredible.

She briefly smiles at me and sniffles again, then 
asks, "Can we talk about something else now?"

"Only if it's about something that happened over
the last two weeks," I reply, trying to lighten 
the mood. "I'm kind of fuzzy on everything else."

Another slight smile passes over her face as she
leans back in her chair. "Well, since I can only 
remember things from the past week, I guess that 
leaves us with seven days to talk about."

"Then seven days it is," I agree, pleased that 
she already seems to be feeling better. "So, 
what'd you think about that jello they served 
for lunch yesterday? Personally, I thought it 
was way too chewy."

She raises her eyebrow and gives me the oddest 
look then, and I can't quite tell if she thinks 
I'm funny or crazy or what, but then she does 
something I wasn't expecting at all, and I know 
exactly how she feels.

She starts laughing at me, really laughing, and 
before I know it, I find myself laughing right 
along with her.

About what, I'm not exactly sure, but God, it 
feels good.

To talk, to laugh, to act silly over something 
as ridiculous as hospital jello.

I've been stuck in this place for so long, I 
was beginning to wonder if I'd ever feel this 
comfortable with anyone again, and yet right 
here, right now, with Mary, it seems to come 
so easily to me.

But why?

What is it about her that tugs at my emotions so 
deeply?

When I touched her face before, it felt familiar
and watching her now, seeing her laugh like this 
because of something I said, it feels familiar 
to me too.

Could the theory I've been pondering over for 
the last two days actually be right?

Did we know each other before in our other life, 
or is it just wishful thinking on my part?

Whatever it is, whether we just met or we've 
known each other for years, there's definitely 
something going on between us.

And I have to find out what it is.

~~~~

"So, you never did tell me what you thought of 
the hospital jello," I say, finally getting my 
laughter under control.

"No, I didn't."

"Well? Chewy or non-chewy?" 

She smiles. "Definitely chewy."

I smile back. "So, it wasn't just me then."

"No, it was pretty chewy. The macaroni and cheese 
was good though."

"Yeah, I guess so," I agree, although I have a 
feeling I've tasted a better mixture of it before. 
I just can't remember where or when.

"What is it, Thomas?" she asks, tilting her head 
to the side. "You just had a strange look on your 
face."

"I thought I might've remembered something about 
myself, but I guess not," I reply, frustrated 
that I couldn't remember something as simple as 
eating macaroni and cheese before.

But then I *did* remember something, something 
about a kind of food I do like.

*I watch the ABC News while I eat my dinner. I 
usually sit on the couch while I'm eating. I 
like Chinese food.*

I remember writing those exact words down in my 
notebook just a few days ago, and I immediately
wonder if she likes that kind of food too.

"Do you like Chinese food, Mary?" I ask excitedly.

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it,
to be honest," she replies, but I can see that 
she's just as disappointed as I am that she can't 
easily answer my question.

There's an awkward silence between us then, and 
as I glance at my watch, I can see that our time's
almost up.  Her nurse will be coming back shortly
to take her back to her room, and then what?

I learned a few things about her in this short 
time, but it wasn't nearly enough, and quite 
honestly, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed 
to do next.

I'd ask Nancy or one of the other nurses to bring
me down to her room so we could talk some more, 
but they've already pulled a bunch of strings for 
me to even see her today, and I don't want to push 
my luck.

I suppose I could call her on the phone, but with 
the way the casts are on her arms, I don't think 
she'd be able to hold the phone up to her ear 
very easily.

"So, how do you think we should we go about this?" 
I ask, wondering just what it is we could do to 
try to recover our memories.

"Go about what?" she asks, a puzzled expression 
on her face.

"Figuring out who we are. I mean, there has to 
be some way that we can get back our memories. 
I'm not really sure how you feel about it, but I 
believe that we were somehow connected to each 
other *before* we came here, either as friends or 
colleagues or maybe even lovers, and that once we 
figure out what that connection is, everything 
else will fall into place."

Lovers?

Where the hell did that idea come from?

I've known her for two days, and I have the balls
to suggest that we might've been lovers at one 
time?

How stupid is that?

Lowering my head, I look down at my lap and 
nervously begin to rub my hand on my thigh, 
both embarrassed and irritated with myself for 
suggesting something so intimate to her.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to imply...it's... 
it's just that..." I stutter, trying desperately 
to backtrack on what I just said, but failing 
miserably.

The next thing I know I feel her hand touching 
my arm...no, not her hand...but her fingertips, 
her soft delicate fingertips peeking out from 
the end of her cast and lightly stroking my arm.

Her touch is simple, but electric, and suddenly 
my pulse is racing and my cheeks are burning, and 
if she doesn't stop doing that and say something 
really quick, I think my heart's going to jump 
right out of my chest. 

"I think you might be right, Thomas," she says 
softly.

What'd she just say? Something about me being 
right?

I make myself breathe and lift my head up to look 
at her. "What did you say?" 

Her fingers still on my arm, her eyes now fixed 
on mine, she shyly answers, "What you said before, 
about us being connected to each other in the 
past...I think there might be something to it."

"Really?"

She slowly lifts her arm up then and rests it back 
in her lap, but not surprisingly, my heart's still 
pumping ninety miles an hour. 

Yeah, something powerful is definitely going on 
between us here, and judging by the way she's 
looking at me right now, I can tell she feels it 
too.

And it is in that moment, that one split second 
when time seems to stand still, that I decide to 
go for broke.

"So, do you think there's a possibility that we 
could've been lovers before?" 

She looks away from me, out the window, then closes 
her eyes, and just when I think I've completely 
blown it, she opens her eyes again and says the 
one word that could change everything.

"Yes."

--------------------------------------------------

five--



"Ready for some dinner, Thomas?" asks Janice as 
she waltzes into my room with a tray full of food 
I have no desire to eat.

"Just set it down over there," I say, nodding 
towards the rolling table on the right side of 
my bed.

She sets it down. "Too busy writing to eat?"

"I am on kind of a roll," I answer, jotting down 
a few more words. Looking over at the chicken 
and potatoes on the tray, I add, "I'll get to 
it eventually."

She smiles. "I'll be back in one hour to pick 
it up, and I expect that tray to be empty."

"Yes, ma'am," I say as I turn to the next blank 
page in my notebook and start writing again.

The next time I look up from the book, she's 
gone.

~~~~

It's been two hours now since I saw Mary, and I 
can't stop thinking about her.

She agrees with me that we might share a past, 
and she also agrees with me that we might've 
been lovers in that past.

Jesus.

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around that one.

Are we friends who eventually became lovers, or 
did we share a one night stand?

Are we coworkers? High school sweethearts? 

Or is the whole idea of us being lovers a load of 
bullshit I've concocted in my brain because I'm 
so damn lonely?

I don't know.

Then again, I haven't really figured out much of 
anything about myself since I've been here.

Which is why I started making this list. 

I figure if I just start writing down the things
I already know about some general topics, maybe 
it will shake some more of my memories loose.

Or at least that's the general premise anyway.

So far, I've listed four categories, and within 
those, I've been able to come up with about a 
dozen things I know about myself.

Sports: basketball, played it when I was a kid, 
like watching it outside and on TV

Food: Chinese food, potato chips, coffee, salty 
foods, turkey sandwiches, and jello when it 
doesn't taste crunchy

Books: liked Cosmos by Carl Sagan, prefer 
reading nonfiction over fiction, voracious 
reader

Hospital things: Vicadin makes me loopy, don't 
like physical therapy, don't like not being able 
to take care of myself, but like the nurses that 
work here

It's not really that much of a list now that I 
look at it, but at least it's something...I 
guess.

~~~~

Fifteen minutes later as I'm eating my dinner, 
something suddenly occurs to me that I hadn't 
thought of before.

If Mary and I were lovers in the past, or even 
married to each other, could it also be possible 
that we have children together, and if so, why 
aren't they looking for us?

Or for that matter, why isn't *anyone* looking 
for us?

Every day I ask the nurses if there have been 
any inquiries about me, and every day they tell 
me no.

Why?

Why does it seem like the only people Mary and 
I have in our lives is each other?

When I first started writing in this notebook, 
I actually thought that there was someone out 
there who missed me and was looking for me. 

No, I was absolutely *certain* that there was, 
but I no longer feel that way now. I've been 
here twelve days, and so far not a single person 
has inquired about my whereabouts or my condition, 
which leads me to believe that maybe I wasn't 
meant to ever be found.

And neither was Mary apparently.

But why?

Do we know something that no one else is supposed 
to know so we've been hidden here where no one 
can find us?

No, that can't be it, or otherwise whoever did 
this to us would've simply killed us instead of
just torturing the hell out of us, then dumping 
us here.

Still, I can't help wondering if maybe the two 
of us are more important than either of us 
realizes.

God, I'm so sick of this crap.

I think I'm finally climbing my way out of a hole, 
and then I fall right back in again.

Is this the way it's always been for me, a constant 
struggle to sort things out about myself, or was 
the life I had before an easy one?

And what about Mary? What's her story?

Judging from the way we reacted to each other the 
two times we talked, we obviously feel a connection 
to one another, but how much do I really know about 
her?

Sure, we were both brought to this hospital under 
mysterious circumstances with similar injuries, 
and we're both trying to regain our strength so 
we can get out of here, but how does she *feel* 
about all that's happened to her?

She told me she's seen me in her dreams, but what 
else does she know about me? About herself?

I've been lucky enough to be able to write down 
my thoughts as a way of trying to put together 
the pieces of my life, but what does she do to 
cope?

Does she feel as lonely and afraid as I do 
sometimes?

"Still writing, I see," says Allie, her voice 
startling me as she walks into the room.

Though I know she won't read what I'm writing, 
I quickly stick my pen inside my notebook and 
close it.

"I'm sure you have a lot to think about after 
talking to Mary today," she says, checking my 
pitcher of water to make sure it's not empty.

"Yeah, I do."

"And you probably didn't get nearly enough time 
with her before she had to go back to her room, 
right?"

I lean back against the pillow and let out a 
sigh. "No, I didn't."

She smiles at me. "Well, I think I might be able 
to help you with that."

I sit up again almost instantly. "You can? How?"

She hands me a piece of paper with some numbers 
on it. "This is Mary's room number, and this is 
the hospital's phone number.  Just dial it and 
ask for her room, but let the phone ring several 
times because it's probably going to take her 
awhile to answer it."

I look down at the numbers, then back up at Allie 
who's still smiling at me. "I told you before, 
Thomas. We want to do whatever we can to help you 
here. Now go ahead and call her before it gets 
too late."

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything...well, to me 
anyway, but I expect you'll have a lot to say 
to Mary once you call her," she says, her eyes 
shining as she gives me a friendly pat on the 
arm.

"Thank you," I say quietly, though inside my 
heart's loudly pounding in anticipation of 
talking to her some more.

"Just let me know if you need anything," she 
says, walking over to the door.
"I will," I reply, though right now the only 
thing I really need is for her to leave so I 
can dial the number on this paper.

Waiting until she's closed the door, I open up 
the notebook on my lap to the page where I left 
off, pick up the phone, then press the buttons.

But what will I say when she answers?

Holding the phone tightly to my ear, I close my 
eyes and hope the right words come when she does.

~~~~

"Hello."

"Ah yeah...hi, Mary," I stutter, not sure what I'm 
supposed to say now that I've actually got her on 
the line.

"Thomas?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"I was hoping it would be," she says without the 
least bit of hesitation.

"You were?"

"Yes, we didn't really get much time to talk 
before."

"No, we didn't."

"Are you okay? You sound different than before."

"Everyone sounds different on the phone than they 
do in person," I say, silently wincing at the 
lameness of my response.

"I guess so."

Okay, so now what am I supposed to say? 'Hey Mary, 
I know we just met, but you got any other deep 
dark memories you want to share with me, and if 
so, could you list them for me over the phone?'

No, I have to take things slow, get to know her 
better, then maybe I can ask her about some more 
personal things.

"Are you sure you're okay, Thomas?"

"I'm fine. I'm just a little surprised that I'm 
actually talking to you, that's all. I thought 
it might be too difficult for you to hold the 
phone, you know, with the way your arms are."

She laughs. "If you thought I couldn't answer the 
phone, then why'd you call me?" 

Both her laughter and question catch me off guard, 
but I like that she already feels comfortable 
enough to joke with me. "What?"

"You said you thought I might not be able to answer 
and hold the phone, yet you chose to call me anyway. 
Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you again," I answer, surprised 
at how easy it is to be honest with her. 

"Well, I wanted to talk to you too."

I smile. "So, how are you holding onto the phone 
anyway?"

"Pillows."

"Pillows?"

"When you called me, my nurse wedged two pillows 
by my left side, then propped my arm up on the 
lower one and placed the phone on the one up by 
my head."

"Is that the same nurse who brought you to the 
sunroom to meet me before?"

"No, this is a different one. I can't believe 
how good they've been to me since I've been here. 
I mean, the doctors and therapists have been nice 
to me too, but it's the nurses who have really 
made me feel comfortable...and safe."

"And *do* you feel safe here?" I ask, wondering 
if there'd ever been a time since she'd been 
brought here when she *didn't* feel safe.

