Fractures is an understatement. It has killed my sleep. I lie awake at night, staring at the wall, hoping that the Sandman would come to visit. Pay me some respects with a little of that dust and send me into a deep sleep complete with REM and pretty dreams. Not the sordid affair of the man, Brock in particular, coming to pay me a visit. Ravaging me then relieving me of my right hand. Adding it to the sack which he carried. I see the dream every time I blink. Every time darkness penetrates my retina I can see him coming for me. His silhouette as he marches boldly over the hill, his intent is clear. My demise his goal. How I'd kill to be able to sleep for just one night. Six hours at least. Is that so much to ask?
A name is called and the woman gathers her child, who protests at the thought of leaving his car unattended on his imaginary highway. “The robbers will get it, mama,” he calls desperately, tucked beneath her arm. His tiny arms and legs flail in addition to his vocal protest but his mother is unrelenting and carries him through to the doctor's room. I could imagine him pressing the cold stethoscope to the boy's chest. Hearing the rattle of a cold pressuring his tiny lungs with phlegm and God knows what else. Pressing down on his tongue with that stick, staring into his tiny throat with a light to identify the swelling of tonsils or oesophagus. I can imagine the boy squirming to the intrusion. Doctor's feel they have right of passage, but small children don't understand the trust a doctor requires to do their job.
“April Monday-Jameson?”
Turn my head to the voice's direction. Raise my hand politely, hesitant to stand immediately. “Over here.”
The doctor smiles. A lady doctor. I sigh with relief. I'm not sexist or biggoted, I just find it easier to explain myself to a fellow woman. Some things... men just don't understand. “Right this way please.”
I take the invitation to rise to my feet, pressing a hand wearily to my eyes, as if the light in a standing position took issue with my pupils as opposed to where I sat. Stepping over the car, I follow her into her office. It's pretty and pink. She's a pink girl. I can't stand pink girls. The kind of girl who wants to grow up and disperse with her virginity to the nearest quarterback. When you have gone through medical school, your teen years and early twenties and are still a girl who just loves pink... there is something drastically wrong with you and you give me the urge to slap some sense into you. Her hand guides me to a seat with a swift practiced motion, which I take, instantly pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them tightly. The doctor swivels her chair to face me before she sits, collecting a pen with a fluffy pink thing of fluff on it's end as she sits. I bite my lip. It's all I can do to spite the vomit building in my throat.
“How can I help?”
Shrug at her. “Not sure you can.”
“Then why are you here?” She tilts her head, trying to create an atmosphere of thought present in the room. I can almost hear the wind rushing between her ears and wonder for a moment who she fucked to get through medical school.
Shrug some more. “Dunno. I'm out of options.”
“You told reception you were having difficulty sleeping.”
Nod my head.
“Why do you think that is?” This time, she pouts thoughtfully. I thoughtfully disregard the idea of clawing her face and then fight the chuckle building inside of me. I was a Chip Off the Ol' Block. Just with more tact. The thin patience of August Monday seemed to be handed down from generation to generation. Adam was much the same.
“I have this dream,” I admit. “Recurring dream. It's awful.”
“It wakes you up?”
“I don't wanna dream it.”
“You don't want to dream it? I'm not sure I follow.”
I sigh. “I don't want to dream it. I don't wanna sleep because I'm afraid I'll dream it.”
“So you're keeping yourself awake?”
“No. I CAN'T sleep.”
“You try to sleep but you can't?”
Shake my head. “I just can't sleep.”
The doctor omits a HRMMM of intrigue and brushes the fluffy thing on her chin like it helped her think. I realise that she hasn't introduced herself and glance fleetingly for a name placard of some description. There is none.
“What are these dreams about?”
“I'm not sure I'd care to tell you.”
“Are they sexual?”
Shrug. “Not really. But kinda.”
“They are or they aren't.”
Feel the wash of embarrassment overcoming me, stare at the ground and let my feet drop so I'm sitting in the proper position. Rest my elbow on my knees and bury my face in my hands, just trying to install my thoughts back in my head.
“Are they sexual, April?”
“It's involuntary.” As I speak, I avert my gaze from looking her in the eye only to stare at her when I'm done speaking.
“Rape?”
Can only nod. I don't like the word. It's the most disgusting word in the English dictionary.
“Do you know the attacker?”
Nod again. The dream has began replaying in my head. I can almost see him right before my very eyes. His presence seemed to be in the room with us and I could feel the cold chill of fright making it's way up and down my spine. Goosebumps forming on my skin and the doctor could sense my unnerve.
“Is that the end of the dream?”
Shake my head.
“Do they hurt you, April?”
