Eye 4

By Barry Glick

He looked around. It must be night, had to be. He couldn't see a thing. But then, that was what bothered him. Usually when he woke up during the night it was dark, but he could see vague outlines, a grey patina covering everything, ghostly outlines. But this. . . He was blind! The thought raked across his mind with sudden severity. He groped about frantically, hoping to feel bed clothes, the smooth back of his wife, or the soft fur of his dog, who often slept with them. Nothing! And again, it wasn't that he didn't recognize what he felt-he didn't feel anything. There was no sensation at all.

Frightened now, he flailed his arms about, or at least there was the idea of flailing his arms, but no actual sensation of it. No air flowing against his arms. His arms, if they were actually moving, encountered no objects of any kind.

Then there was the silence. He heard no sound at all. No chirruping of insects, no sounds of his own or anyone else's breathing. No refrigerator hum, no sounds of cars passing, none of the thousands of night and house sounds one normally heard and took for granted. It was as if he didn't have ears. No, it was as if he had never had ears, or that he was unable to understand the concept of sound. What was a sound? He couldn't remember. He strained to hear something, strained to remember what something, what anything sounded like.

The idea of a dream, of course, occurred to him next. He had had such dreams before. A dark oppression covering him like syrup, dragging him below some inevitable surface from which he would never return. But always with such dreams, if he exerted enough will, he could usually awaken himself. He tried this now. . . He tried again. But it was as if there were no handle within him to grasp, no way to initiate something called try. The term had no meaning. He had no frame of reference, nothing to get a hold of. He could initiate no actions.

"Kathy?" He said tentatively to the dark. Kathy was his wife. There was no sound when he spoke. There was no feeling of speech at all. He had no tongue, no hard palate, no breath to blow over lips and teeth. The speaking was in his mind. He wanted to fall down and sob on the bed, but he no longer knew if he was even in his bedroom. And he couldn't fall anyway. Where was up? Where was down? There was no sense of position at all. No feeling of gravity. Only this complete blackness, lack of feeling, and total silence.

He wanted to cry, but he had forgotten how. There was no feeling of a face to move, or any emotion in his chest (did he even have a chest?) except terror. The terror wasn't felt in any bodily sense. It was purely mental. Perhaps if he relaxed and tried to think. If he had, had any sense of body, he would have taken a few deep breaths, but he could not find any lungs to fill with air.

Calm. Calm yourself, he thought. He thought of waves breaking against gentle sand. Seagulls gliding effortlessly above him on the soft ocean spray. He was at peace. Perhaps this was a dream. He would relax and wake up and everything would be-

The burst of light was at once brilliant and painful. It flashed into his eye sockets, which he suddenly found he did have, and shriveled his brain. Sound gushed back also-a wave of harsh urgent voices issuing commands, running feet. His chest burned with a sudden jolt of energy, his body arched into the air. "We've got normal sinus rhythm," a female voice barked. "Pressure's eighty five over 65. Heart rate's 50."

"Okay, let's get a 12 lead. Give me an amp of atropine, and one more amp of bicarb." That was a husky male voice (a doctor?). He felt hands upon him. His chest was bare. Cold patches were placed on his suddenly sensitive skin. He kept his eyes closed for the most part. When he opened them-to steal brief snatches of vision- he saw people scurrying about wildly, hovering above him, faces tense, alert. He saw bright lights, blue tiled walls. Clear plastic bags hung above him on hooks, feeding him fluids through multiple plastic tubes attached to the needles that were inserted in both of his arms.

"One and. . . two and . . . three!" said a male voice, and he was deftly moved by many hands onto another flat object, which obviously had wheels because the ceiling began immediately to move above him. He was trundled down a hallway. The over head fluorescent lights ticked by like the dotted white lines of a highway. Voices faded to a hum. His eyes began to feel heavy and he felt himself slip into a deep, and this time natural, sleep.

* * *

He arose from a dark well of molasses and honey into a shadow world of murmured voices. ". . .last night." Blah, blah. "Presenting with. . ." blah, blah. ". . .suggestions, Dr. Curtis?" ". . . start conservatively. . .cerebral edema. . . Lasix 60, however. . ." A group of people. He could sense them surrounding his bed. They were discussing him-his case. He tried with all available effort to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut, his eyelids weighted. The voices waxed and waned, but he could only grab swatches of the entire fabric of the conversation. ". . .Costerman. . .memory. . .before proceeding. . ." But it was no use. He could not stay conscious. He gave up and fell immediately back to sleep.

It was much later-but he couldn't be sure, since he had absolutely no sense of time-he heard a soft, angelic voice say, "Mr. Canfield?" He opened his eyes and the world rushed in like the flash of a camera, hurting his eyes. The pain subsided quickly and the fluorescent blast of blazing white light faded away in granular fashion. Slowly, individual items that were darker, and that he could identify, coalesced-a table, chair, a window, a young women standing above him, dressed in white and holding a tray.

He blinked. "Yes?" he said, his voice cracking, as he looked up at the woman, a nurse. She was holding out a plastic cup filled with pills. She appeared nervous, her outstretched arm shook very slightly. He took the cup, then looked at her, his face asking the question. He noticed that he was wearing a soft, short sleeved gown, tied in the back. His left arm had a plastic tube trailing out of it leading up to a plastic bag, filled with clear fluid, hanging from a hook on a wheeled stand, above him.

"It's a blood thinner," she said. "And something to relax you, and an antibiotic." She poured water into a glass and handed it to him. She seemed nervous, for her hands shook, and it was obvious, even in his compromised state, that it was an effort for her to steady them. She succeeded, and managed a smile.

He did not reach for the glass, instead he glanced briefly at the pills, then handed them back. He could not focus. He could not think clearly. Where was this place? Obviously a hospital. He remembered the events of-was it last night? But he could not remember anything else. Why he was here, where he lived. And he could dredge up no history about himself. He searched his mind for some scrap of memory that would tell him who he was, what kind of job he did, what his home looked like, his car. His name! He couldn't remember his name. He had been so woozy when he first awoke that he had realized none of this. He must have amnesia! A cloying terror filled his mind.

"I need to see my doctor before I take any pills. I'm not even sure why I'm here. I'm a little. . .confused. Did I have a heart attack? Where's Kathy? I-"

Kathy! Now, there, he remembered something. The nurse's face clouded briefly at his words, as if she were remembering some painful memory. Her smile decreased only slightly, but he now noticed that it was a forced smile, something obviously very difficult for her to maintain.

The nurse placed the cup of pills back on the tray, placed the tray on the bedside table. She sat in the padded chair next to the head of his bed and looked at him with concern (but was it concern?). He could hear voices out in the hall, people were walking, rushing by. He could hear beeps and clicks. There was the sound of a muted public address system-a woman with a soft voice paging someone.