"What do you mean?"

"Since you were brought here, have you ever felt 
like you weren't safe, like maybe somebody was 
going to come take you away from here in the 
middle of the night?"

I hear a hitch in her breath, followed by a soft
reply. "Sometimes."

I think back to all the nightmares I've had since 
I've been here, all the times I've awakened in 
a cold sweat, all the nights I've lain awake in 
bed, wondering if They're going to come and take 
me away again, and I understand exactly how she 
feels.

"Me too," I say softly.

"Really?"

"The hardest part is when I'm trying to fall 
asleep at night.  My mind starts thinking about 
all these *things*, and I can't seem to shut it 
off."

"I know what you mean. When I'm lying here in 
the dark at night, it seems like every sound I 
hear and every shadow I see is out to get me. 
It's silly, I know, but even though the hospital 
has a good security system, I can't help feeling 
a little paranoid." 
 
"Me too, but sometimes watching TV helps," I 
suggest. "I know they don't have the greatest 
channel selection here, but there are some pretty 
good movies on late at night if you can find them."

"And some bad ones," she interjects.

"You watch movies too?" I ask, pleasantly surprised 
by her admission.

"Sometimes, but like you said, there's usually not 
a whole lot to choose from at 2:00 in the morning."

"Hey, did you see that movie that was on last night 
'Men in Black?' It was about a secret organization 
that kept track of alien activity here on Earth. 
Some of it was kind of corny, but I have to admit 
I did find the idea of there being aliens living 
everywhere and us not being aware of it kind of 
intriguing."

"You're kidding me, right? Do you really think it's 
possible that somewhere out there there's a secret 
group of men monitoring the activities of aliens?"

"I think anything's possible, Mary."

"Really?"

"Yes, don't you?"

"I believe there's a reason why certain things 
happen in our lives, yes, but I'm not sure if I 
agree with you that *anything* is possible."

"Well, what about us then?"

"What do you mean?"

"What are the chances we'd both end up in this 
place under almost the same set of circumstances?"

"Okay, but what you're saying has to do with 
chances, not possibilities."

"By definition, a chance is the possibility of 
a particular outcome in an uncertain situation, 
which means that the two words are interconnected...
and the last time I checked, we both agreed that 
there was a very strong *chance* we shared a past 
together and that we were both brought here for 
the same reason. Now correct me if I'm wrong here, 
but I'd say that makes us a prime example of the 
'anything is possible' theory."

She doesn't say anything then, but I can tell she's 
considering what I said.

That, or she's trying to think of the best way to 
tell me I'm a smart ass and then hang up on me.

In either case, I can't really explain it, but I 
just felt the oddest sense of déjà vu about what's 
going on here with us. Somehow it feels like we've 
done something like this before, maybe even had a 
conversation similar to this one, yet I can't quite 
put my finger on *why* it feels that way. I know 
it feels familiar though.

And I know that I like it.

"I understand what you're saying, Thomas," she 
finally says. "But I'm not sure I agree with it."

And I'm not sure I want to end this conversation
yet, but I've heard her yawn at least three times 
in the last five minutes, not to mention the fact
that it's probably starting to get uncomfortable 
for her to keep the phone propped up against her 
ear like it is.

"I should probably let you get some rest now," I 
say, suddenly changing the subject.

And surprisingly, she lets me.

"I am feeling kind of tired," she admits, trying
to stifle another yawn. "I'm really glad you 
called me tonight, Thomas."

And I'm glad I called too because even though we 
didn't really discuss any of the things I originally 
wanted to talk to her about, I do feel like I got 
to know her better.

"I'd like to talk with you some more tomorrow...
if that's all right," I say hopefully.

"I'd like that."

"Do you think you can get one of the nurses to 
bring you to the sunroom again so I can see you?"

"I think so."

"Then tomorrow it is. I'll call you in the morning,
okay?"

"Okay, but it may take me a while to answer the 
phone."

"I can wait," I say, letting out a yawn of my own.

"I guess I'm not the only one who's tired, huh?"

"No, I guess not," I agree, letting my head sink 
even deeper into the pillow. "Get a good night's 
rest, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"You too. Good night, Thomas."

"'Night, Mary."

After hanging up and setting the phone back on 
the receiver, I look over at the clock and stretch 
my arms above my head, then flop back against the 
pillow. It's too early to call it a night, but 
I'm too tired to do any writing in my notebook 
so I grab the remote and turn on the TV instead.

Flipping through the channels twice, I finally 
decide to leave it on CNN, but unlike most nights 
when I can easily watch TV for hours, my eyelids 
are so heavy I can barely keep them open long 
enough to watch the sports news.

And so I close them, letting myself drift off to 
sleep to the sounds of baseball scores and the 
quiet beating of my own heart.

~~~~

I'm in the After Room again.

Unlike the other times I've been here, the lights 
are really bright, and none of those strange women 
with the long fingers are hovering over me or 
poking at my body.

But I'm not alone.
There are rows of tables on both sides of me with 
people strapped to them. Although they appear to 
be quietly sleeping, I'm almost certain that their 
dreams are anything but peaceful.

From what I can tell, I also appear to be the only 
person among them who's awake and who's not strapped 
down.

And so I get up and start walking, moving between
the rows of tables and examining the bodies that
are lying on them. There are both men and women 
here, and they're all wearing the same solid white 
hospital-type gowns.

They're also all hooked up to a long tube-like 
device, and although I know that what's happening
to them is wrong, I can't even begin to understand
it.

Or if I even want to.

Making my way around the rest of the room and 
looking down into the pale faces of the men and 
women on the tables, I start feeling nauseous, 
and I put my hand over my mouth, hoping that 
it's enough to keep the contents of my stomach 
from rising up into my throat.

But it isn't enough, not when I look over to my
left and see who's lying on the table right in 
front of me.

Her hair is red, her face nearly white, and her 
arms imprinted with an angry collage of purple, 
green, and black bruises.

"Mary," I whisper, trying to push down the half
digested food bubbling at the base of my throat. 
"What happened to you?" I ask, bending over her
and gently cupping my hand around her cheek. 
"Why would They do this to you?"

"Because we can," replies the large man now 
standing behind me.

~~~~

"Oomph..." I mumble, my eyes flying open as I jerk 
upright in bed.

The image of Mary lying in front of me so battered 
and bruised is like a punch to the gut, and I slump 
forward, wrapping my arms around my waist.

How could They be so cruel?

And why?

Forcing myself to breathe, I turn on the light 
above my bed and look around the room. Although 
I know I'm no longer in that horrible place and 
that I'm safe here, I can't seem to stop my hands 
from shaking and keep my heart from beating in 
triple-time.

"Hey Thomas, I didn't expect to see you up this
early," says Laura, startling me as she saunters 
into my room.

I quickly look over at the clock and see that 
it's only a little after 4:00 a.m., nearly three 
hours before I usually wake up.

"More bad dreams?" she asks, walking over beside 
my bed and taking hold of my wrist to check my 
pulse. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

No, not a ghost, Laura. 

Something far more insidious than that, I think 
to myself as I try to get my breathing under 
control.

"And it feels like you've just been chasing one," 
she remarks, frowning at me as she lifts her 
fingers from my wrist.

"So, what's goin' on, Thomas? Your pulse hasn't 
been this fast in a long time." She puts her palm 
on my forehead, then feels the pulse in my neck. 
"Just relax, okay? Now lie back and take some 
deep breaths," she orders, pressing the button 
on my bed so it reclines more.

I do as she says, inhaling and exhaling as slowly 
as I can, but it doesn't seem to be working. 

I can still see Mary lying there motionless, her 
body battered and abused in a way no one should 
have to endure.

"Now are you going to calm down and tell me what's 
going on, or do I have to guess?"

"I can't."

"You can't? Why not?" she asks, her expression 
filled with concern. She leans down closer to my 
face. "You remembered something else, didn't you?"

Yes, I did, but right now all I want to do is 
forget.

"No," I lie.
"Well, it must've been some dream then. Wanna talk 
about it?" she asks, lifting her fingers off my 
wrist for the last time, then looking down at her 
watch.

"No," I reply, turning my back to her as I roll 
over onto my side.

Apparently satisfied with my pulse rate this time, 
she gives me a comforting pat on my shoulder and 
says, "You know where you can reach me if you need 
me. Now try to go back to sleep, okay?"

"I'll try."

"I'll check in on you again in a couple of hours," 
she says, turning off the light above my bed, then 
heading towards the door.

I wait until she leaves the room, then sit up in 
bed again and turn the light back on. Grabbing my 
notebook and pen from the table, I open up to the 
pages where I've been writing down my memories and 
quickly jot down everything I can remember about 
the After Room.

So far I've written about thirty pages of memories,
and although I haven't been able to piece it all
together yet, it is my hope that if I keep writing
things down and rereading them, that eventually
everything will fall into place, and I'll be able
to figure out not only who I am, but what *really* 
happened to me.

And to Mary.

I know that we were both in the same place. I know
that we were both given injuries, although I don't 
know why, and though I haven't remembered anything
specific yet, I know that we share a past together.

But what is that past, and why is it taking us both 
so long to remember it?

Could it be possible that what happened to us was 
so traumatic that we're subconsciously hindering 
our own efforts to remember it?

Maybe.

Or maybe something was done to us so that we 
*can't* remember.

Either way, I just want it all to end so we can 
start living again.
But how much longer will we have to wait?

~~~~

The next time I open my eyes, my body's drenched 
in sweat, every muscle in my body aches, and I 
feel dizzy.

I don't remember feeling this way when I finally 
went back to sleep around 5:30, but now it hurts 
to even turn my head.

Reaching for the remote, I grimace and snatch it 
from the night stand at the same time, then press 
the call button.

A moment later, someone answers.

"You need something, Thomas?" asks a familiar 
voice over the speaker.

I press the button again. "I don't...feel well," 
I manage to sputter.

"I'll be right there," Allie answers.

Letting the remote slip from my hand, I grip the 
sides of the bed, close my eyes, and try to keep 
the room from spinning.

~~~~

The first thing I notice about the room I'm in 
is how cold it is.

And white.

It's so white, it's almost blinding, and I have 
to squint my eyes to see anything, although the 
only thing I can really see is the floor.

I'm on a table again, but instead of being on my 
back, I'm on my stomach. My head is being held 
in place by pins in the sides of my neck, and my 
face is looking down through a hole about three 
feet above the floor.

I can hear voices behind me, the shuffle of feet
below me, but I'm not sure who's talking or how
many of Them there are.

And the pain in my neck is unbearable.

All around me the air feels cold, but in the center 
of my neck at my hairline it burns as if it's had 
acid poured on it.

I don't recall feeling a liquid sensation being
poured on me, but something was done to it to make 
my skin feel so raw and exposed.

What the hell did They do to me this time?

I try to open my mouth to say something, but my 
throat burns too, and all I can do is listen and 
wait for it to be over.

And apparently it isn't over yet, judging from 
what I feel next.

A knife slicing through my skin, first to the
right, then down and left and up again, making
a perfect square on the back of my neck.

"This'll change everything," I hear a voice say, 
but I can't quite tell if it's a man or a woman.

"Yes, it will," I hear a lower voice reply, and
this time I can tell it's definitely a man 
speaking.

The same large man I heard before when I had the
nightmare about Mary.

"Once we put this chip in his neck, he'll be 
wiped clean," the unidentifiable voice says.

Wiped clean? Does he mean what I think he does?

Oh...my...God...

"And so will she," the large man says.

The next thing I hear is the sound of him walking
over to the right of me. I try to turn my head 
so I can see what he's doing, but the pins in my 
neck press even deeper into my flesh the moment 
I start moving.

And so I reluctantly stop.

"It's a shame too. Such a beautiful woman shouldn't 
have to be altered this way," he adds, his voice 
dull and mechanical sounding.

"But they both know too much and have to be dealt
with," interjects a third voice as he roughly 
inserts the chip into the back of my neck. "It's 
what has to be done."

The sensation of the tiny object inside my body 
is excruciating, but I squeeze my eyes shut and 
bite hard on my lip, trying to tamp down the pain 
so They don't know I'm listening to what They're 
saying. 

"Once she wakes up, she won't even know it's there, 
especially with all this red hair covering it."

What did he say? Something about red hair?

My pulse instantly speeds up then, and my eyes fly 
open as the implications of what he's saying sink 
in.

Mary.

She's in this room too. I know it.

She's on the table next to me, and They're going
to do the same thing to her that They just did 
to me.

But why?

Because we know too much? Because we'll expose 
Their precious secrets? 

What is so goddamn important that They have to 
take away our memories?

"Mary!" I scream as loudly as I can, not caring 
how much my throat burns or how hard the pins 
push into my neck as I struggle to break free 
from the table. "Leave her alone, you bastards!" 

But the next thing I feel is the sharp jab of a 
needle in my lower back.

And the next thing I see is the bright white of 
the floor fading into black.

-------------------------------------------------

six--


 
"Mary...get away...don't hurt her..."

"Thomas," says a muffled voice.

"Gotta get out of here...Mary..."