I stare deep into the doctor's eyes. My honesty seems to have stripped back the friendliness of her pink glaze and I feel I'm looking into that of an equal woman with capacity for thought and feeling. The fluffiness has dispersed and a woman who can take charge stares back into my eyes. Filling them with empathy and sorrow.
“What do they do?”
“They take my hand.”
“How do they take your hand?”
Pausing, I watch the scene play over in my mind. Then it jumps to those two women Special Agent Roberts spoke of. Then the whole mess of death and decay begins to descend onto my mind, pressing weight onto my tear ducts and I feel them straining. I blink as tight as I can but it only forces their release. “They cut it.”
“He cuts your hand off?”
Nod, watching her through the murk of tears as she takes in all the information like a brave sponge. Despondently, she nods her head.
“Have you ever been hurt like this, April?”
Shake my head.
“Sometimes, these things can be the past coming back to haunt us. Reliving a dark part of our lives and it can only be laid to rest once it has been dealt with properly. I need you to be honest with me, April.”
Her hand reaches out, pressing on my knee. It pats it reassuringly. Twice. Then it rests there. Her eyes are locked onto mine, resonating with sympathy.
“Do you think it's possible to see the future?” I ask her.
“You're changing the subject.”
“I think this is my future. Or fate.”
“The man? All this... this...” She cannot fathom the idea. “...you think this is your future? That you will die?”
I do not respond. Nod nor shake my head. I just look deep into her eyes, exchanging my inner most fears to her.
“You think this man is coming to kill you?”
Her words resonate inside my head. I can feel his presence. I know he is closer than I think. The FBI believe I am right. That I am the person that has spawned all this death and decay. That Brock is somehow trying to resolve some sort of fantasy about removing me from his life as I have done to him. The symbolism of the right hand and a partnership. Removing the partnership. It all ties together and paints a pretty picture some psychologist would advise to be Freudian and perhaps tie it into the Oedipus theory.
And they're right.
The situation grows to overwhelming. Rise to my feet. Wipe the tears away. Pull open her door.
“April wait!”
“I can't. I just... I can't.”
“Please!”
It's too late. I'm through the threshold and stepping across the waiting room floor, narrowly avoiding the car in the middle. I do not stop to watch the reactions of those around me. I just flee. Push open the doors and I run. Just feel like running.
Running away from it all.
* * *
Watch her burst across the floor. Doesn't even notice me. Hide my face behind a New York Times, just like I used to collect for Ernie when I did security at the Blood 'n' Bone Tavern. But I see her. Plain as day. Something has gone and got her all twisted up in a bundle. She hasn't been able to sleep. I've been watching her.
Look to my left and see the lady doctor's body slump at the shoulders. She sighs heavily and runs a hand through her pretty blond hair. It smells like watermelon. The smell dances through the air after she ruffles it to try for that natural look. Legs are stunning in that mid-length skirt and I can feel the warmth generating down low. Pretty young thing. Probably right out of medical school. Can tell by the way she cares about whatever comes in and out of her room. Bet she goes home and pours herself a nice long glass of red wine. Really gets her troubles into the glass and drinks them down.
I can hear him. He's pleased. We're getting closer. I'd fallen off the wagon back there but he's since spoken to me. He punished me. I deserved it. She will dress the wounds and give me some antibiotics to reduce the chance of infection. I know it. She'll see the wound and be aghast for a moment. I'll tell her I was in my workshop and working with a rusty saw and one hand can get a little tricky sometimes. She'll take it all as gospel. Then I'll work my charm. Tell her I'd like to take her to dinner. She'll mention something along the lines of not being able to date her patients. I'll tell her I'm just passing by. I'm not a patient. She'll giggle. Fein that she's not interested in me. But she will be. She'll be impressed with the muscles just like the rest of them. Gush over my six-pack abs when the presses her stethoscope to my chest for a “routine” check. I'll ask her again. Keep at her. Tell her I need to see the sights of Portland. Need someone pretty to show me. That I don't know nobody else. And she'll accept.
Watch her hips sway as she collects the medical history of her next patient. It's a thin manilla folder that only contains the sign in papers and a brief medical history. She glances around the room having picked up on a detail stared clearly on the form. Eyes hunting for it. She sees it and smiles softly at me. The way everyone does. But her eyes aren't soft. When she sees me they grow hungry. I wink at her.
“Adam Brock?”
“That's me, darlin'.”
“Would you come this way?”
Wink at her again. “Shouldn't I buy you a drink first?”
Her cheeks glisten crimson when she puts the two and two together and comes up with I was making a dirty joke. A taboo smile creeps across her face and she says nothing. Neither pro or con in regards to my joke. She just smiles and directs me with her right hand, manilla folder clutched to her chest in her left.
“Right this way.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
And it begins.