Yes, he remembered being in bed with his wife Kathy and his dog. . .Shep. That was it, Shep, his half Rottweiler mut. But beyond that, he could see nothing else. Not where the bedroom was situated in the house, not what the house looked like, the neighborhood, what he would be doing after he got up. What was he? A mechanic, a writer, truck driver?

"Your heart stopped during surgery," the nurse began. His eyes refocused and shot back to her. Surgery, he thought, what surgery? Add it to the list of questions. She was sitting next to where he lay, looking directly at him. Her nervousness was gone. She seemed fired by some inner strength. He noticed that it was not quite concern on her face. It was a solemn look of duty, but no, there was really no concern there. No compassion. She seemed extremely ill at ease being this close to him. "It can happen during any surgery, " she continued. The nurse in her had obviously taken over for she was mentally reading from some script she had learned in her years of experience. "Not often, but any surgery is a risk. You were resuscitated and spent three days in CCU."

Three days!

"Everything's okay now, but you do need to continue taking your medication. Can I get you to do that?" She reached for the plastic cup and handed it to him. He took the cup, then asked, frowning, "Who's my doctor? I can't seem to remember- " He stopped, grimaced, looked away. Then he took the pills and tossed the empty cup into a trash can beside his bed.

"Actually, this may sound like a bad movie, but I can't remember my name or much of anything else. I'm lost. I don't know even what surgery I was hear for. What hospital is this? Who's my doctor? What-?"

She raised her hands in a gentling gesture. "We're aware of all this, Mr. Canfield. Yes, that's your name, Roger Canfield. Dr. Costerman will be in to talk with you about it later today-" She paused, looking at him oddly for the briefest of seconds, and then said with a certain strange clarity so that her next words were somehow emphasized, "We want you to remember." She continued looking at him. Her eyes were off-that's the only way he could explain it-just the slightest bit, as if she were waiting for something, some response or acknowledgment from him.

"A psychiatrist?" he repeated, staring at her.

She must have noticed his stare for she mentally shook herself, and her persona flopped back into the concerned nurse mold like Jello. All sweetness and concern. Gone was that odd look he could not quite grasp. "Well, yes," she said, making a bad-taste face. "but it's only a routine consultation."

"Routine!" he said, his voice taking on an edge. "I can't remember who I am. That name you just spoke. You say it's mine, but it's like I've never heard it before. I'm more than a little upset, Miss, Miss-"

" I'm your--um-nurse for today, Sandra. . .Lyons." And here, again, she seemed to stand back and appraise him, her face assuming a tentative, murky look as if she were waiting for a reaction. It was only for a moment-barely perceptible-then her smile returned and her look of caring concern, but it did not reassure him. The woman made him nervous.

"Okay, then, nurse Lyons, can I see him now?" He noticed her silver name badge. It confirmed that this was Sandra Lyons, but the initials, FM, following her name confused him. He had expected to see RN or LPN. What exactly was an FM?

"No, I'm sorry, Dr. Costerman has a very busy schedule." She paused, then asked, as she got up, " Do you know what year it is?" She removed a blood pressure cuff from a wire meshed container jutting from the wall.

He was about to tell her what he thought of Dr. Costerman's busy schedule, but this odd question from her nonplused him. He simply said, "No-" dully, but inside he was alarmed to realize that he really didn't know what year it was. He was gradually coming out of the mental dullness that had been protecting him. He felt the ragged edge of deep terror working its way into his mind.

She fumbled with the blood pressure cuff, studying it as if it were unfamiliar to her, then managed to wrap the cuff around his arm and pump it up. She listened with a stethoscope over his forearm as she gradually lessened the pressure in the cuff. She felt for his pulse at the wrist, looking at him. "It's November 20, 1998," she said. "Who's the president of the United States?"

He frowned, deep gullies appearing above the bridge of his nose. He had no answer. She looked at him, waiting. "That's okay. Jeffrey Montero." She said.

She took his temperature, then typed the information she had gathered into a lap top computer that she had waiting on some wheeled cabinet in the hall. She came back to where he lay and said, "Don't worry about any of this, Mr. Canfield. " Again that name. A strange, cold name he'd never heard. "You've had quite a traumatic experience." Something in the mask of her concern slipped, momentarily revealing another emotion. It was as if she had mentally rolled her eyes in disgust, negating the look of concern on her face. But it was gone so quickly he could not be sure he had really seen it. Immediately back was the soft, caring look of his nurse.

"I'll be on until 3PM. If you need me, just press the call light," She pinned a white wire cable that had a red button at its end to his bed sheets. She fluffed his pillow, smiled again and was gone, closing the door behind her with a muted click.

Canfield, he thought, now alone in the room. Roger Canfield. Now, who the hell is that? He looked about the room. It was small, about 10 by 10. It had a small bathroom, he soon discovered. He wambled over to it, trundling with him the wheeled IV stand with its dangling plastic container that slowly dripped something into his veins. There was no mirror in the bathroom which spoiled his idea of getting a look at himself. Why no mirror? he thought to himself as he continued walking about the room in this awkward fashion, poking and snooping.

The room was designed for two people, he surmised, for it had two closets. And there was a space between his bed and the closet that he felt certain was intended for another bed. On the wall above where he thought the second bed should have been, were the same set of sundry outlets that were above his bed. He recognized an oxygen outlet. As for the other openings and protruding devices, he had no idea what they were for. There was another one of those blood pressure cuffs in its wire cradle on the wall above the missing second bed.

He worked his way to the window, parted the curtains to look out, but there was only darkness visible. He looked closer. It wasn't exactly darkness. There was some kind of wall or barrier a few feet beyond the window. That was odd, he thought. He was getting tired, so he returned to his bed and sat down. His mind ached. He rubbed his temples. It was like his thoughts were inside a bottle, caroming off the sides, anxious to get out and see what was beyond, but they merely bounced back and onto another surface of the bottle, ricocheting endlessly. They couldn't get out. He was cut off in a mental bay, with no way out into the ocean of his self. Out there was his identity-thoughts that would give him comfort. All those thoughts that a normal person took for granted everyday, the thoughts that make him Joe or Jack or. . .Roger. The name meant nothing to him.

He did have a sense of self, it was just cut off from its history. He could feel himself, see himself, even if faceless, in his mind, but there were no details. This didn't bother him unless he tried to think about yesterday or any day prior to this one. There was no memory. Nothing. He lay down, exhausted. But he instantly shot back up again. There was something, now, wasn't there? Kathy! Kathy, his wife, and Shep, his dog. These were memories.

He recalled that he had reached out for his wife when he awoke to the blankness. Kathy. But it was just a name. He could not really recall what Kathy looked like. Go back to that memory, he thought. He pressed his eyes closed tightly and tried to remember.