"It's okay. *You're* okay. Come on, Thomas. Wake 
up," the woman's voice tenderly says.

And so I do.

"Umphh..." I grunt as my body awkwardly jerks 
upright, and my eyes rapidly blink, trying to 
adjust to the sudden onslaught of light shining 
through the window. "Where am I?" I ask, rubbing 
my eyes with my fingers, then quickly looking 
around the room.

"You're in the hospital, in your room, and you're
okay, although you've got a pretty nasty fever 
going right now," replies Allie, whose voice I 
recognize and whose face I now remember. "Just 
lie back and calm down, okay?" she adds, gently 
pushing on my shoulders. "I need to check out a 
few things. Do you know who I am?"

"Allie." I puff out my cheeks and slowly exhale.
"What happened?" I ask, resting my hand on my 
chest and realizing that not only is my heart 
beating like a jackhammer, but I'm completely 
covered in sweat.

She puts a cool washcloth on my forehead, takes 
the blood pressure cuff down from its holder on 
the wall and starts to wrap it around my arm. 
"You don't remember calling me before?"

"No."

"You called me on the speaker and told me you 
weren't feeling well, and five minutes later 
when I came in here, you were passed out and 
mumbling something about Mary.  Did you have 
another bad dream?" 

She turns on the machine just as she's done 
dozens of times before, and as I feel the cuff 
tightening around my arm, then hear the hiss 
of air as it slowly releases its grip, it all 
comes back to me.

And I remember.

I remember exactly what I was dreaming about, and 
I suddenly sit up again. "Where's Mary? I need 
to talk to Mary," I say excitedly as I throw the 
covers off my legs.

"Hold on there, buddy. You're not going anywhere,"
orders Allie as she steps closer to my bed and 
blocks my way.

"But you don't understand. I *have* to see her. 
I have to talk to her about something."
"No, *you* don't understand. You have a fever of 
102.4, and your blood pressure's through the roof, 
Thomas. You're not leaving this room to go anywhere 
right now," she says firmly.

"But I have to talk to her. It's really important," 
I plead, still trying to get off the bed even though 
I know I'm not going to get very far if I actually 
do. 

"I don't care how important it is. Now get back in 
this bed before I have to do something I'd rather 
not do," she orders as she carefully lifts my legs 
back up and places them on the bed.

I'm too weak to fight her.

She picks up the washcloth that had fallen onto 
the bed when I sat up, presses it against my 
forehead, then lets go. "Hold this, and keep it 
here. It'll help, I promise."

Again, I'm too dizzy and too tired to protest, 
and I do as she says, holding the still cool wash 
cloth against my forehead, then laying my head 
back on the pillow.

Next she hands me a cup with two pills in it along 
with a glass of water. "And this'll help your fever 
too."

I lift my head up so I can swallow the pills which 
I can see are Tylenol, then drink just enough water 
to get them down. 

She takes the empty pill cup and tosses it into 
the trash, and sets the half full glass down on 
the rolling table. Then she pulls a chair over 
next to my bed, sits down, and calmly says, "You 
remembered something else about why you're here, 
didn't you?"

I nod my head.

"And it involves Mary, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and that's why I really need to talk to 
her. I need to know if what I remember really 
happened and if she remembers it too," I explain, 
trying to stay calm so she'll listen to me.

"I understand how frustrating this is for you, 
but you're in no condition to be traipsing 
around this hospital talking with other patients 
right now, not with a fever this high."

"How can you understand? You're not the one 
stuck in this bed day after day...remembering 
bits and pieces of what may or may not be your 
life," I angrily snap back, twisting a piece 
of the blanket in my hand.

She leans forward, lightly places her hand on 
my wrist. "I want to help you, I do, Thomas, 
but my top priority is to make sure you're 
comfortable and that you're recovering properly."

I slowly sit up again. "You really want to help 
me, Allie?" 

"Of course, I do...if it's within reason," she 
qualifies, raising her left eyebrow.

"Then I need you to check something for me," I 
say, nervously tugging on the collar of my pajamas.

She looks at me, tilts her head, confused by what 
I'm doing. "What is it?" she asks suspiciously.

Turning my back to her and lowering my head, I 
quietly reply, "I need you to check the back of 
my neck."

~~~~

"There seems to be a small scar here," says Allie, 
pressing her finger on the base of my neck. "It's 
almost completely faded, but it looks like a tiny 
square."

Heat now radiating from every pore in my body, 
I feel so light-headed I think I'm going to pass 
out.
"Are you sure?" I ask weakly as I wipe the sweat 
from my forehead.

She lifts her hand from my neck, gently lowers 
my head back on the pillow. "There's definitely 
something there, although I'm not sure what," she 
replies, patting my cheeks and the sides of my 
neck with the wet washcloth. "Do you know what 
it's from?"

Well, you see, it's like this.

Someone took me somewhere and stuck something 
in my neck so I wouldn't remember anything about 
myself or my life, and then they did the same 
thing to Mary.

How's that for an answer?

"Thomas? Did you hear me?" she asks, pressing two 
fingers to my wrist and checking my pulse again.

"I heard you," I say softly.

She looks at me, the look on her face filled with 
both confusion and concern.

"What is it? Do you know how you got this scar?"

"I'm not sure," I reply, wanting to talk about 
what happened to me, but not now.

And not with her.

"I need to see Mary," I say, suddenly sitting up
again. "I need to talk to her, and I need to..."

Grabbing my arms, Allie holds me back so I can't
get up, and says, "I told you before. You're not
going anywhere right now, not in the condition 
you're in."

"But I have to see her. I have to see her now."

"No, you have to calm down."

"I don't want to calm down!" I protest, struggling
to get up, even though I know there's not a chance 
in hell of me getting out of this bed by myself 
and making it all the way to Mary's room. 

"You're sick, Thomas, and getting yourself upset
like this isn't going to help you...or Mary," 
she says, firmly pressing my shoulders back onto 
the bed.

Hearing her use Mary's name like that, knowing 
that it will get me to stop struggling with her 
irritates me even more, and before I can stop 
myself, I let loose. 

"What do you know about Mary? What do you know 
about any of this? You're not the one who's been 
stuck in this bed for two weeks, not knowing who 
the hell you are or where you came from. And 
you're not the one who's had a goddamn chip 
shoved in the back of your neck!" I shout, my 
hand trembling as I angrily slap my palm against 
the mattress.

Her eyes widen at my outburst, but she remains 
calm.  "You're right, I don't know what you've 
been through, but I know what my job is, and 
that's to make sure that you're comfortable and
that you're healing from your injuries properly." 

"How can I feel comfortable when you won't let me 
talk to the one person I need to talk to?" I weakly 
argue, letting out a long breath as I wipe more 
sweat from my face and neck.

"I never said you couldn't talk to Mary. You just 
can't go see her now, not in the shape you're in," 
she says as she takes the blood pressure cuff off 
its holder on the wall and wraps it around my arm 
again.

"Something is causing you to have this fever, and 
until it goes down, you're not going anywhere." 
She puts the stethoscope into her ears and listens 
while I take deep breaths, hoping that it'll help 
me get a better reading.

Taking off the stethoscope, she frowns as she 
removes the cuff from my arm. "160 over 96. That's 
not good, Thomas," she says bluntly.

I think back to what some of my other readings 
have been over the past week, and none of them 
were ever this high. "What does it mean?" I ask,
already knowing I'm not going to like the answer.

"It means that if you don't calm yourself down, 
you could end up in a lot worse condition than 
you already are," she replies matter-of-factly. 
"Now I'm going to talk to Dr. Adams about what's 
going on and have him take a look at you. It 
could be that some of your stitches have gotten 
infected, it could simply be that you ate 
something that didn't agree with you...it could 
be anything, really."

I hear everything she's saying, and I know that 
I have to try to relax, but I'm so warm and my 
muscles ache and my stomach is churning and all 
I want to do is talk to Mary.

I have to talk to Mary.

I have to tell her about the chip They put in the 
back of my neck and I have to tell her about the 
one that's probably in hers and I have to look 
at her neck and see for sure if it's there and 
I have to get it out of her and out of me and I 
have to...

My mind is racing and my head is pounding and 
my neck burns and oh God, I'm going to be sick...
I'm going to be so sick...

And then I am, leaning over just far enough to 
the side so that the contents of my stomach land 
on the floor instead of my bed.

"Damn it," I hear Allie say as she throws my 
chart over on the chair, then quickly grabs my 
call button. "Ann, I need some help in here with 
Thomas...stat."

"My neck hurts," I mumble, my eyelids half open,
my hands gripping the sheets as another wave of 
nausea suddenly washes over me.

Managing to roll over onto my side, I expel some
more of my insides, though not as much as before.

"What's going on in here?" I hear a woman's voice
say from behind me.

"He's got a fever over 102, BP is 160 over 96,"
replies Allie, wiping off my mouth, then grabbing
the bedpan from the bottom drawer of the night
stand.

"I'll try to find Dr. Adams," the other nurse 
says as she takes a quick look at the mess I 
made on the floor, then heads for the door. "And 
I'll get something to clean this up," she adds.

"It'll be okay, Thomas," Allie reassures me, 
though I can hear the anxiety in her voice. "Just 
try to take some deep breaths and relax. The 
doctor will be here soon, and then we'll figure 
out what's making you sick." 

I try to focus on her face and on what she's 
telling me to do, but I can't keep my eyes open 
and I can't stop my neck from burning and my 
chest is so tight I can't breathe and I can't 
breathe and I...can't...breathe...

"Thomas? Can you hear me?"

I can hear you, Allie.

"Come on, Thomas. Hang in there with me."

I'm trying, but my head hurts and my neck hurts 
and I don't know how to make it stop...I just 
want it to stop...please make it all stop...

And then it does.

And I'm falling, falling, falling through a deep
dark hole and landing right in the middle of a 
large smoke-filled room.

Still dazed from the fall, I rub my eyes, and 
slowly pick myself up off the floor, and there 
standing in front of me is a tall man in an 
ugly suit, a cigarette smugly pressed between 
his thumb and index finger.

"Agent Mulder, how nice of you to drop in. I've 
been expecting you."

~~~~

I stare at the man in front of me, trying to figure 
out who he is, but I haven't a clue.

"You're looking a little thin these days, Agent 
Mulder," he says, taking a drag from his cigarette. 
"That's not surprising though, given the 
circumstances."

"What circumstances, and who's Agent Mulder?" I 
ask, moving my hand in front of my face to brush 
away the smoke.

"Why it's you, of course," he replies simply.

"My name is Thomas."

"Ah yes, Thomas. Nice name, but it's not you." He 
walks around me, puffs on his cigarette, studies 
me from all angles. "From what I understand, 
Thomas has been in a hospital in Virginia for 
the past two weeks...and clearly that's not where 
you are right now."

I squint my eyes, trying to see through the thin 
layer of smoke surrounding me. "Where am I?"

"You don't recognize it?"

"Should I?"

"It's where it all began," he says, reaching over 
and flipping a switch. "Here, let me show you."

The smoke around me lifts, giving me a clearer 
view of the room I'm in.

It's a white room, so white it's almost blinding,
and though it seems familiar, I can't quite figure 
out whether I've been here before or not.

"What is this place?"

"I told you. This is where it began for you, where 
your life was changed...and for the better, I 
might add."

"I don't understand."

"You never did, Agent Mulder. You never understood 
that what we were doing was for the benefit of 
everyone. You just always assumed that what we 
were doing was for ourselves, when in fact, we 
were trying to help the American people."

"The American people? What are you talking about, 
and why do you keep calling me Agent Mulder? I 
told you my name is Thomas. I was tortured, then 
dumped at this hospital, which is where I've been 
for the past few weeks."

"From what I can see you look the same as you 
always do. Same dour demeanor. Same look of 
contempt towards me. Even the same kind of suit 
you always wear."

I listen to what he's saying, trying to make it 
all register in my brain, but everything's all 
jumbled, and nothing makes sense.

I look the same as I always do?

How can that be true when I've been stuck in bed 
for weeks? How can I be standing here on two 
perfectly normal legs when I know how battered 
and bruised they are?

And why the hell am I wearing a suit?
"You look a little confused, although I guess 
that's understandable given what you've been 
through. Would a cigarette help?" he asks, 
pulling out a pack from his pocket and offering 
me one.

"I don't smoke."

"Ah yes, I forgot. Agent Mulder doesn't smoke, 
but perhaps Thomas does," he says, holding the 
pack closer to my face.

Do I?

There are so many other things about myself that 
I don't know. Could the fact that I'm a smoker 
be one of them, or is this man just messing with 
my mind?

Either way, I could use something to calm my nerves, 
and maybe a cigarette *would* help.

He hands me one, and I put it in my mouth, watching 
as it takes him less than five seconds to light it. 
Obviously he's used a lighter a few times over the  
years.

I take a long drag from it, then immediately start 
coughing and hitting my palm against my chest.

"I guess Thomas isn't a smoker either," he says 
sardonically.

I quickly toss the cigarette down, step on it, and 
grind it into the floor.

"Who are you?" I ask, still trying to wrap my brain 
around this complete change of events. 

