His attention finds me, and I halt all movement. Alex stalks closer to the side of the gurney where he peers down. He takes my wrist, checks the strap, then places my hand on the bed, his manner suddenly so cool it’s unnerving.

As he leans in close, he says, “Do you know how the process of decay works? It’s very insightful. From birth, our bodies are designed to start breaking down. From the very moment we enter this world, our brains begin to die. Every second, thirty-two million neurons expire. That’s one-point-nine million in a minute.”

“Alex…you’re scaring me.”

His smile is disarming. “Oh, I doubt that. But how amazing would it be if I could make you truly feel terror?”

He wrenches a strap out from underneath the gurney and latches it around my chest and arms, securing me to the bed.

Shit. “Look, I’m sorry I tasered you. But this is way too extreme for payback. We can find another way, Alex. I promise. I’ll help you….”

He ignores my plea. “This is for your protection,” he says, as he straps me to the gurney, “so you don’t inadvertently harm yourself.”

I struggle against the binding and am able to free one hand. I flail wildly, trying to connect with his face, as he backs away from my swing. With deft movements, Alex expertly blocks my attack and whips my arm around his in a firm hold that prevents me from moving.

My eyes widen as I lock gazes with him. “Son of a bitch,” I whisper. He knows martial arts, and he’s good. “What a liar you are,” I say, as I look at the bruise under his eye, the one he could have apparently prevented.

“Jujitsu. Trained since I was eleven.” As he latches the strap back into place, this time preventing me from escaping, he says, “You only saw what you wanted to see, Blakely. I didn’t have to try too hard to deceive you. Let that be a lesson.”

I lie helpless as I watch him systematically detach the tubes from my arms, then he lifts my gown to remove the catheter. My wrists are freed from the cuffs, all metal removed, and I know what is about to happen next. I can’t let it—but I’m powerless to stop it.

“I’ll get out of here,” I say through gritted teeth. “And when I do, I will hunt you down. I will end you. We can stop this right now—”

He flips a switch on the electroshock device and my ears hum with the charge. “You have a disease, Blakely. The necrotic matter in your mind needs to be removed so healthy cells can form. That’s what I do, who I am. I’m going to help you get healthy. I’m going to open up the dead and dormant pathways of your brain so you can feel.”

My gaze darts from his face to his finger poised on the switch. The loss of control over my situation is almost as painful as the dread encasing me as I wait for him to flip that button.

I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “You’re accusing me of being an unfeeling creature,” I say, tone low, solemn. “And yes, that’s true. I don’t feel in the same capacity the way you do. But I’m not the one with a torture device in his hands, Alex. I’ve never purposely hurt anyone. You’re making a conscious choice to harm me.”

Alex doesn’t wince. No show of emotion that my speech affects him. His determination to his project overpowers any rational thought.

“You claim I’m sick…but this, what you’re willing to do, that makes you the sick one, Alex.”

He inhales deeply and rolls his shoulders back, chin lifted high in defiance and resolution. With quick, unflinching movements, he shoves a plastic mouth guard into my mouth and straps the paddles to my temples.

“You will thank me one day, Blakely.”

Then he flips the switch.

OceanofPDF.com

16

OceanofPDF.com

DEFUNCT

OceanofPDF.com

ALEX

Journal entry:

Subject 6 has become lethargic over the course of the first week.

I admit, I was impulsive and rash with the first round of electroconvulsive therapy. I hadn’t yet finished the subject’s emotional map. I hadn’t yet formed a complete hypothesis for her treatment. I allowed the subject to affect me, and years of disappointment coupled with her inability to feel that severe disappointment with my failure…

I halt writing, pen hovering over the journal page, as I stare at the streaming river. Dense pine trees block any wind, the basin a void of sound and life. The forest is muted by my thoughts as I search for the right word. There is no way to varnish or excuse my behavior. Blakely wounded me, and I wanted to wound her back. I wanted her to feel so desperately, it became a demand that had to be answered.

For a brief moment, I cracked, revealing the delicate fractures that have splintered me during the course of this experiment. I was irresponsible, childish. I won’t allow that to happen again with this subject. From the first moment I saw her, I knew she’d be a challenge, but she’s perfect in that challenge—a test I must succeed at. I simply have to reevaluate my reactions to her. Fortify my defenses. Be stronger.

I whisper a curse into the crisp air, my breath fogging the evening. Blakely, Blakely…

She’s the spark to my fuse.

A fire lit down deep in the bowels of my torment and self-degradation.

Her soulless, penetrating eyes strip me of every pretentious façade; she sees down to my stained marrow. And there’s a part of me that yearns for it, to be cleansed by her fire.

I force the torturous thought from my head and try again to form a cohesive thought.

The subject’s response to the initial treatment exceeded expectations:

No anesthesia was administered before 200 volts was delivered for approximately 40 seconds. Admittedly, again, requiring the subject to undergo the treatment without anesthesia was a callous oversight on my part, and most likely the result of the subject’s side effects which include:

Immediate confusion. Temporary memory loss of the event. Migraine-induced nausea.

Four days after the treatment, subject has resumed normal brain function and no longer suffers headaches or sickness, but remains lethargic.

During the 40 seconds of treatment, the subject’s seizure lit up all areas of the brain, denoting this subject is highly susceptible to the procedure. It gives me hope that, in time, the dormant pathways of the subject’s amygdala will function as a non-psychopathic brain.

Hope… Such a nonscientific word. But, nothing is ruined yet. Blakely is resilient. Now I must start again. Analyze the data. Draw conclusions. Accept or reject my hypothesis. Modify if needed. Replicate the experiment until there are no discrepancies between my observations and theory.

Reproducibility.

That is the crux of the scientific method.

I find my feet wandering back toward the cabin, my steps quickening to match the eager beat of my heart. There’s so much that needs to be done. But first, I need to revive my subject.

The cabin appears just over the hill, and I remember the day Mary and I found the little weathered house. We’d been hiking the woods on one of our annual retreats. A way to get away from the city and the noise and her patients. To recharge.

We stumbled on the cottage and Mary instantly fell in love. She wondered why she’d never thought about owning a property outside of the city before, and she decided she had to have it.

I stop at the wrought iron gate and glance at my pewter watch, the memory so fresh my chest burns like I’ve swallowed acid. She willed me the cabin with the condition that I had to continue to visit our place once a year.

I push the gate open. I did more than just respect her memory by vacationing here to recharge—I built a whole damn experiment to make sure her tattered and denounced reputation would one day be restored.