He had awakened and then reached out for Kathy, but could see, hear, or feel nothing. Then that frightening tiled room, and now here. But why could he not put a face on Kathy, or even see his own face in memory? Why couldn't he see his bedroom that had been his bedroom for-. How long? What did the rest of the house look like? What kind of neighborhood did he live in? Where would he go after leaving the house in the morning? These thoughts continued to bounce off the container that enclosed his mind. He suddenly felt quite tired, lay back down and fell instantly asleep.

* * *

He was running. Darkness, snow and icy wind chased him along a fetid alley. There was a siren wailing behind him. Blue and red flashing lights, people yelling, the sound of many feet rapidly striking the pavement, sending up a million echoes. He looked down to see that he was partly naked. He was dressed only in his underwear. There was blood covering the front of his underwear, chest and legs. He ran and ran, but didn't know why. Why was he bleeding? Who was chasing him? The police? What had happened? There was a loud noise, like a firecracker going off, then he felt a hot flash of pain in his right shoulder, another in his back, and then finally, mercifully, the blackness came to him again.

* * *

"What?" He blinked, dazedly. A tall, burly man about 50, with bushy eye brows and a grey speckled beard and dark suit stood before him, looking benevolently down at him.

The man smiled. "I said I'm Dr. Phillip Costerman. I see we're not quite awake yet, Mr. Canfield. Take a moment. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"You're the shrink?" Roger said. He rolled up to a sitting position, then set about to untangled the plastic tubing that protruded from his arm from the bed sheets. He rubbed his face vigorously, yawned, and looked up.

"Shrink will do," said Dr. Costerman. "My specialty is psychiatry. Dr. Feldman, your attending, asked me to look in on you. May I sit down and speak with you for a moment?"

Roger indicated the padded plastic chair next to his bed. Dr. Costerman's name tag read, Dr. Costerman, M.D. "Of course," Canfield said trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice, "I'm at your mercy for Christ's sake. So Feldman's my doctor?" He shook his head from side to side. "Could have fooled me. At least I've never met you, so you can't blame me for not recognizing you. I haven't met you have I?"

"No, Mr. Canfield, we've never met." He opened a plastic encased chart and began flipping through it. "Let's see, let's see. . ." Flip, flip. His voice was a professional monotone. "You were admitted on the. . .16^th? Is that correct?"

"Well, how would I know?" snapped Canfield. "You must know I can't remember. I'm sorry, I-"

"No, I'm sorry." said Costerman, gently closing the chart. I know how frustrating it must be. I've dealt with many cases such as yours. I should know better. The loss of personality is always a very threatening thing. Your amnesia-and let's call it that, because it's a popular term-is not from any type of head injury which would make it permanent. It's from an emotional trauma of some sort. It's an hysterical effect. In other words, Mr. Canfield, your memories are still there. The brain cells containing the memories have not been effaced. The good news being that you should eventually remember everything."

Dr. Costerman placed Canfield's chart onto the bedside table, sat back folding his arms and fixed his eyes firmly on Canfield. "The mind--your mind--is trying to protect you from some unpleasant memory. And it's probably a very unpleasant memory. Let me ask you this, what do you remember? I'm talking about the smallest of memories-a favorite color, a smell, a friend, a school you might have attended-anything. If you find such a handle in your mind, it is possible that you might be able to pull yourself out. We want to help you recover your memories. We want you to remember."

Canfield looked up sharply. Hadn't the nurse, Sandra Lyons, said that same thing, "We want you to remember," in just the same way? Dr. Costerman had an odd look on his face. The same odd look that the nurse had given him. Nothing definitive, just an odd, searching look. But with Costerman, it was merely a blip that crossed his face, a momentary lapse. And Costerman had none of the nervousness of Sandra Lyons. He seemed professional in every way, whereas Lyons seemed to be rehearsing for her role, awkward, unsure of herself.

Costerman's reaction was briefer, but it was there unmistakably. Costerman was simply more skilled at editing his facial expressions than the girl. He knew enough not to raise suspicion in Canfield. But, of course, this was ridiculous. It was all in his imagination. He knew that. He was ill. He wasn't thinking straight. He needed this man.

"I remember Kathy and my dog Shep. That's it. And I think I smoked. I need a cigarette in the worst sort of way."

Costerman pursed his lips and frowned, leaning toward him. A frank surprise registered on Costerman's face. "Kathy," he said. "And who is she? Do you know?"

"My wife, or at least I think she was my wife. A girl friend maybe, but I think we lived in a house in some kind of suburban area. I can see myself with her. She's the first thing I thought of before-well, I suppose it was during my heart attack."

"Heart attack?" Costerman repeated as if stumped, fingering his immaculately trimmed beard, then he suddenly seemed to get it. "Oh, yes, heart attack. The arrest. You were clinically dead for some minutes. Yes, of course. So, one of the few things you remember is your wife Kathy?" He stared at Canfield for a moment, as if in disbelief.

"Your wife!" Costerman's sudden angry outburst caused Canfield to wince. Costerman got up from the chair, his eyes trained on Canfield and that funny look suddenly upon his face again, unbidden. The look became one almost of disdain before it disappeared this time. It was as if Dr. Costerman had suddenly seen something so revolting that-in spite of his training- he had been unable to keep the emotion out of his face. "Well," he said, his voice thick. With obvious difficulty, he smoothed away the emotion from his face. "That's a new one. It might be funny-" Costerman's eyes bore into him. They were filled with smoke and brimstone. He could swear the man was furious, barely controlling some inner rage. Then his eyes softened, suffusing with a sudden sadness. He looked down at his feet, then back at Canfield. He smiled wanly, as if embarrassed, and said, "We'll talk later, Mr. Canfield." Then he strode from the room, leaving a bewildered Canfield to watch his retreating back.

* * *

He was with Kathy again. They were in bed together. It was a comforting thing to be there. A memory he could, as Costerman had said, get a handle on. And there was Shep. Good old Shep, right by his side. Roger reached for Kathy, her smooth bare back bringing joy to him. He took hold of her shoulders to turn her toward him. He wanted to see her face. He could not remember her face, his own wife's face! He turned her toward him so that her warm, beautiful body that always smelled of sweet lavender faced him.

He gasped. There was no face! Only a scooped hollow filled with blood and pieces of bone and broken teeth. Kathy's blood gushed over his hands and onto the bed clothes and the front of his body. Her body suddenly convulsed, her head flailing like a rag doll, bits of her teeth and blood were tossed about, splattering against him. He pushed her body away.