"Someone who wants to help you," he replies, dropping 
his own cigarette to the floor, then twisting his 
shoe on top of it. 

"How can you help me?"

"Come work for me, and I can make all your problems 
go away."

"What do you know about my problems?" I ask.

"You want your life back, don't you, Thomas?"

"I thought you said my name was Agent Mulder." "It 
is. You're Special Agent Fox Mulder, and you work 
for the FBI."

Me, an agent with the FBI? 

How is that possible, or for that matter, how is 
any of this possible?

The last thing I remember is being in a hospital
bed with a high fever, high blood pressure, and
throwing up all over the floor and now this man,
this stranger, is telling me that I work for the
FBI.

This has to be a dream. It just has to be.

Doesn't it?

"You do want your life back, don't you?" he asks,
taking out another cigarette.

"Right now I don't know what I want."

"It's not about what you want, Agent Mulder. It's
about what you need. It's about your need for the
truth," he says, taking a step closer. "And I can
give it to you. The lost memories, the torture 
you claim to have suffered, the injuries to your 
partner...I can make it all go away and tell you 
the things you want to know."

"My partner? What the hell are you talking about?"

I ask, rubbing my forehead in frustration.

He tilts his head, takes another drag, a longer 
one this time. "Surely you know who Scully is."

I close my eyes and concentrate, desperately 
trying to search the few memories I have for 
something, anything, that will give me a 
connection to what this man is talking about.

But there's nothing for me to hold onto.

And no one there to remember.

Again.

Opening my eyes back up, I blankly look at him 
and ask, "Who's Scully?"

~~~~

"Agent Dana Scully has been your partner at the 
FBI for quite some time now. We sent her to you 
to debunk your work, but despite our best efforts, 
she became quite fond of both you and what you 
do. Sound familiar, Agent Mulder?" asks the old 
man, lighting up yet another cigarette.

Agent Scully. Agent Mulder.

The names sound strange to me, the circumstances 
even stranger.

All the notes I've written in my notebook these 
past weeks, all the late-night speculation, all 
the wondering about my true identity...is it 
possible that this man could be telling me the 
truth, that I really do work for the FBI and that 
I have a partner named Scully? 

If so, then why hasn't she been searching for 
me, or for that matter, why hasn't she *found* 
me yet?

"I see you're wondering about the validity of 
my claims," he says, taking another drag, then 
slowly releasing a thin stream of smoke. "I'm 
not surprised. You've never trusted me, Mulder, 
and I suspect you never will, despite the fact 
that I've saved your life."

I rub my forehead, squint my eyes. "You've saved 
my life? How?" 

"You don't remember?"

What the hell's wrong with this guy?  Hasn't he 
been listening to anything I've been saying?

I don't remember my name. I don't remember this 
Scully person who's supposedly so important to 
me.

And I sure as hell don't know who he is or what 
possible reason he could have for saving my life, 
which leads me to believe that maybe none of the 
things he's telling me are true.

"I need to get out of here," I say suddenly, my 
eyes darting around the room, looking for a door.
"And no, I don't remember."

"Again, I'm not surprised, given all that you've
been through over the years. Being shot, drugged,
tested on, cut into...it's amazing that you're 
even here talking to me right now. Then again, I 
really shouldn't be, since I'm the one who made 
it all possible."

"You're saying you're responsible for the fact 
that I'm standing here right now?" I ask, amazed 
at the audacity of the man standing in front of 
me.

He smiles, takes another puff. "I'm responsible 
for many things concerning you...and Agent Scully."

"And I think you're full of shit," I say, bumping
his shoulder as I hurry past him towards what 
appears to be an exit about twenty feet to the
left of him.

"Think what you want, Agent Mulder, but how do you 
know that what I'm saying about you isn't true? 
If you are this Thomas person you claim to be, then 
why are you still here talking to me, trying to 
find out more?" He walks over to me, leans against 
the counter. "Because you need to know the truth, 
that's why. You've always needed to know. It's 
what drives you, what makes you who you are."

"You don't know me," I snap back, anxious to get 
away from him, yet curious to find out more. 
"You're just someone in my dreams trying to mess 
with my mind."

"Am I?"

He had to be.

Why else would he be saying these things to me, 
trying to make me believe things about myself 
that aren't true?

And if I really do have a partner, why the hell
hasn't she come by to see me at the hospital yet?

No, he was definitely a part of some twisted dream 
or hallucination I was having, not a part of my 
real life.

Then again, how did he know that my name was 
Thomas and that I was in the hospital?

"I can see that you're still having trouble 
believing that what I'm saying is true. Let me 
assure you that it most definitely is. Here, 
let me give you something that might change your 
mind," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket 
and pulling out what appears to be a photograph, 
then handing it to me.

Cautiously turning the photo over in my hand, 
my heart skips a beat, and my mouth immediately 
drops open the moment I see who it is.

It's a picture of Mary, and she's lying on a table 
much like one I've been on before, her wrists and 
ankles strapped in place, her body cut and bruised.

"How did you get this?" I demand, my chest tightening 
as I shove the photo in his face. "What did you do 
to her?"

"Ah, so predictable. I should've known you'd react 
this way. You always were so impulsive."

"Goddamn it, how'd you get this picture of Mary?!" 
I shout, grabbing his jacket lapels and pushing 
him against the counter. 

My heart is thumping in triple time now, my cheeks 
burning at the thought of Mary lying there, hurt 
and unable to move while someone cruelly took a 
picture of her.

"I can understand why you're so upset about seeing 
this picture, especially since it's your partner 
you're looking at," he says smugly. "She's endured 
a lot because of you."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," 
I say, letting go of his jacket, then giving him 
one more shove into the counter before taking a 
step back. "This is a picture of Mary. Now tell 
me what you've done to her."

He calmly steps away from the counter, smooths his 
rumpled jacket, straightens his tie, then replies, 
"I haven't done anything with her because that's 
not who this is."

"The hell it isn't," I argue, both my voice and 
my hands shaking now. "It's Mary, my friend from 
the hospital."
 
It's not Mary, Agent Mulder," he says calmly, 
taking the photograph out of my hand, then 
setting it on the counter. "It's your partner, 
Dana Scully."

~~~~

I don't know what to believe anymore.

Of course, it's not like I had that much to hold 
onto to begin with, but I thought that I had at 
least one person I could believe in, and now he's 
telling me that Mary doesn't even exist, that her 
name is really Dana and that she's my FBI partner.

Bringing the photo up closer to my face, I study 
the woman strapped to the table.

Her body is battered, her eyes dark and puffy, but 
I know her. I know her hair and her voice and her 
kind heart.

It's Mary, and no one can tell me differently.

"You're lying," I say simply, shoving the picture 
back into the old man's hand.

"You don't believe me?" he asks, looking down at
the photograph.

I don't believe him, but I'm not about to let him 
know that. I can't let him know how confused I am.

Instead I play along.

"And why should I believe you?" I ask, standing
up taller. "It's not like you're going to tell me 
anything I don't already know, so come on, old man, 
tell me about this alleged partner of mine," I 
dare him.
"What do you want to know?" 

What do I want to know?

Do I really want to stand here and listen to him 
prattle on about my imaginary partner and about 
how he *protected* us?

Do I really want to hear him tell me how much she 
lost because of me?

Or do I just want to get the hell out of here and 
find Mary?

I'll take door number three please.

"Trust me, Agent Mulder. She's your partner," he 
says, lighting up yet another cigarette. "I should 
know. I set the whole thing up."

"What do you mean you 'set the whole thing up'?"
I ask impatiently.

"I made it possible. I brought her in to join you 
on the X-Files," he says as if it's all so obvious.

Well, it isn't obvious to me. 

He's mentioned these so-called *X-Files* several 
times, and I don't have a clue about what they 
are.

"These X-Files, what are they?" I ask, my curiosity 
piqued despite the fact that I'm repulsed by the 
man standing in front of me and want to get back 
to Mary as soon as possible.

"They're your life's work, your Holy Grail, so 
to speak, and they have been for quite some time 
now," he answers. "I brought Scully in to rein 
you in a bit, get you to see that there are 
things happening in the world other than all 
these government conspiracies you seem to think 
are going on."

Government conspiracies?

I thought FBI agents investigated case files that 
needed to be solved.

"I can see that you're confused. Perhaps I can 
clear things up for you," he said, gesturing 
towards a door behind him that I don't remember 
being there before. "If you'll come with me, I 
can show you what you want to know."

I look over at his shoulder at the door, at the 
odd-looking doorknob on it. "Why should I trust 
you?"

"Because I know the truth...and because you 
*need* to know it."

The truth.

There's that phrase again.

I've heard it in my dreams several times since 
I've been at the hospital, and I heard it again 
just moments ago from him.

"It's not about what you want, Agent Mulder. 
It's about what you need. It's about your need 
for the truth," he'd told me when I first got 
here.

But why does he keep saying it, and what does 
it mean?

Is it possible that all the things he's been 
telling me are true?

No, they can't be.

I was right before when I thought this whole 
thing was in my head and that he was manipulating 
my mind into believing something that could never 
be true.

There's no way I work for the FBI, and there's 
no way in hell that I could've been drugged, shot, 
cut into, and tested like some sort of lab rat, 
and not remember it.

Still, the chance that he can show me something
that will clear this whole thing up is too great 
for me to ignore.

But only if he gives me what I want first.

"Okay, I'll come with you...but only if I can see
Mary first," I say, trying to sound tough.

"You mean Agent Scully," he corrects me.

"I mean *Mary*," I say firmly, suddenly swatting 
the cigarette right out of his mouth. 

His eyes widen with surprise, but only for a 
moment, which pisses me off even more.

"Now either you take me to see her, or the whole 
thing's off and you can play your cute little 
mind games with some other FBI agent," I add, 
roughly grabbing the lapels on his suit again 
as I've had just about enough of his smugness.

"Ahh...now there's the Mulder I know," he says, 
a twisted smile creeping across his face. "Making 
empty threats that you have no intention of 
carrying through on." He steps back from me, 
straightens his suit jacket. "I knew you were 
in there somewhere."

"And I knew you were a liar the moment I saw you," 
I snap back as I turn around and start to walk 
away, hoping that I'm doing the right thing and 
not blowing my only chance to find out why I'm 
here.

Expecting him to come after me or at least say 
something to try to get me to stay, I'm surprised 
when I hear nothing.

And so I stop walking, not because I have one 
last thing to say to him, but because I have a 
sudden need to make sure that he was really here 
and that the conversation we had wasn't just in
my mind.

Anxiously turning around, I look at the spot where 
he was standing just moments ago.

But he's gone.

And so is the door that was behind him.

There's nothing left but an empty room and the 
stale odor of cigarette smoke.

--------------------------------------------------

seven--



"Hey you, you still in there?" I hear someone ask, 
though I'm not sure whose voice it is.

"It's okay. You can open your eyes," she says. 
"You're safe here."

Her voice sounds muffled, but comforting and so I 
do what she says. My eyes now open, I see a woman's 
face in front of me, a relieved expression on her 
face.

"Hey Thomas, it's good to see you again. I thought 
maybe you were going to sleep the whole day away," 
she says, smiling as she takes hold of my wrist, 
puts her thumb on my pulse point.

"Where am I?" I ask, trying to keep my heavy lids 
open long enough to look around the room and at 
the monitors next to my bed.

"You're in the hospital. Don't you remember?"

I close my eyes again, trying to remember, and 
then unfortunately I do.

Someone beat the hell out of me. Stole my memories. 
Put something in the back of my neck, then dumped 
me here.

"I remember...Allie," I whisper, suddenly realizing 
that I know the woman taking care of me.

She smiles again, lets go of my wrist, writes on 
my chart. "Ah, I knew you wouldn't forget your 
favorite nurse."

"What happened to me?" I ask, raising my head off 
the pillow and looking at the tube poking into 
the back of my hand, the blood pressure cuff on 
my arm.

"We think you had some sort of allergic reaction, 
which in and of itself really isn't all that 
unusual, given the different kinds of medications 
you've been on since you got here," she replies 
as she leans over and checks my IV line.

"What do you mean you *think* I had an allergic
reaction? Either I did, or I didn't," I say, 
already a lot more alert than I was just moments 
ago.

"At this point, we're not quite sure," she says, 
pressing the button on my bed remote so I'm more 
upright. "It was the strangest thing. One moment 
we were talking about a mark on the back of your 
neck, and the next thing I know your blood pressure 
is high, you're sick to your stomach, and you lose 
consciousness. Now that you're awake though, I'm 
sure Dr. Adams is going to want to run some more 
tests on you to try and determine just what it 
was that caused such a reaction."

She adjusts my pillow and holds a cup of water 
in front of my mouth "You know, we were really 
worried about you, Thomas. You've been out of 
it for almost two hours," she adds.

I take two sips of it and consider what she's 
telling me.

A mark on the back of my neck. Feeling nauseous. 
My head spinning, my heart racing, and begging
to talk to Mary.

Mary...

A photograph of her strapped to a table...a smoky 
room...an old man with a pack of cigarettes and 
an even bigger pack of lies...

"Oh my God," I whisper. "I remember now."

"What do you remember?"