"Kathy!" He screamed. "Kathy, Kathy!" Then he heard a low, ominous growl behind him and when he turned, there was Shep, his Rottweiler, lips pulled back in a snarl, crouched low to the floor, moving determinedly toward him. "Shep!" He shouted. "It's me boy. It's me." But Shep was having no part of it. He lunged and sunk his teeth into Roger's right thigh, so that Roger had to smash his fist against the dog's head. Shep yowled, rolled away and instantly resumed his attack. Canfield rolled off the bed, bumping Kathy's lifeless body onto the floor with a thud. His hand found some heavy object, a metal candlestick, and as Shep lunged, he brought the candle stick down again and again. Shep yelped in pain and fell to the floor, trying to crawl away. Canfield followed him delivering blow after sickeningly sodden blow in a frenzy to the now shapeless skull of his dog, good old Shep.

He awoke in a cold sweat. He quickly sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for his cigarettes. He didn't find them. I smoke, he thought absently. God, I need a cigarette. He was still shaking from the dream. He was frightened, but there was something else. There was a another feeling, a sick feeling of being stimulated, sexually stimulated by the dream, that horrible dream. The room was dark. What was that awful smell? Something hot and fetid filled the room, like a mist. He got up from the bed, expecting to have to drag the IV pole with him, but noticed that it had been removed. There was something protruding from where the IV had previously entered the back of his left hand. A rubber capped thing, about the size of a pencil eraser, that seemed to be designed for the purpose of injecting medicine into. He shrugged. Just one more indignity. He started groping about in the dark. He found a wall and then the light switch and flipped it on.

The room blazed into visibility. And. . .The white walls of his room were covered in blood! It was as if someone had exploded in that room, bleeding out in one wave, depositing their life's blood on the wall. He whirled around, taking in the entire horrible scene. He stopped, noticing that at one point, on the wall above his bed, the blood spattering took on a kind of pattern. He stumbled over to it, his mind reeling, his body shaking. He looked closely at this one part of the wall and gradually letters, written in blood, emerged. He squinted trying to make them out.

Suddenly, terror filled his chest as he realized what the words on the wall, written in fresh blood, spelled out. "We want you to remember," they said. It was then that he fainted.

* * *

He awoke with the vile stench of the dream still in his nostrils. The room was dark. He sat up on the side of the bed and adjusted his gown, securing the ties at the back of his neck. He noticed the rubber capped catheter protruding from the back of his left hand. This, then at least, was real, although he had first noticed it in his dream. He hesitated, then remembering an alternate method of turning on the room lights, pressed a button on the side rails of the bed. The over head lights came on. He surveyed the room. Gone were the blood spatters and the words written in blood. It must have been a dream within a dream, he thought with a shudder. He walked over to the wall where he had seen the words smeared in blood. They were perfectly clean. He was about to move away when something on the floor caught his eye.

He crouched down. There, on the baseboard. He reached out and touched it with his index finger. A red blotch. Now that he had seen it, he noticed others. It wasn't blood, it was something else. Red paint? No, but it definitely was not blood. It had a gummy, moist feeling. And when he re-examined the wall, he realized that this particular part of the wall was cleaner than the neighboring areas. It had been scrubbed clean!

So, it hadn't been a dream at all! Someone had painted those words on his wall, then removed them while he lay unconscious. This time, he did not feel fear. He felt anger. He felt a bile rising in himself that was at once calming and familiar. As if rage were an emotion he often felt, and that it had long been a part of his emotional geography.

He stood up and turned to face the room. What kind of hospital was this anyway? he thought. Had anyone ever actually said it was a hospital? He had a desperate need, suddenly, to see his own face. He walked over to the bed side table. He remembered something from, he supposed, a previous hospitalization. There were some memories that existed in his mind that had nothing to do with his personality, memories of how things worked. These memories were still there. He slid the top of the bedside table backward, revealing a storage area underneath and. . .a metal mirror. It flipped up as he pushed back the table top. He braced himself while he adjusted his face before the mirror without looking at his own image.

Then he looked at himself in the mirror. What he saw brought some of the fear back. A face looked out at him that was so feral, so marked by the stains of hard time that he could not accept it. A blowzy, damaged face displaying a past that must have been intolerable. It was the face of an animal. Blotched and bloated, peppered with scars and suffused with a deep sense of what he could only call evil. But this was his face. He pushed away the mirror in a sudden paroxysm of disgust, then he rolled the table back again so that the mirror was squarely before him, braced himself, and took a good look.

This was him. Brutish, cruel, without conscience. Could this be a dream as well? No, he was awake. After a bit, it wasn't so hard to look. His face began to look normal, almost handsome. So, this was Roger Canfield. He continued to gaze at himself for some minutes, then pushed the table away.

Now to get a look at this hospital, he thought. He crept to the door of the room and put his ear against it. Silence. He pulled open the door and stepped out into a dark hallway. His eyes soon became accustomed to the dark and he could make out the shapes of many boxes lined up against the walls of the hallway, and many doorways spaced at even intervals along it. He could barely read the address labels on the boxes in the meager light, but he eventually made out a logo that consisted of a large blue eye with an equal sized red number 4 superimposed over it. In large bold letters beneath the logo were the words "Eye 4". He could not make out the address because the print was too small.

He looked to his left down the hall. Fifty feet down, it opened up into some kind of antechamber with what looked like a nurses station. It was well lighted and a nurse was seated at a desk, writing notes. She did not see him because the hallway was darkened. He peered down the other way. Vague sounds of activity and bright lights emanated from that direction. There were the muffled sound of voices, a flickering glow, clanging noises, pounding. He decided to go that way first.

He passed a great many doors, each with a number on it. He opened a few and peeked in to find rooms, like his, only most were unfinished. Some had bare cement floors, and needed paint. Others did not have all the fixtures in place.

Abruptly he was standing along side a windowed surgical theater of some kind. Through the windows, he could see a large, green-tiled room filled with strange and complicated devices. Levers and lights and spigots and tubes and wires sprouted out of every portion of the walls. There was a bed, or more correctly a table, that was obviously intended for patients, directly in the center of the room. It was equipped with straps to secure the patient's mid-section and arms. It also had side rails. There was a large parabolic light, dark now, which was meant to shine down on the table, and consequently the patient, from above. There was a cardiac monitor and other strange and arcane looking monitors and screens beside the bed or table.

He had never actually seen the room where he had been resuscitated, where he had suddenly been born into a world without history, but he knew this was it. He felt a feral energy rising within him. He could see himself reflected in the glass, again, and his face betrayed a hostility that he hadn't thought possible. But then when you awoke with no memory of yourself, how did you know what you were capable of? He looked into the room for a long while, then slowly continued his surveillance of the hospital.