He told me that Mary wasn't really Mary, that she 
was my partner, and her name was Dana Scully.
And he told me he could show me the truth.

"Mary...is she still here?" I ask, not really 
wanting to discuss the strange details of my dream 
with her or anyone else for that matter right now.

Allie presses the remote again, raising me a little 
more. "Yes, she is. In fact, from what I understand 
she's been asking about you."

"She has?"

"Lori, my friend who's a nurse on her floor, told 
me that she was pretty upset this morning when she 
heard about what happened with you."

"Oh."

"And now she'll be happy to hear that you're awake."

"I need to talk to her."

"Right now you need to talk to the doctor, and don't 
even think about arguing with me," says Allie, the 
crinkles around her eyes deepening as she offers me 
another sip of water.

As much as I want to see Mary's familiar face and 
make sure she's okay, I know she's right.

I also know I'm too weak to do anything anyway.

"Okay."

"Okay? Is that all you're going to say? No pleading 
with me to break the rules or make a phone call for 
you?" she says, checking my blood pressure. "Now I 
know you still must not be feeling well," she teases 
as she lightly pats my shoulder.

"I'm tired," I say quietly, my eyelids beginning to 
droop a little, despite the fact that I just woke 
up a few minutes ago.

"That's understandable, although from what I can 
tell, everything looks fine. Your blood pressure 
is slightly elevated, but adjusting this should 
help with that," she says, adjusting the tilt of
my bed. "I'm going to go get Dr. Adams, let him 
know you're awake."

She walks to the door, grabs the handle. "And 
I'll let my friend Lori know you're awake too so 
she can pass the news along to Mary...if that's 
all right with you."

"It's all right," I say, grateful for her generosity 
and for the fact that she seems to understand how 
important Mary is to me.

The thing is, I'm not sure *I* understand it.

I just know that I feel some sort of connection
to her and that I've felt it since the moment we
met.

Could it be because of what the smoking man said 
to me about her in my dream?

Could she really be Dana Scully, my partner at the 
FBI, or is it all just some bizarre story I've 
concocted in my mind to help me cope with the fact 
that I have nothing else in my life to hold onto?

And what about the scar on the back of my neck?

I've had dreams about a chip being put under my 
skin, but I still haven't figured out *why* it 
was put there.

And I'm beginning to think I never will.

"Dr. Adams should be in to check on you in a few 
minutes, Thomas," Allie calls out from the doorway, 
her voice breaking into my thoughts.

"Thanks," I reply, letting out a frustrated sigh 
as I watch her open the door, then leave the room.

Sliding my hand behind my neck, I press my fingers 
against my skin, searching for the scar Allie saw 
there and for the answers I so desperately want 
to know.

But all I find are more questions.

And all I feel is alone.

~~~~

Inconclusive.

That's what the test results said about my allergic 
reaction or blackout or whatever the hell it was 
that sent me into an unconscious tailspin several 
hours ago.

The truth is at this point I don't really care  
what it was. All I care about is the dream I had 
while I was out.

And talking to Mary about it.

It's been about three hours since I first woke up. 
Then it was one set of tests after another followed 
by a visit from Mark who did a light stretching and 
movement session with my legs while I stayed in bed.

But now I'm alone again, and I can finally call her 
on the phone.

Of course, I didn't ask the nurses if it was okay,
but I figure if I was strong enough to handle all
those tests and a light physical therapy session, 
I'm strong enough to sit up in bed and make a 
phone call.

It seems like such a long time since I've spoken
with her, and yet it was only yesterday when we
discussed the cafeteria's chewy jello and the
possibility that we might have been lovers at one 
time.

At the time I suggested it, it seemed so far out
of line, so totally inappropriate, but now after
the dream I had, after the things the smoking man 
said to me about us being partners, I'm not so 
sure.

Could the pieces of my life finally be falling 
into place, or am I placing too much hope on my 
dreams?

After I dreamt of Mary being tortured, she told
me how she was strapped down and how her arms 
were broken.

After I dreamt of somebody putting something into 
the back of my neck, Allie found a scar there.
And now I've dreamt of an old man telling me that 
I'm Agent Mulder, I work for the FBI, and that I 
have a partner named Agent Scully who just happens 
to look exactly like Mary.

But is his claim that he knows about me and my 
life true as well?

A part of me desperately wants to believe what he 
said in my dream, wants to believe that Mary and 
I are more than just friends.

And then there's the other part.

The part that's scared shitless of finding out
that Mary and I aren't connected at all and that
I was dumped here because of reasons that have
nothing to do with any of my dreams.

And so here I sit yet again, pondering a life I 
may or may not have and trying to make sense of it 
all by writing down my thoughts in this notebook.

How pathetic is that?

"Ahh...you must be feeling better. I haven't seen 
you writing in that book for a while," remarks 
Laura as she walks into my room, my chart in her 
hand.

I look down at the page and the handwritten words 
that are mine, yet don't look like mine at all. 
"I guess I haven't had much to say lately," I say 
quietly, closing the spiral notebook so she can't 
see what I've written.

"Yeah, I guess it is kind of hard to write when 
you're out cold, isn't it?" she comments with a 
smile. "I hear you had an interesting morning. 
You want to talk about it?" she asks as she checks 
to see if my water pitcher is full. 

"No."

"That's okay. If I were you, I probably wouldn't 
want to talk about it either," says Laura. "I'm 
just glad to see you're all right now." She does 
a quick scan of my chart, but doesn't take any 
of my vitals. "You are all right, aren't you?"

I wish I could say I was, but the truth is I 
really don't know how I feel right now.

Or how I'll feel five minutes from now for that 
matter.

"I'm better than I was a couple of hours ago," I 
reply.

"That's good. From what the other nurses told me 
when I started my shift, you gave everyone quite 
a scare."

"That's me...'Scary Thomas'," I say dryly, suddenly 
not feeling very sociable.

Or maybe I should say 'Spooky Thomas', considering 
the mysterious background I apparently have.

"Well, I see you didn't lose your sense of sarcasm 
while you were unconscious," she says, adjusting 
the pillow behind my back and looking at me with 
an expression I can't quite figure out.

"And it looks like I didn't lose my ability to 
piss people off either," I retort.

"No, you didn't, but then again, I'm a nurse. I 
deal with irritable patients all the time."

"But do you deal with half-dead patients who 
appear from out of nowhere in men's restrooms?"

"Not on a regular basis, no," she replies, a 
slight smile crossing her face.

"Well, that's good," I say, appreciating the fact 
that she's willing to put up with both me and my 
irritability.

"So 'Spooky Thomas', is there anything I can get 
you before I go check on my other patients?" she
asks as she softly pats my leg.

"No, but thanks for putting up with me," I reply, 
reaching out and grabbing her arm before she can
lift it up. "And for listening," I add, giving her 
wrist a quick squeeze before letting go again.

She nods her head. "Anytime, Thomas," she says,
heading for the door.

I watch as she leaves, then open up my notebook
again, but not to where I left off writing. I 
open it to the back where I've stuffed the piece 
of paper with Mary's number on it between the 
pages. 

As anxious as I've been to talk to her, I'm also 
afraid.

What will she say when I tell her that I might 
be an FBI agent and that she might be my partner?

And what will she do when I mention the name Dana
Scully? 

Will she tell me I'm crazy and hang up on me, or 
will she want to hear more?

I honestly don't know how she'll react, but I'm 
not going to find out anything by just sitting 
here.

Reaching over to the nightstand, I pick up the 
telephone receiver and nervously press the buttons.

And I wait.

~~~~

The last time I spoke to Mary on the phone she  
told me that if I called her again, I should let 
the phone ring several times since it would take 
her a while to answer it.
  
Well, I've let it ring eight times now, and she's 
still not answering.
 
I hope she's at a therapy session or getting x-rays 
or something else like that and that nothing's 
wrong.
 
Then again, I guess I really wouldn't be surprised 
if there was.
 
After all, everything else in my life seems to be 
upside down and turned around, so why not have 
something go wrong with the only person I care 
about?
 
Someone tortures me. Someone tortures her. We meet 
in the hospital where we were both dumped. We share 
an instant connection. Then just as we're getting 
to know each other, she leaves the hospital without 
telling me why, and I never see her again.
 
It's the classic American love story...not.
 
Sure, the whole thing sounds bitter and sarcastic 
and totally implausible, but how else am I supposed 
to feel about it?
 
Everyone here calls me Thomas. Then I'm told that 
my name really isn't Thomas, that it's Fox Mulder 
and I'm a special agent with the FBI.
 
I also find out that Mary really isn't Mary, but 
my FBI partner Dana Scully. On top of that, I'm 
told that we were put together as partners for a 
reason and that because of my work on something 
called the X-Files, both of us have not only been 
tested on, but hurt in other ways I'd rather not 
think about right now.
 
And that's only part of it.
 
Then this tall, smug, chain-smoking man appears 
to me in my dreams and tells me about all of the 
things that have happened to me because of my 
need to know the truth.
 
But what is this truth, and why am I so desperate 
to find it?
 
And why the hell do I believe what a stranger in 
a dream tells me instead of trusting my own 
instincts about who I am?
 
"Hello...is anyone there?"

The woman's voice on the other end of the phone  
suddenly breaks through my haze of confusion and 
snaps me out of my reverie. 

"Can you hear me? Is anyone there?" she asks again.
 
"Yeah, I'm here," I finally answer, both surprised 
and relieved to hear her voice after listening to
the phone ring so many times.
 
"Thomas, is that you?"
 
"Yeah, it's me."
 
"The nurses told me about what happened to you 
this morning. Are you okay?"
 
No Mary, I'm not okay. 

I'm scared to death about finding out who I am, 
who you are, and who we are together.
 
Of course, I don't say that though, instead simply 
answering with an, "I'm fine."
 
"You don't sound fine, but that's understandable,
given what you've just been through," says Mary,
her voice filled with compassion. "In fact, I'm
surprised you called me. I figured the nurses 
wouldn't let you do much of anything the rest of 
the day."

"They don't know I'm calling you," I say, looking 
over at the doorway and wondering how long it will 
take before one of them comes in here and tells 
me to hang up.

"Well, then I guess we'd better talk quietly, huh?" 
she says.
"I guess so," I reply, smiling at her response.
"You know, I was worried about you when you didn't 
answer the phone before. I thought that maybe 
something had happened to you."

Or that you'd left me without saying goodbye, I 
think to myself as I nervously brush my hand over 
my hair.

"And I've been worried about you, Thomas."

"I told you I'm okay."
 
"I know you did, but you and I both know that we 
have to take any setbacks that occur during our 
recovery seriously, especially since we don't 
know what caused our injuries in the first place."

She was right.

The tests that were done on me afterwards were
inconclusive, which meant that just about anything 
could've happened inside of me to cause my blackout.

And the vivid dream I had.

"So, have you remembered anything else about 
yourself since the last time we talked?" I ask, 
wanting to talk to her about the dream I'd had 
when I was unconscious, but not really sure how 
to go about it.

"No, unfortunately, I haven't," she replies with a 
sigh. "What about you? Did you remember anything?" 

"I'm not sure."

"What do you mean, you're not sure?"

"I mean...I'm not sure if what I'm about to say
is something that's true or something that I just 
made up in my mind."

"What is it, Thomas? Did you remember something
about us, about our past?" she asks hopefully.

"Maybe...I don't know...it's all so incredible,
and I just..." I stutter, trying to find the right 
words to say, but not doing a very good job of it.

"You just what? What are you trying to tell me?"

I'm trying to tell you that we may be partners at 
the FBI, that my name is Fox and yours is Dana 
and that we work together in a division called 
the X-Files because of a mysterious man who set 
up the whole thing.

And I'm trying to tell you that if what he said
is true, if it's because of me that you've been
hurt, then maybe you're better off never finding
out who you are.

Or who I am.

But I don't say any of those things to her. 

I can't say them. Not yet. Not when I'm still so 
confused about everything myself.

Instead I take a deep breath and ask her the one 
question I'm not sure I want to hear the answer 
to.