The row upon row of boxes along each side of the long hallway (he opened one) were filled with equipment and furniture, obviously for the many unfinished rooms. This entire facility was unfinished, he thought with alarm. The fear began to overtake him briefly, but then he remembered the face that had stared back at him from the mirror, and the fear turned to a ferocious anger. That face gave him strength. He was not a weak person. He was strong. People would fear him. The people that brought him here would pay.

Suddenly, like a flash against the darkness, he saw a picture of his wife, Kathy, cowering against the wall of his bedroom and Shep advancing toward him, growling. She had feared him too, he remembered, now. He commanded respect in his home. What had she done this particular time? He could almost see it. She had. . . . The scene in his mind of her sobbing, pleading face filled him with a sudden loathing, but it also filled him with a kind of excitement. He felt the blood hot in his face. He felt like snapping her damn neck, the stupid- He still couldn't make out her face, but he no longer thought fondly of her memory. She had been a bitch. He knew that. They were all bitches.

He stopped, blinked. That was quite a jump, he thought. Where had that thought come from, and why had it come so easily? Was this the kind of person he really was? He hadn't thought so. But then, he remembered the face in the mirror. The ferocity of that face had bothered him at first. Now, he only shrugged carelessly, taking some small pride in it, in its strength.

He continued walking down the hall. He was getting close to the sounds, now. He slowed his pace, staying close to the wall, hiding in the shadows. He moved slowly, quietly like an animal creeping up on its prey. The hallway opened up into a large chamber with more hallways going off in all directions from it like the spokes of a wheel. Men were working in this area. Some were welding, others were moving objects, still others were securing items into place. There was a large desk that seemed to be designed to ultimately be a reception area, since the hallways all converged upon it. Some of the workers were on scaffolding, securing light fixtures in place. There were about 20 people working in the room. Most were working and dressed in coveralls, but a few just stood around. They were dressed in some kind of uniform and wore guns, two way radios, and night sticks. Some kind of security guard, he surmised. There was an insignia on the shoulder pads of their coats, but he couldn't make it out. Although this large room was well lighted, they were too far away. He moved as close as he dared, hugging the wall of the darkened hallway.

One of the men had his arms folded across his chest. He was talking to his cohort. He laughed, dropped his arms to make gestures. As his arms moved away from his chest, Canfield clearly saw the Eye 4 logo-a large blue eye with superimposed red 4-and the words, "Department of Corrections," clearly inscribed on the upper right hand portion of the guard's dark jacket.

A cold spike inserted itself into Canfield's chest. This place was not a hospital at all! It was a prison. He was a prisoner in some new kind of prison facility that was not yet complete. They were finishing this building, and it wasn't a hospital. But it did have something to do with medicine. Perhaps a hospital for inmates. He was here so that they could treat his memory loss. Maybe it was okay after all, but he had a bad feeling about it.

He started to retreat, move back into the dark hallway. He'd better get back to his room before they noticed he was gone. He felt strong arms on his shoulders. "May we help you, sir?" someone asked. He was roughly pulled around. Two security guards faced him. Canfield abruptly twisted out of their grasp, turned and ran. He was filled with panic, but also the heightened awareness of a hunted animal. He ran into the pandemonium of the unfinished room. People shouted; several of the security type people ran toward him. He brought down the first one who approached him by smashing his elbow in the guard's face. Another guard grabbed him from behind. He stomped reflexively on the man's instep, twirled about and kneed him in the groin. But there were too many of them. They boiled over him, like locust, pinning his arms behind his back. The workers had all stopped and encircled him where he struggled with the security guards. As they held him, one of the men approached him, holding a square device before him. Canfield recognized it as a stun gun. The guard touched him on the chest with it, pressed a lever, and suddenly Canfield was unable to move. The guards who had been holding him released him and he began to fall. His mind was sucked once again into the black vortex of unconsciousness.

* * *

". . . we discussed during the orientation . . . memory loss is only temporary. " A deep, commanding voice was saying. "Ah, Mr. Canfield, I see you're awake. We're in the midst of rounds here. I'm Dr. Feldman." The doctor, a lean, craggy faced individual, perhaps in his early forties was addressing a group of men and women, wearing white lab coats, that encircled his bed. He also recognized the bearded Doctor Costerman. Feldman smiled intensely, showing his teeth, almost insultingly, it seemed to Canfield.

He had never seen doctors such as this. True, his memory had failed him, but he did know that at some time in the past he had seen doctors before. This group, except for Feldman and Costerman, looked like anything but doctors. To begin with, they were all in various stages of-it seemed-extreme discomfort, as if being here were excruciatingly painful to them. There were six people-three men and three women, ranging in age from 18 (wasn't that awfully young to be a doctor? he thought, then dismissed it.) to 55. And they just didn't look like doctors. They were dressed in white lab coats, but that didn't make them doctors. And there was something else. Something about the way they were dressed, but he couldn't quite get his mind around it.

"We all wanted to meet you. I've been telling my. . .colleagues here that yours is a very interesting case. Loss of memory, that cinematic cliche, so often employed in film and books to place the protagonist in a variety of interesting situations. Don't you just love that plot line, Mr. Canfield?" Dr. Feldman's smile broadened, it was definitely meant to be insulting, there was no doubt now.

"Cut the crap, Feldman. I know what this place is now."

"But of course you do! You're a very resourceful brute, aren't you? Truly without conscience or any moral restraint whatsoever. Ah, nurse Lyons, bring that over here." Sandra Lyons stepped into the room carrying a plastic bag with a red label on it. "Sandra Lyons. . ." He stretched his upraised palm toward the young woman by way of introduction. She still looked nervous, but her eyes were filled with a grim determination. A flame burned behind those eyes. ". . .did very well in her role as your nurse, don't you think? Actually she's had no formal medical training." Sarah Lyons continued to stare at him, as if she were looking at a bug.

Dr. Feldman took the plastic bag and secured it to a hook above the head of his bed. He then connected to it some plastic IV tubbing that had a needle at its end. He was about to insert the needle into the little plastic capped nubbin projecting from Canfield's forearm when Canfield firmly grasped his wrist. "You don't think I'm going to let you do that, do you?"

Feldman winced a bit, frowned, staring at where Canfield gripped his arm. He glanced quickly to his right and left and then nodded. Strong hands dislodged Canfield's grip from Feldman's arm and pinned Canfield's arm against the bed. The hands belonged to two security guards, each wearing a blue blazer with the Eye 4 and Department of Corrections logo.

Feldman inserted the needle into the rubber IV port jutting out of Canfield's left arm. He taped it into place, and then reached up and adjusted a dial on the IV bag itself. He started the IV dripping at a slow rate. The two pair of hands held down Canfield's arm for a few minutes more, then slowly at a nod from Feldman, released him.

"Just some medication, Mr. Canfield. Can't get too much of that can we?" Said Feldman in a most condescending and flippant manner.