"Have you ever heard the name Dana Scully before?" 

~~~~

"Dana Scully?"

"Yeah. Have you ever heard that name before, Mary?"

My question is met with silence, followed by a 
frustrated sigh.

"No, I'm sorry. I haven't."

"Are you sure?" I ask, letting out my own sigh of 
frustration.

Or is it a sigh of relief?

I don't know.

All I know is that suddenly I feel very tired.

Tired of being stuck in this place. Tired of 
having to work so hard to try to understand 
something that may or may not be true about me.

Tired of not knowing what's real and what isn't.

"What is it, Thomas? What are you trying to say?"
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

"Nothing, I guess," I say quietly.

"You said before that you were feeling okay after 
what happened this morning, but you don't sound 
okay to me. Are you sure you're all right?" 

'Nothing about me is *right*, Mary. Don't you 
know that by now?' I want to reply, but instead 
I avoid her comment altogether.

"I guess maybe I'm more tired than I thought I 
was."

"Well, you should rest then. We can talk more 
later when you're stronger."

"Okay," I agree, although I'm kind of surprised
that she's not pushing me to say more about the 
question I asked her earlier.

"And then you can tell me about this Dana Scully 
person you asked me about," she adds.

Damn. 

I was hoping she'd forget that I'd even mentioned 
the name.

God knows I wish I had.

The thought that we might be FBI agents whose 
names are Dana and Fox and that many of the 
decisions I've made as her partner have caused 
her pain is just too hard for me to understand, 
let alone accept.

"Did you hear what I said, Thomas?" she asks, her
soft voice cutting right through my depressing 
thoughts.

"I heard you."

"As much as I want to talk more with you about 
this, it's more important that you get some rest. 
Maybe we can meet up later after I finish my 
therapy," she suggests.

"I'd like that."

And I really would like to spend time with her. 
I'm just not sure if I want to spend it talking 
about who we may or may not be.

"My session should be done around 4:00, and I'll 
just ask whichever nurse picks me up to bring me
to your room."

"Do you think they'll let you do that? I mean, 
we've always met in the sunroom before, and I'm 
not sure if they'll want you coming all the way 
to another floor, and..." I weakly protest, 
though I'm not sure why.

"Relax, Thomas. I can be very persuasive when I 
want to be," she interrupts before I can say 
anything else. "And besides, you shouldn't be 
traveling anywhere, not after what you went 
through earlier today. I'll just talk to the 
nurses about the situation, and I'm sure they'll 
let me come see you, especially if Rhonda's 
working this afternoon. She likes you, you know."

"She does?"

"I saw the way she looked at you the first time 
we met in the sunroom," she teases.

"Well, she was always nice to me when she used 
to work on this floor."

"And she's been nice to me since she's been on 
*my* floor. In fact, she's the one who kept me 
up to date on you when you were having problems 
this morning. So, do you think you'll be rested 
up enough to have a visitor later this afternoon?"

"If it's you, yes," I reply, my chest tightening
in anticipation of seeing her again.

"Good, then I guess I'll see you then."

"Okay, Mary...and thanks."

"For what? I haven't done anything."

Oh, yes you have.

You've done more for me than you could possibly
know.

You've listened to me, cared about me, and opened
your heart to me in a way that no one else ever
has, but even more than that, you've accepted me
for who I am.

And for that, I could never thank you enough.

"You've been my friend," I say simply.

"And you've been mine, Thomas," she says softly.
"Now get some rest, okay."

"Okay, I will," I say as I let my head drop back 
against the pillow. "I'll see you later this 
afternoon."

"You can count on it," she says, then hangs up 
before I can say anything else.

And I know that I can, just as I know I can count 
on her to be there for me any other time I need 
her.

Putting the phone back on the receiver, I slide
further beneath the covers and close my eyes, 
letting her reassuring words wash over me.

~~~~

"Thomas, wake up. Come on now. Open your eyes. 
There's someone here to see you," I hear a voice 
say. It's a woman's voice, and it sounds familiar.

Forcing my eyelids to open, I turn my head to the 
right and see a nurse standing there. I've seen 
her before, but can't quite place her.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. You've got a visitor 
outside," the nurse says, leaning over and 
inspecting my face. "And from the looks of it, 
I'd say you also got a fever. How are you feeling?"
I blink my eyes, raise my head from the pillow
to get a better look at the woman standing in
front of me. "Rhonda?" 

"I'm impressed," she says with a smile. Then she 
pulls the cover off a thermometer and sticks it 
in my mouth. "I understand you had a bit of a 
scare this morning."

I nod my head.

"I also heard you were doing much better now. 
So, what's goin' on with you, Thomas?" she asks, 
her voice filled with compassion as she adjusts 
the pillow behind my head.

"I don't know," I awkwardly mumble, trying not 
to spit out the thermometer.

And I really didn't know. I knew I'd had a rough
morning, but I thought I was okay now. I guess I 
should've known it was too good to be true.

"Well, it looks like the magic number is 99.9," 
she says as she takes the thermometer out of my 
mouth, then sets it down on the plastic tray on 
my night stand. "It's not a high fever, but it's 
enough to be concerned about, especially after 
what happened to you this morning. I'll let Dr. 
Adams know, but in the meantime, there's someone 
waiting out in the hallway I think you might like 
to see."

"Who?" I ask, still trying to fully wake up.

She grabs the remote for my bed, raises me up 
into a higher position and smiles at me again. 
"You have ten minutes," she says as she walks 
over to the door. "No more, no less," she adds, 
reaching out into the hallway and pulling a 
wheelchair backwards into my room, and it's then 
that I know exactly who it is.

Mary.

"Hello, Thomas. It's good to see you," she says, 
her soft blue eyes fixed on mine as Rhonda pushes 
her over to the right side of my bed.

"You too," I say, pushing myself into a different 
sitting position so I can see her better.

"You've got ten minutes," says Rhonda, making sure 
the brake on Mary's wheelchair is secure, then 
heading towards the door.

Ten minutes isn't much time, not when I feel like 
I have so much to say, but at least it's something, 
and I intend to make the most of it.

Fever or no fever.

"I'm really glad you're here, Mary," I say, reaching 
over and touching her forearm, being careful not to 
put too much weight on the cast.

"So am I, Thomas, but we don't have much time, and 
I need you to tell me the truth," she says, her 
expression suddenly much more serious than it was 
just moments ago.

"The truth? About what?" I ask, the feverish warmth 
on my face and neck quickly spreading to every other 
part of my body.

Making sure that Rhonda is completely gone and the 
door is closed, she leans forward in her wheelchair 
and quietly replies, "Who's Dana Scully?"

----------------------------------------------------

eight--


I should've known she was going to ask me. I 
should've known the moment she walked into my 
room, but to be honest, all I was really thinking 
about was seeing her.

She looks good.

She also feels good as her fingers are now touching 
my arm.

"So, who is she, this Dana Scully person you asked 
me about before?" she asks. "Is she someone you 
know from your past?"

Is she? 

I still don't know who I am so how can I possibly 
tell her who she is?

I have to though. I have to tell her what I've 
found out and let her decide what to do about it, 
regardless of whether or not it's true.

Don't I?

"Did you hear me, Thomas?" she asks, her voice
cutting through the fog of jumbled thoughts in
my head, her fingers lightly tapping the back
of my hand.

"I heard you."

"And?"

I look down at her hand resting on mine, and 
blow out a puff of air. "I'm not sure I should 
tell you this," I say, deciding that going with 
the truth is my best option.

She leans forward, creases her forehead. "Tell 
me what? Who is she?"

"She's you," I reply simply, though I know my 
answer is anything but simple.
"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, but I think that Dana Scully is
your name...your *real* name," I say, biting
my lip as I wait for her reaction.

Her eyes widen. "What?" she asks in disbelief.

"I think that your name is Dana Scully, my name 
is Fox Mulder, and we work together at the FBI
on this project called the X-Files."

The words sound awkward as they tumble out of 
my mouth, and yet I feel an unexpected sense 
of release.

Could it be because what I'm saying is actually 
true, or is it because I want it to be?

"My name is Dana?" she asks incredulously as she 
leans back in her wheelchair.

"Yes," I reply. "But I think people call you
Scully," I add, remembering how the cigarette
smoking man kept referring to her in my dream
or vision or whatever the hell it was. "Or at
least maybe some people do."

"Look, I know I've said it before, Thomas, but 
I don't understand any of this. How could we 
possibly be FBI agents? No one's tried to find 
us or contact us, and no one seems to even care 
that we're missing," she said, trying to keep 
her voice calm and doing a good job of it. "Don't 
you think if we were really some high-profile 
investigators from the FBI that someone should've 
come for us by now?"

"You would think so," I agree.

We sit in silence then, both of us trying to make 
sense of everything. "So, you really think my 
name is Dana Scully?" she finally asks, looking 
towards the window instead of at me. "Do you call 
me Scully instead of Dana?"

"Yeah, I think I do." I fiddle with the sheets on 
my bed. "It's kind of weird, huh?" I nervously 
remark, not really knowing what else to say.

She closes her eyes a moment, then slowly opens 
them. "I'm not really sure...I guess it is," she 
says quietly, looking back at me again.

"What do you mean you're not sure?" I ask, suddenly 
feeling warmer than I did a couple minutes ago.

"I don't know, Thomas. I'm just not sure, okay?" 
she replies defensively, her eyes avoiding mine 
for the second time since she's been here.

"Okay." I fiddle some more with the sheet covering 
my legs, twisting the cotton between my fingers. 
"I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to upset you."

She reached out, placed her hand on my arm again. 
"You didn't upset me, Thomas. It's just that I..."

"You what?"

"I didn't want to say anything...at least not yet 
anyway, not until I was more sure."

"You didn't want to say anything about what? What's 
going on, Mary?" I ask, leaning forward in 
anticipation of her answer.

She pauses a moment, gathers her thoughts. "When 
the nurses told me what had happened to you, I 
knew I had to see you this morning to make sure 
you were okay, but I also had to see you because 
of something else." She reaches out, places her 
hand on my arm. "I remembered something about us 
last night, Thomas."

"You did?" I say, my eyes widening. "Are you sure?"

"I think so. I had this strange dream, and we were 
both in it."

"What kind of dream?"

"You were sitting in an office and the walls were 
covered with all sorts of clippings. You were 
looking at some slides or something like that 
and when you turned around you had glasses on. 
Then you shook my hand and..."

"You shook my hand and what?" I interrupt, anxious 
to find out every little detail and more.

She looks towards the window, then at me. "I told 
you that my name was Dana Scully and that I was 
looking forward to working with you."

"And then what happened?" I ask, absolutely
fascinated by the possibility that what was in
my dream coincides with what she's telling me.

Or at least I think it does.

"I don't know what happened next," she says sadly. 
"After that, the nurse woke me up to give me my 
medication."

"Do you realize what this means, Mary?"

"I'm not sure."

"It means we're even more screwed up than we 
thought," I reply, letting out a sigh. 

We both sit in silence then, each of us trying 
to digest this newest development, but then she 
asks something I'm not expecting. "So, what if 
it is true? What if we really are agents who 
work for the FBI?"

And that was the big question, wasn't it?

Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea how to
answer it or anything else right now for that
matter.

"The whole thing doesn't make any sense, Thomas. 
If we really are missing FBI agents, wouldn't 
someone from the government have found us by 
now?"

"I know. It's been a couple of weeks since we 
were both brought here. Surely someone would've 
tracked us down and identified us by now, 
especially if they had access to the missing 
persons database."

"Unless they don't want to find us," she says
wistfully as she looks towards the window.

Could that be it? Was it possible that the FBI
wanted us to disappear, that they wanted us out
of their hair and this was a way to do it?

No, that couldn't be right...or could it?

In my dream the smoking man told me that I was
obsessed with finding the truth, that it's the
truth that drives me and makes me who I am.

Is it possible that I was beaten to a pulp and
left for dead because of my pursuit of that 
truth?

And what about Mary? If she really is my partner, 
was she nearly killed because of me too?

And suddenly I remember.

She was lying on her stomach on a table next to
me. Someone was standing over her, a knife in 
one hand, the other hand pushing away her hair 
away from her neck, and...

"I need you to do something for me, and I need 
you to not ask questions," I abruptly say, my 
heart pounding as I lean forward, take hold of 
the handle on her wheelchair, and pull her 
closer to me.

Her eyes widen. "What's wrong, Thomas? What's 
going on?"

"Just...wait," I reply, my voice shaking as I 
quickly push her hair aside, look down at the
back of her neck, brush my fingers across her 
skin.

"What are you doing? You're scaring me." She 
tries to turn her head and look at me, but I 
press harder against her neck, looking for 
something, anything, that can prove that what 
I dreamt was true.

"Thomas...stop...you're hurting me," she weakly 
protests, trying to wriggle out of my grasp. 

But I ignore her and lean forward even more, my 
nostrils flaring, my eyes desperately scanning 
every pore, every tiny hair on her porcelain 
skin as I press down harder and harder. "It has 
to be here, it has to be." 

But there's nothing.

No faded scars, no bumps beneath the surface, no 
proof that anyone had ever cut her or inserted 
anything under her skin.

Nothing.

My heart racing even faster, I suddenly jerk my 
hands away from her neck, flop back against the 
pillows on my bed, and close my eyes. My mouth 
is dry, my hands are shaking, and it's all I can 
do to breathe.
Forcing myself to open my eyes, I look over at 
Mary. Her face is etched with fear and confusion 
and though my first instinct is to pull her into 
my arms and tell her that everything's going to 
be all right, I can't do that, not after what I 
just did to her.

Steadying my hands on the sides of the bed, I 
take a deep breath. "I am so sorry, Mary," I 
whisper. "I shouldn't have done that." I look 
away from her then, ashamed of my actions, but 
even more ashamed of the fact that I hurt her. 
"I shouldn't have grabbed you like that...and 
I'm sorry," I add, still too afraid to meet her 
eyes, to see that fear in them again.

"You hurt me, Thomas." She rests her arms on her 
lap, bites her bottom lip. "Don't do it again," 
she says, her voice shaky and unsure.

"I won't," I quickly reply.

The air hangs heavy between us then for what seems 
like hours, both of us on the edge of discussing 
what just happened, but too afraid to.

"I have to go," she finally says, breaking the 
tension.

"Don't go." I reach out and touch the cast on her 
arm, then quickly pull my hand back again. "I 
need to explain."

"I'm listening."

Adjusting the way I was sitting on the bed, I 
gather my thoughts, then reply, "Before you said 
something about a dream you had. You said that 
in your dream you saw us meeting each other in 
an office. Well, I had a dream too...at least I 
think it was a dream."

She leans back in her chair, tilts her head. "A 
dream?" 

"I don't know. I'm not really sure. I just know 
that I saw something, something I didn't want 
to see...or tell you about."

"What did you see? Was it me?"

"I was in a room on a table, and you were on 
another table next to me. Someone cut the back 
of my neck and put a chip inside of it, and they 
were going to do the same thing to you, but then 
I woke up. I had to check your neck to see if it 
was true, if there was something there."

"Was...there something there?" she stammered.

I shake my head.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she shuts her eyes, 
then opens them again. "But you have something 
there, don't you, Thomas?" she asks quietly.

"Yes, I do," I whisper.

Just as Mary is about to open her mouth and say 
something else, Rhonda suddenly pushes open the 
door, startling both of us. "Okay, time's up." 
She walks over to my bed, takes hold of the 
handles on Mary's wheelchair, then leans in closer 
and adds, "I thought you two could use some extra 
time. Did it help?"

"Yeah, it did. Thanks," I quietly reply, my mind 
already replaying our conversation as I glance 
at Mary, then over at the clock on the wall. Of 
course, twenty minutes wasn't nearly enough time 
to discuss what we needed to, but I did appreciate 
the sentiment. 

"You're welcome. Play your cards right, Thomas, 
and maybe we can arrange for another visit later, 
a longer one," she says with a wink. "Would you 
like that, Mary?"

"Yes, I would," she replies calmly, though I can 
tell by the way she's nervously tapping her 
fingers on her leg that she's feeling anything 
but in control.

"Well then, it's settled. I'll let Barbara know 
when she comes in for the next shift later," 
Rhonda says, pulling Mary's chair away from my 
bed. "I'm sure she'll be able to work something 
out."

"Thank you, Rhonda," says Mary, her eyes fixed on 
mine as she moves closer to the door and farther 
away from me. "Goodbye, Thomas."

"Goodbye," I say, still feeling guilty about what 
I'd done to her earlier. "I guess maybe I'll see 
you later then," I add, wondering if she really 
does want to see me again or if she's just saying 
that she does for Rhonda's benefit.

"Later," she says, her forehead creased with
concern as she looks at me one last time before 
being wheeled out into the hallway.

Staring at the now closed door, I reach behind
my neck, try to locate the scar there. "Later," 
I whisper.

~~~~

It's been an hour since Mary left my room, and
as much as I've tried to forget what I did to
her, I can't.

I grabbed her and hurt her, and I'm not sure I 
can forgive myself for that.

I know I'm desperate to figure out who I am and 
why I'm here, but that's not a reason to hurt 
the one person I care about more than anything.

The panic in her voice, the fear I saw in her 
eyes when I finally let go of her neck...it was 
because of me, because of my willingness to do 
anything to get to the truth.

And though she seemed to understand why I did
what I did once I explained it to her, I don't 
see how or why she'd ever want to be in a room 
with me again.

~~~~

It's been almost two hours now since Mary and 
I last spoke, and rather than doing something 
about it, I've been sitting here feeling sorry 
for myself.

I've also been doing a lot of thinking, and 
there's something I completely forgot about,
something I discovered when I examined Mary's
neck.

She doesn't have a scar.

I was so certain that what was done to me was 
also done to her, but when I looked at her neck, 
there wasn't anything there. No scar, no bump, 
no puncture wound to indicate that she'd been 
harmed in the way that I'd seen in my dream.

And for that, I'm more relieved than I could
possibly say.

I still have more questions about all of this 
though, and if I know Mary the way I think I do, 
she probably wants to talk more about it too.

She told me before that she had a dream about 
us, that we were in some office together meeting 
each other for the first time. Add that to what 
I told her about us being FBI agents who worked 
together as partners, and there's definitely a 
connection.

But what I can't figure out is why They hurt
both of us.

They'd already left me for dead so why'd They 
have to hurt her too?

Did They think that by torturing her They could 
make me stop whatever it was I was doing?

And just what the hell was I doing that was so
terrible I deserved to get the shit beaten out
of me?

I don't want to believe that the FBI might be
responsible for us being here, just as I don't
want to believe my visions about a strange woman 
sticking her fingers into my brain, but what 
other explanation could there be?

The truth is, I don't have one, and until I'm
able to talk to Mary again, I'm not sure what 
I can believe about anything anymore.

~~~~
"Hey Thomas, how's it goin'?" Laura cheerfully 
asks as she walks through the door, a tray in 
her hands.

"Not so well," I answer, looking at the small 
amount of food on the tray. "I'm not really 
hungry so you can just take that right back."
"Now how can you turn down this lovely green 
jello?" she asks, pulling the portable table 
over and setting the tray down on it. She smiles. 
"It's especially shiny tonight."

"I'm sure it tastes fine, but I can't eat anything 
right now," I say, pushing the food away and 
rolling over onto my side.

"What's wrong? Are you feeling sick again?" 

Yeah, I feel sick all right. 

Sick of all the pain and lies. Sick of all the 
dreams and visions and not knowing how to put 
it all together.

And sick of myself, wallowing in guilt and doubt 
and self-pity.

Well, no more.

"I'm fine." I roll over onto my back, press the 
remote for my bed so I'm sitting up higher. "But 
I need to see Mary."

"I thought you already saw her today."

"I did, but I need to see her again. Can you take 
me to her?" I ask hopefully, taking the covers 
off my legs. "It's important."

"What's going on, Thomas? Are you sure you're all 
right?" She moves the portable table over to the 
side, steps closer to my bed.

"I told you I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. Now just relax, and tell 
me what's going on here," she says, gently putting 
her hand on my shoulder. 

"I told you. I need to talk to Mary," I say again, 
more urgently this time. I swing my legs over the 
side of the bed then, although I'm not sure why 
since there's not a wheelchair there for me to 
sit in. "And I need to do it as soon as possible."

"Okay, I get that. You need to talk to her, but 
you also need to take care of yourself and trying 
to get out of bed and go see her on your own isn't 
going to accomplish that," says Laura as she bends 
down and carefully lifts my legs back onto the bed. 

Surprising both her and myself, I don't fight her, 
although I want to.

She pulls the covers back up over my legs, and I 
don't fight her on that either. "Look Thomas, I'm 
on your side...I always have been...but I'm also 
your nurse, and it's my job to do whatever I can 
to help you get better so you can leave here. 
Now I just came in here to give you your dinner, 
not to argue with you."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she says, pulling the portable
table back over the bed and handing me a spoon. 
"So are you going to tell me what this is all
about or what?"

As much as I want to talk through my newest 
revelations with someone, I know that there's 
really only one person that I can share my ideas 
with, one person that will truly listen to me 
and try to understand what I'm saying, and she's 
in a room I can't get to by myself.

"I want to explain, but I can't." I take a bite
of the green jello in hopes that it will get me
to Mary's room sooner. "And even if I could, 
there's really only one thing you can do that 
will help me," I add, scooping up another 
spoonful.

"Bring you to Mary's room."

I nod, take a bite of bread, then push the tray
away. "Will you take me there?"

She pushes the tray closer to me. "Eat two more
bites of bread and another spoonful of jello, 
and I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Laura," I reply gratefully as I quickly
break off some more from the bread and shovel 
one last glob of jello into my mouth.

She smiles. "You can thank me by eating the rest 
of that food while I'm gone," she says, heading
towards the door.

~~~~

"I could only get you fifteen minutes," says 
Laura as she pushes me down the hallway. "And
you're lucky to even get that. When I spoke to
Rhonda she said that Mary was pretty upset after 
she left your room before."

Of course, she was upset. I grabbed her neck like 
a madman before and wouldn't let go.

"Okay," I say, not wanting to let on to the fact 
that I was the reason why she was so upset. 
"Fifteen minutes."

A few seconds later, we arrive at Mary's door, 
and although I'm anxious to speak with her, my 
mouth suddenly feels dry and my stomach feels 
as if it's tied in a dozen knots. 

Will she tell me to leave the moment I come through 
the door, or will she be willing to listen to me?

And just what is it I'm going to say once I walk 
in there anyway?

To be honest, I'm not really sure. I just know
that I need to see her and that I need to do it 
alone.

I turn and look up at Laura. "I'd like to go in 
alone if that's all right."

"Okay. I'll be at the nurse's station when you're 
ready to go. Good luck."

I watch her walk towards the nurse's station, 
take a deep breath, push open the door, and 
wheel myself inside Mary's room.

I'm surprised to see that she's sleeping, but in 
a way I'm relieved that she is because it gives 
me a chance to figure out what I want to say.

Rolling myself over to her as quietly as I can, 
I position my wheelchair next to the side of her 
bed. Now that I'm closer, I can see that she still 
has some slight bruising underneath her chin.

Her complexion also seems paler to me than it 
should be, but her hands look better. With casts 
on both arms, the discoloration in her fingers 
and hands has always been noticeable to me, 
probably due to circulation issues, but today her 
skin looks pinker to me, and her fingers don't 
appear to be as thin.

Not wanting to wake her up, I place my hand on 
top of her hand, gently curling my fingers around 
hers. 

"I'm so sorry, Mary," I whisper, suddenly overcome 
with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you, but I 
did," I add, lowering my head. "And for that, I'm 
truly sorry."

"Sorry? You should feel more than that," says a 
low voice, startling from behind me.

Quickly turning my head, my eyes widen as I look 
over at the man standing in the corner of the 
room, the same man from my dreams who told me 
who I really was.

"What are you doing here?" I demand, turning my 
wheelchair to face him.

"I'm here because you need me, Agent Mulder," 
he replies matter-of-factly. "Because you need 
answers."

"What I need is for you to stay out of my dreams 
and to stay away from us," I say firmly, sitting 
up taller in my wheelchair.

"On the contrary, what you need is answers, and 
I can give them to you."

"All you've given me is lies."

"Have I?"

"Yes, and you're not going to do it again. Now 
stay away from me and stay the hell away from 
Scully," I reply, puffing out my chest to make 
myself look tougher.

He calmly pulls out a cigarette, lights it. "I 
thought you said her name was Mary."

"It is," I reply, wondering why I chose now to 
use that name for her instead of what I have 
been calling her.

I glance over my shoulder at her then. Thankfully, 
she's still asleep.

"You need to leave right now," I say, wheeling 
myself over to her bed again and picking up the 
remote on the night stand. I put my finger on the 
call button, point it in his direction. "Don't 
make me call someone in here."

"Go ahead and press it, Agent Mulder." He takes a 
drag off his cigarette, walks towards me. "It's 
not going to change anything though. Then again, 
you're not very good at changing things, are you?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap back at 
him, my finger still hovering over the call 
button for the nurse.

"It means that despite all your efforts over the 
years, you still have nothing. I have to give 
you credit though. Not many men would've kept on 
going if they'd been put through what you have."

Irritated by the smugness of his tone, but oddly 
intrigued by what he's saying, I suddenly remember 
that Mary's still in the room with us. 

Or is it Scully?

Looking at the woman lying here in front of me, 
so vulnerable, yet so strong, it feels oddly 
familiar.

Am I beginninng to remember my past, or is this 
man deliberately trying to lead me in the wrong 
direction?

"What do you know about what I've been through?" 
I suddenly snap back at him.
"I know a lot about you...and your partner," he 
replies, glancing down at Mary.

"You have something to say, you can say it to 
both of us." I turn to Mary then, set the remote 
down on the bed, and gently push on her shoulder. 
"Mary, wake up. Come on," I say, pressing my palm 
to her cheek. "You need to wake up."

She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't move, doesn't 
show any indication at all that she can even hear 
me, so I push down on her shoulder even harder and 
squeeze her hand. "Come on. Wake up, damn it," I 
plead, trying to get some kind of response from 
her, but there's still nothing.

No fluttering eyelids, no twitching fingers, no 
acknowledgment that I'm even here.

Grabbing the remote again, I quickly press the 
call button and wait for someone at the nurse's 
station to answer, but all I hear is silence.

"Come on, Scully, wake up. Open your eyes and 
talk to me," I beg, lightly slapping her cheek.

No response.

"I need help!" I yell towards the door. "Somebody 
help!"

"They can't hear you," the cigarette smoking man 
says nonchalantly as he walks over to the foot 
of the bed and stands there. "She can't hear you 
either."

"What's going on here? What have you done to her?" 
I shout, desperately shaking her again.

"We did what needed to be done to ensure her 
survival...and yours," he replies cryptically.

Although I want to hear more of what he's trying 
to tell me, I'm even more concerned about Mary 
and why she isn't waking up.

And that's when I see it.

There isn't not very much of it, but it's enough 
to send me over the edge.