Roger Canfield remembered his own face from the mirror. He was strong. He didn't have to take any of this. He sprang out of the bed and grabbed Feldman by the throat- Only he didn't move at all. His body never gave fruition to the command he gave it. He lay there like a rag doll, unable to move even slightly. His eyelids began to close-he could not keep them open-but one of the security guards quickly taped them open. He suddenly realized that he couldn't breath. He tried to fill his lungs, but nothing happened. Panic suffused his chest, like ice water.

"Succinal Choline." said Feldman. "Curare really. You know, the poison used by Amazon Indians to coat the darts of their blow guns?" He spoke calmly to Canfield's fear filled eyes. "It paralyzes every muscle in your body. Very effective. Of course, we haven't used enough to kill you. However, if not for a special attachment to this bed, you'd suffocate in a few minutes. You see, it paralyzes all musculature, even the breathing muscles."

He bent down and there was a clicking sound as if he'd thrown a switch. Sweet, healing air began rhythmically filling and being expelled from Canfield's lungs. The relief spread through his chest with the pleasure of an orgasm. Feldman smiled broadly as if from a deep pride. "It's a magnetic iron lung. I took the liberty of surgically implanting magnetized metal spikes into your diaphragm." Although he could still not move a muscle, Canfield could feel every sensation. The soft brush of air against his respiratory passages. The pull of the magnets in his back. The weight of the bed sheets. All these sensations came to him in exquisite detail. The drug had merely paralyzed him. If anything, it seemed to have heighten his sense of touch.

What in god's name was going on? Gone was his arrogant feeling of strength. Canfield now looked from face to face like a frightened rabbit, but he only imagined that his eyes moved. He couldn't make them move. The group of men and women-the fake doctors-were all looking at him. Their faces were somber, some were streaked with tears. Were they his family? If so, why were they allowing him to be treated this way? Their name tags glistening in the light over his bed and that's when he saw it. The thing that had seemed so strange about them when he had first awoken. The thing that he couldn't quite get his mind to grasp at the time.

The name tags.

Each of them had a name tag. And nearly half of those name tags bore the last name of Lyons-the same name as his nurse, Sandra Lyons! Each person's name was displayed on their badge followed by the initials, FM. FM? he thought. What kind of specialty was that? A sudden understanding burst upon him. Family member?

Feldman must have dimmed the lights, for it suddenly became dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see. The subtle sound of a drum beating at regular intervals could be heard. Feldman moved some tables around the bed and began lighting several candles. When he was finished, he further dimmed the lights and the room glowed in the soft orange light of the candles. The drum continued to beat in the background slowly, like a metronome. The security guards each grabbed an arm and tied his arms, with what looked like rawhide thongs, flat at his sides, outstretching him like Jesus. They did the same thing to his legs, pulling them down and securing each tightly with a rawhide thong so that he lay on the bed spread eagle. They then removed his covers and his gown so that he was completely naked.

"You were a complicated case, Mr. Canfield. Our first, actually. This facility. . ." He raised his arms at his sides with palms up to indicate his surroundings. "It's a pilot project. You are our first client. But you weren't supposed to lose your memory. You see, to be effective. . .for the treatment to be effective, you have to remember." Roger could only watch, helplessly. Feldman began to pace back and forth before his bed. He could dimly sense the others huddled around his bed staring down at him. There was Sandra Lyons, Dr. Costerman, and the six other people. Their faces glowed in the candle light. The guards moved Canfield's head to follow Feldman as he paced. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Fear crackled like raw electricity in his body.

"Allow me to introduce you to some folks, Mr. Canfield." The group surrounding his bed dispersed, leaving only Feldman standing before him. The guards directed Canfield's head so that he was looking with his wide, taped open, eyes directly at Feldman. Feldman's face was grim, serious, and sad. "Before we can proceed with treatment, we have to get you to remember. Maybe this will help. Justine?"

Feldman stepped out of Canfield's line of sight. Into it stepped a young woman, a girl, about 18 years old. She hung her head, unable to look at him at first, but gradually she was able to raise her head and gazed at him, fear in her eyes.

Feldman produced a large black magic marker from his lab coat pocket. He held it up to get the girl's attention. "It's okay, Justine, you'll do just fine. I'd avoid these areas, here. . ." He began inscribing on Canfield's chest with the marker. Canfield felt its coolness with exquisite detail. Feldman was drawing circular areas and X's on Canfield's bare chest. "Here or here is fine. Avoid these areas too, and. . .Judy," He paused, glanced at another member of the group that Canfield could not see, and said, "As I told you during orientation, these are your two possible choices." He jabbed twice with the magic marker, once over his left chest and then at a point on his belly. "You're sure you don't want Carl to. . .? Okay, then I'd suggest this one, down here, but of course, that's up to you. The one up here. . ." he jabbed with the marking pen, marking a large X. "will work rather quickly. I'd say too quickly."

He glanced again at Justine and nodded. The young woman steeled herself. From her side, she raised a knife and held it with both hands, its tip pointed down toward Canfield's bare chest. It had a long double sided blade and a haft studded with jewels. The guard of the knife was enlarged, like the guard on a sword. Canfield could not move, could not look away. Strong and unsympathetic hands riveted his head in place.

The young girl held the knife in tremulous hands. "My name is Justine Lyons," she began. Her voice betrayed that she was on the verge of crying. "Sister to Kathy Lyons."

Kathy! thought Canfield. Kathy Lyons, of course. "My sister was-" She did cry now, but she still held the knife above his chest. "My sister was the kindest, most understanding person you would ever want to meet. She helped me through some very hard times in high school. With that awful boy. The day he- I remember us baking cookies together on Saturdays. She had such a sweet, comforting laugh. I loved-" Her voice choked off, but she continued to stare at him, the knife only wavered slightly in her hands. "I loved my sister. In her name. . . In her name. . . I-" She gripped the knife more firmly, raised it higher above Canfield's chest.

She was going to kill him! shrieked Canfield to himself. This bitch was going to kill him. But she slowly lowered the knife, sobbing, "I'm. . .I'm sorry. . . I. . .can't. . ."

"It's alright, Justine." She backed away, as Feldman appeared, took the knife, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Feldman waited as Dr. Costerman led the sobbing girl away. He looked at Canfield, his eyes filled with a dull loathing. He forced a smile, as if his indifferent, uninvolved showman act were becoming very difficult.

"This facility, Mr. Canfield. It's about consequences. I got the idea after reading an article in the Times a few years ago." He began to pace again, looking down at his feet, then up, remembering. "A murderer, like yourself-" He looked sharply at Canfield.

Canfield did remember now. Kathy Lyons. She had not been his wife at all! He'd broken into her house, at random, raped her, then smashed in her skull with a cast iron bookend.

"-was released. Oh, he was on house arrest, to be sure. Had one of those metal bands on his leg? Supposed to enforce the house arrest? And it worked, too, they knew exactly when he broke house arrest. But by the time they apprehended him, he had killed three other women, among them an 8 year old girl. Marcia-" He stared at Canfield, his eyes now moist and red. "Marcia Feldman. My daughter. Katrina Feldman. . .my wife. Her sister, Jane." A violent wave of emotion momentarily flashed across his face. He frowned, shaking away the welling tears. He looked up, managed a weak smile.

"But I didn't grieve in the normal way. I started this place. A place of healing. A place created for the victims. Not a prison where perpetrators of soulless crimes could wile away their sentences lifting weights, browsing a 25 item salad bar at dinner time, or attending college, and watching cable TV. No, this prison would be about retribution, about pay back. And here it is." He spread his arms as if in triumph, but he could not hide a deep abiding sadness. He let his arms drop.

"Carl?" He said, glancing off to his right. A thin, slightly greying man, perhaps fifty, appeared in Canfield's circle of vision. Feldman handed the man the knife he had taken from Justine. The man raised the knife with no hesitation above Canfield's chest and held it there. In this man's eyes burned a hate so intense, Canfield could feel the heat of the man's gaze upon his bare chest.

"My name is Carl Lyons." the man said, his deep voice echoing through the room, like thunder. The drum beat interminably in the background. Candle light flickered in his ferocious eyes. "Kathy's father. Kathy!-" He looked away, a sudden sadness filling his eyes, but he wavered only briefly, and then continued. "Kathy made me proud. She had just gotten her degree. I told her, 'Take your time, honey, you don't need to move out right away.' but she wanted her independence. She rented the house in Carrington. It was a safe neighborhood. I thought it was. . ." His voice cracked. "I didn't. . .I wasn't worried. . ." He broke into sobs. He continued to hold the knife high in the air, but it was as if he were clinging to it, as if he were suspended from it above a gaping chasm that he was terrified of falling into. But when Dr. Costerman approached him, he jerked his head in a gesture of dismissal.

"Use the mantra, Carl." said Feldman.

Carl Lyons caught hold of himself. His tears slowly abated; he made no effort to wipe them away. He straightened his body and stared directly into Canfield's eyes. Canfield was unable to look away or close his eyes. The gaze entered him like the blast of an explosion. "In Kathy's name, in honor of her memory. . ." He raised the knife higher. "I offer up this wretched soul, as poor sacrifice for my daughter, Kathy Lyons, may God bless her soul. . ." He gripped the knife, and said. "Let the cleansing begin." He brought the knife down in one strong, violent arc. It entered Canfield somewhere in his right chest. Pain exploded in his shoulder. He could feel bone chipping, his shoulder joint being split open, then thick, hot blood trickling over his chest and down along his ribs onto the sheets. Costerman led the now sobbing man away.

Feldman appeared, smiling wearily. "The blade's dipped in Oil of Capsicum-cayenne pepper, actually." he said, looking down at Canfield, who because of the paralyzing drug, showed no outward signs of the agony he was feeling. "That might explain the level of pain you're feeling. And the burning of course. I also took the precaution of administering a stimulant. Wouldn't want you losing consciousness, now, would we?" Feldman tried to maintain his persona of the indifferent showman, but it was only an act, Canfield could see, and Feldman was tiring of it. Feldman cared for all these people. He was assisting them, helping them cleanse their demons. He stooped down out of site for moment and came back with an earthenware bowl that bore odd etched characters on its side. He grabbed a white linen swatch of cloth from one of the tables near the bed. He folded it ceremoniously four times, then dipped it into the bowl. It came back bright red. Canfield realized with disgust that it was his own blood. Feldman began daubing it on Canfield's face with his own blood-once on the bridge of the nose, and once on each cheek. Each time he caused the cloth to brush against Canfield's face, he repeated the words, "Release the soul, expunge the flesh." intoning it like a catholic priest delivering mass. He passed the bowl amongst the group. Some merely passed it on, as if it were painfully hot or contained excrement. Others, stood holding the bowl for a moment, eyes closed, as if in prayer or silent mediation. Finally, one of the guards took the bowl from the room.

Feldman handed a young man, perhaps twenty, another jewel studded knife. The man towered over Canfield, fear in his eyes, his voice tremulous. "My name is Frank Banner. . ."I was Kathy's fiancé. . ." After the man had finished, he said, "I offer up this wretched soul, as poor sacrifice for Kathy, my wife-" He clenched his eyes shut tightly. Squeezing away the tears. "My wife in spirit. She will always be with me. . . Let the cleansing begin." This time the knife plunged deeply into Canfield's left thigh. The man pulled the knife rudely down toward Canfield's groin, ripping flesh audibly. The pain seared down his leg and into his testicles. Warm blood gushed like a geyser. Feldman moved in quickly, applying pressure. Canfield could feel it all with profound detail. No part of his sense of feeling was diminished in any way. If anything, it was heightened-the agony had a clear, undiminished path to his brain, sans distractions. Feldman was applying a pressure dressing. When he had finished, he backed away and managed a weary smile. "Don't worry," he said. "We won't let you die. . .not yet."

". . .Susan Crowell. . .Kathy's best friend." This was from twenty-two year old girl with blonde curls but black hate upon her face. She plunged the knife with only slight hesitation into Canfield's right hip. Blood fountained up, and was immediately stanched by Feldman. Canfield vomited, almost choked on it, but his head was gently turned. He was cleaned up and the nightmare continued.

Sandra Lyons spoke of warm summer nights under dazzling stars, swapping dreams and boy friend comparisons with her sister Kathy, but declined the knife. "I won't soil my hands on blood as filthy, as vile as yours!" she said.

Why were these people doing this to him? But, of course, he knew. He remembered everything now. The night he had been driving through the Carrington district and seen the figure of a young woman in an upstairs window. The thrill of sneaking up the back stairway, breaking the glass. That damn dog. Was it's name really Shep, or had his mind, wanting to remember a different-a better-past, simply come up with that name? The woman had pleaded with him, begged him to leave, that she wouldn't go to the police. She was pleading, sobbing as he tore off her clothes and forced himself inside her, bringing a sweet relief which was not totally sexual. The pleasure he received was a poignant blend, a melange of different emotional flavors-the terror emanating in hypnotic waves from the girl, her sweet screams for mercy, the effete blows she pummeled upon his back as he repeatedly thrust himself into her. The orgasm was merely a dollop upon this desert of stolen passion.