"What is this?" I demand, pointing to the small 
spots of blood on the pillow. Leaning over her 
bed as far as I'm able to, I quickly roll her 
over onto her side. "Answer me, damn it! What 
did you do to her?" I ask, brushing the hair 
off her neck so I can see better.

"It's not what I did. It's what you *didn't* do, 
Agent Mulder. You could've saved her from all 
this, you know."

"You put a chip in her neck! You bastard!" I 
scream, staring in horror at the small dark cut 
on her skin at the base of her neck. "A goddamn 
chip!"

My mind instantly flashes back again to the dream 
I had earlier, to seeing her helplessly lying on 
the table next to me while they prepared to cut 
into her neck.

"Scully, wake up! Scully!" I frantically yell, 
lightly hitting her cheek several times with 
the back of my hand and pulling on her arms. 
"Talk to me, Scully!"

Still no response.

"You can keep trying to save her, Mulder, but 
it's not going to make a difference. Nothing you 
do ever will."

His words slice through me with razor-like 
precision, and before I can stop myself, I jump 
up from my wheelchair and lunge at him, punching 
him in the face and knocking the cigarette from 
his mouth.

He staggers backward, trying to regain his balance 
and I tumble forward, trying to grab onto his suit 
jacket to break my own fall, but failing as I hit 
my head on the metal edge of the bed, then smack 
my cheek against the cold hard floor.

--------------------------------------------------

nine--



The moment I open my eyes, I'm greeted by a sharp 
stabbing sensation radiating from both my temples. 

Hoping to stop the pain, I try to use the bed 
railing to pull myself onto my side, but my wrists 
are too weak to support my weight and I quickly 
let go, flopping back onto the pillow.

That makes my head hurt even more, and I take 
several deep breaths, trying to slow down the 
intense throbbing permeating through every part 
of my brain.

"Well, look who's finally awake," the nurse says
cheerfully as she hurries over to my bed. She 
quickly picks up the remote by my bed, calls for 
someone to get a Dr. McAdams. 

"We've been worried about you, Agent Mulder." 
Gently lifting my arm up off the bed, she starts
to press down on my wrist, and I wince at the 
intrusion. "I'm sorry. I know it must be sore," 
she says as she lowers my arm back down on the 
bed, and it is then that I realize that not only 
do I have a soft bandage wrapped around that 
wrist but the other one as well.

My head still pounding, my thoughts fuzzy, I 
close my eyes a moment and try to make myself 
think.

The last thing I remember was talking to someone...
an older man, I think, and we were arguing about 
someone and then I was falling and...

"Mary," I gasp, suddenly jerking my head up off 
the pillow and immediately regretting it.

"Whoa, take it easy there, Agent Mulder. You're 
going to hurt yourself," the nurse says as she 
carefully helps lower my head back down. "Just 
take some deep breaths and try to relax."

"But Scully..." I argue, looking to my right, 
then to the left, but there's no one there. 
"Where is she? Where's Scully?" I ask, raising 
my head a second time, then quickly putting it 
back down again as several sharp jolts of pain 
surge through the back of my skull.

"Calm down, Agent Mulder. Everything's okay. 
You're okay." She leans over to adjust my pillow, 
and it is then that I notice her badge.

"Allie?"

She glances down at her badge. "That's what it 
says...so I guess I must be her then, huh?" she 
replies with a smile. Picking up the remote, 
she asks about Dr. McAdams again, then sets it 
down.

"You're my nurse," I say, remembering her now, 
how she brought me a journal to write in and 
played cards with me, how she took care of me 
when I had no one else. 

But she's not the nurse who brought me here, 
this isn't the room I was in before, and this 
isn't where Scully was.

Or is it Mary?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I rub my forehead and 
try to make sense of what's going on, then jerk 
my hand away when I feel a thick bandage there. 

"What is this?" I ask, my eyes flying open again 
as I try to sit up for the third time. "What 
happened to me? Where's Scully?"

The moment I raise my head and shoulders, the 
room begins to spin, and I put up no resistance 
when Allie gently lowers me back onto the bed. 
"I'll tell you what I can, but you've got to calm 
down, Agent Mulder. Now just close your eyes and 
take some deep breaths, okay?"

I nod my head, then close my eyes and do as she 
says, slowly breathing in and out while she checks 
my pulse. "That's better. Just breathe...in and 
out...there you go."

Though my head is still pounding, I feel the 
tension in my body easing up somewhat, and I open 
my eyes again. Still taking my pulse, Allie looks 
down at me and smiles. "Agent Scully told me you'd 
give me a hard time when you woke up. I guess she 
was right."

A few moments later, she lifts her fingers from 
my neck, picks up my chart and writes down the 
information. "She also told me you'd have lots 
of questions."

"Is she okay?" I anxiously ask, an image of her 
motionless body lying in a hospital bed flashing 
through my brain. "Where is she?"

"I'm right here, Mulder," replies Scully, rushing 
over to my bedside the moment she opens the door. 
She leans over me, softly cups her hand around my 
cheek. "I'm okay...and so are you," she quietly 
adds, her voice breaking as she quickly studies 
my face and nervously bites her lip.

And I study her too, the worry lines in her 
forehead, the compassion in her eyes, the mixture 
of both strength and vulnerability in her body 
language. "It's you," I mumble as I reach up to 
touch her face, and it feels comfortable to me, 
touching her this way, my palm on her cheek, my 
fingers resting by the curve of her ear. "It's 
you," I repeat, brushing my thumb back and forth 
across her skin as my senses are flooded with 
images not of the woman I knew in the hospital, 
but of the one that's stood by me for years.

My partner. My friend. My one in five billion.

Scully.

"Yes, it's me, Scully," she whispers, leaning 
in even closer to my face so I can see her even 
better.

And I can see her more clearly than I have in 
what seems like weeks. "Scully," I repeat, making 
sure that I'm really where I think am.

Nodding her head, she stands up again, her 
expression filled with both relief and exhaustion. 
"Do you know where you are, Mulder?"

I look to my right, then over to my left where 
Allie is standing next to an IV pole, flipping 
through my chart. "It's a hospital. How did I get 
here?"

"You don't remember?"

I close my eyes, try to access those memories, 
but too many things are swirling around in my 
brain. "I can't," I reply, clenching my fists 
with frustration, but quickly unclenching them 
again as a prickly sensation radiates through 
both my wrists.

"It's okay. You'll have plenty of time to 
remember." She places her hands around my right 
wrist, gently massages it. "When I found you, 
you were strapped to a table."

Thoughts of lying on my stomach strapped to a 
table in the After Room as They cut into the 
back of my neck begin to seep into my brain, 
but how can that be true when I have a bandage 
wrapped around my head and not my neck?

Sensing my confusion, she continues, "They 
operated on you, Mulder." She looks away from 
me then, swallows. "They cut into your brain 
and left you there to die," she adds, her voice 
cracking as she touches my face again.

"And then you helped me," I say gratefully as 
another memory resurfaces. "You told me that I 
had to get up and that no one could do it but 
me."

Her eyes widen. "You remember that?"

"I remember holding onto you and not wanting to 
let go," I reply, reaching for her hand. "Beyond 
that, it's pretty fuzzy."

And it really was fuzzy, though I vaguely remember 
lying on my back on a hard table and hearing men's
voices.

She manages a smile then, although it's a guarded 
one. "That's understandable, considering the 
condition you were in when I brought you here." 
She softly squeezes my hand. "You've been out of 
it for nearly three hours."

"It feels longer," I say, my thoughts drifting 
back to the nightmarish world I'd been stuck in
for what seemed like weeks.

"If you'll both excuse me, I'm going to see 
what's taking Dr. McAdams so long," says Allie, 
her voice disrupting my thoughts as she scoops
up my chart and heads for the doorway. 

I watch as she leaves, and though she's been 
kind and compassionate towards me since I woke 
up, I know now for certain that she's not the 
same Allie who took care of me in the visions 
I had.

And this isn't the place where I was cruelly 
dumped and left for dead.

Waiting until the door closes, Scully pulls a 
chair up next to my bed and sits down, brushes 
her fingertips across my forehead. "What do you 
mean 'it feels longer'?"

Closing my eyes, I picture her as Mary, the woman 
with casts on her arms and fear in her eyes, then 
think of Thomas, a damaged man who had no one but 
himself and his dreams to hold onto, and I can't 
help wondering.

Did I create that lonely world because my brain
was physically altered by them, or was becoming 
Thomas a way of protecting myself from what was
really happening to me?

I honestly don't know, but I just can't make 
myself think about any of it anymore right now, 
not with my head pounding in triple time and 
the overwhelming exhaustion I feel weighing 
down every muscle and bone in my body.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I mumble, somehow 
managing to open my heavy lids just wide enough 
to see the moisture pooling in the corners of 
Scully's eyes.

"Just rest now, Mulder," she says tenderly as 
she leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.

It's the last thing I remember before sleep 
overtakes me.

~~~~

When I open my eyes again, it takes me a moment 
to remember where I am, but unlike the first 
time I woke up here, I am not the only one on 
the bed.

Trying not to jostle the mattress too much, I 
carefully move over to the left so I can get a 
better look at Scully. 

She's halfway on the chair she's sitting in and 
halfway on the bed, her arms folded into a kind
of makeshift pillow, her head resting on top of 
them. It looks uncomfortable to me, but she 
appears to be sleeping rather soundly, and for 
a while I simply watch her.

There are so many things I want to ask her, so 
many things I don't understand about what was 
done to me, and although there's a part of me 
that wants to tell her everything I remember 
about Thomas and Mary, I know that I won't.

Reaching over to brush some hair off her cheek,
and tucking it behind her ear, I trace my finger 
over the tiny red mark at the base of her neck.

The scar left by the chip put back inside of 
her has faded since I last saw it two years ago, 
and it's smaller than I remember, but it's there 
and it's real.

And it's the one thing I can't explain away with 
a dream.

But what about the chip in *my* neck? Did it only 
happen in my dreams, or is it actually possible 
that they implanted something in me when they cut 
into my brain?

"Mulder?"

Her voice startles me, and I quickly move my hand 
away from my neck before she can ask me what I'm 
doing.

Slowly sitting up in the chair, she rubs her 
eyes and yawns. "How are you feeling?" she asks, 
straightening up her blouse as she glances over 
at my monitor.

"Like I've been run over by a truck...twice," I 
reply, wincing as I try to turn my head too quickly.

She leans over me then, touches the bandage above 
my forehead. "Do you need something for the pain? 
I'll go get a nurse and be right back," she offers, 
standing up from her chair, but before she can 
head for the door, I grab hold of her sleeve.

"No, stay."

"Okay." She hesitates a moment, then sits back 
down. "For now." Her eyes fixed on mine, she curls 
her fingers around the curve of my arm just above 
the bandage on my wrist. "Tell me what you need, 
Mulder, and I'll get it for you."

What I need right now, what I've always needed, 
is the truth, and she's the only person I trust 
to tell it to me, no matter how difficult it may
be to hear.

My exhausted mind immediately racing with ideas 
of what might've been done to my brain and the 
possibility of having a chip implanted in me, I 
close my eyes and try to clear my mind, then open 
them again. "I need to know what happened to me, 
Scully," I reply. "I need to know everything."

She looks over at the monitor by my bed again, 
tilts her head and contemplates my request. "Are 
you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Lightly squeezing my arm, she scans my face, 
trying to decide not only if I'm ready to hear 
what she has to say, but if she's ready to say 
it, then takes a deep breath.

And she begins.



~end~


Notes: Well, that's it, folks. It may have taken 
me six years to finish the story, but I found the 
journey to be not only intriguing, but pretty
darn cool. <g> Delving into Mulder's screwed up
brain, writing all those nightmarish visions, and 
coming up with all that cryptic dialogue for CSM 
was an absolute blast!

I saved the fact that this novel is related to
Amor Fati until almost the end and did not include 
it in my headers because I didn't want to reveal 
too soon that Thomas's (and Mary's) story was 
entirely in Mulder's head as a result of what was 
done to his brain. 

I also tried to connect a lot of Mulder's visions 
as Thomas to feelings and events that really did
happen in his life - his guilt over not being 
able to save Scully, his unrelenting quest for 
the truth, CSM jerking him around and dangling 
information out there for him, only to have it 
yanked away again, the chip in Scully's neck, etc.

Thank you to those of you that took the time to
write to me way back when I first started this 
story and those of you who have written to me 
over the past couple weeks. Your letters were 
like chicken soup for my writer's soul.:)

Last thoughts: As I was writing this story, but 
especially as I was nearing the end of it, a lot 
of 'what-ifs' popped into my head. Since Diana 
was in the room when they were operating on 
Mulder, what if the strange woman who was poking 
her fingers around in his brain represented her? 
What if everyone was so busy checking out what
was done to Mulder's brain after he was rescued 
from the DOD facility that they neglected to 
thoroughly check the rest of him? What if the 
bad guys not only messed around with the DNA 
in his brain, but also inserted a chip into 
his neck like they did to Scully? Imagine the
possibilities...

Thanks again for reading. I hope you enjoyed the
ride as much as I did and that you decide to take
the time to let me know you did.:)

Susan
touchstone98@tx.rr.com


Started January 2004. Completed February 2010.