But it had still not been complete. As she lay there, cowering in the corner, sobbing uncontrollably over what he had done to her, what he had torn from her soul. As she lay against the rose petaled wall paper she and her mother had painstakingly selected at Home Depot the week before. As the blood gushed from between her legs onto the floor of a place she had thought of as home, a home separate from her parents, but still blessed by them-her safe haven in the world. As all of these thoughts and emotions pulsed through her tormented being, and she lay there tormented by a gut wrenching grief, thinking that nothing more horrible than this could ever happen to her again, Roger Canfield nonchalantly picked up a metal bookend from the debris on the floor. He walked over to her, and as she looked up at him, her doe-like eyes pleading, he brought the bookend down with a casual fury three times upon her skull, crushing it.

". . .Jeffrey Smith. . ." Another jeweled knife tore into his side. Pain as intense and undiminished as at the beginning coursed through his body. He screamed, but of course, nothing came out. The scream was inside his head. His taped open eyes brimmed with tears of agony, but still there was no remorse, or even an understanding of it. He saw these people only as adversaries, not as people wronged by his actions. The knives, 4 of them, remained where they had been inserted. They burned like fire. He could not escape from the pain. He tried to close his eyes, but could not. He wanted to pull away, but his body would not respond. He begged to lose consciousness, but he was wide awake, thanks to Dr. Feldman's stimulants.

Feldman reappeared in his field of vision. Canfield felt hate for this man. If he could only get up from this table. He'd--.

"But you can't, can you?" Feldman said, as if reading his mind. "Were you thinking you'd like to snap my neck like a twig? I thought so. You feel helpless, no? I wanted that. I wanted anyone who came here to feel what it was like to be helpless. Helpless and afraid like their victims. You see, execution, when it does come-and it so often does not-is not really punishment. It's not retribution. You've seen the lives you ruined with your one sociopathic act. They will never be quite the same again. All because you happened to have an urge. You're not sorry. You feel no remorse. You'd do it again. Your not really human. I dreamed of creating a facility where this point could be driven home. Please excuse the pun." Feldman wasn't smiling. "You are our first client. You may not feel remorse, but you are feeling pain. It's the best we can do. Lethal injection be damned. I for one, believe in the bible. 'An eye for an eye.' Today, it's too easy for animals such as yourself to prey on the innocent. The message will be sent out that there is no more simple death for perpetrators of heinous crimes. Now, in the place of such innocuous punishments as lethal injection-dreamless sleep after inflicting a lifetime of nightmares upon your victims? No! Now, there will be justice. Justice of truly biblical proportions." He glanced over his right shoulder. "Judy?" he said and walked out of Canfield's line of sight.

Canfield heard Feldman and a woman talking off to his left. He couldn't see because his head was still being held firmly in place. He could only look helplessly at a blank portion of the wall.

". . .you have to be sure." Feldman was telling the woman. "Carl or I could. . ." "Honey, let me. . ." said Carl.

"No." said the woman. "I saw her into this world, I'll see to this thing that took her away."

Canfield knew that she was going to kill him, deliver the final blow, and he welcomed it. Pain seemed to pervade every crease and back water of his body. It was so intense that he nearly lost consciousness several times. But each time, Feldman had administered something through his IV that brought his consciousness snapping back to a rich fullness and with it the relentless pain. He could only see a portion of the wall of his room. It was blank and flickered yellow in the candlelight. He felt the two pair of strong hands-sweaty and unyielding, against his face-patiently holding his head in an upright position. He could hear the incessant beat of that malefic drum. He could smell the hot blood of his dying body, feel his spirit escaping through the numerous wounds in his body.

Where was she? He wished to God she'd get it over with. But only the blank wall presented itself. The reflected candle light seemed to move in concert with the drum beat. Other than that, there was absolute silence. He could feel the presence of the others, but they made no sound as if this were the holiest of times, a sanctity not to be broken.

Slowly, inevitably, Judy Lyons stepped into view. The strong hands adjusted his head to look lower. Mrs. Lyons was short, perhaps 5' 4". She wore black. She had a weathered face and her hair was streaked with grey. Her expression was grim and sad, but there were lines that told of past joys etched into that face, and a profound intelligence burned behind her eyes. Her face spoke of a good life, a happy life. It told him that this dark sadness in her life would eventually pass. She would survive. Life would go on, but she needed to do this to find some way to continue. She had lost more than she could bear to think about, but she would recover.

"My name," she began, speaking quietly, with a kind of tenderness, "is Judy Lyons. "You murdered my daughter." It was a simple statement of fact. There was no accusation or anger or hate in her voice. "Twenty years ago I bore her into the world. She was a happy child, smarter than most, or maybe that's just my motherly pride speaking. She drew me pictures. You know how kids are? All loving and wanting to show people what they can do. Once she baked me a cake. It was burned beyond all recognition, but across the top in goofy letters of red frosting were the words, 'I Love You Mommy.' And how I loved her. She was a sweet child. She had a smile that burst on her face whenever she saw me, squealing for joy as she would run into my arms and hug me with uncompromising love. "

"Of course, with children, you know, it's not all sweetness and light. There was the time she brought home that damn dog. . ." Judy Lyons closed her eyes until the spasm of grief passed. "The dog. . .was a mess! His fur all matted down and thin as a toothpick. She promised she'd take care of it, and I said, 'Sure you will.' but she did. She wasn't like other children who may promise that they'll take care of their pets, then whine and complain when they're asked to feed them or take them for a walk. She always did these things gladly because she loved that dog. She was so. . .loving. She was eleven then. Spinner was with her when. . .Tried to help her. . .I'm sorry, I-" Her body shook with sobs, but she held up her arm to ward off Carl as he tried to rush to her. Carl, who had suddenly loomed into Canfield's circle of vision, reluctantly disappeared again, shooting a dagger of a glance at Canfield as he retreated. Only the face of this proud, hurting woman remained to fill his senses. She dropped her head, letting the tears flow.

"So many memories. Boy friends. Cold trick or treat nights. Christmas mornings. Prom night. Getting accepted at State!" She smiled as she remembered. "She wanted to show me the letter first. No one else, she said, deserved to hear the news before I did. I had been the one who encouraged her to apply. She'd thought herself too stupid to become a doctor. But I knew her, had faith in her. I loved her. She would have made a wonderful doctor. And, Frank," She looked at Frank for a long moment, her eyes filling with compassion for the ruined man. "You two would have been so happy together. I know she loved you. . ." She bowed her head silently for another moment, allowing the tears to flow, before slowly raising her head and locking her tear glistening eyes on Canfield.

"And you," she said. Her voice steady, now filled with resolve. "You took it all away in just minutes. You and so many like you prowling the streets, dashing dreams to satisfy dark lunatic urges. You killed my Kathy. . ." She sobbed unrestrainedly, but soon collected herself and continued. "But. . .I do forgive you." She looked at him calmly, steadily. "I have to forgive you. I forgive you. But you must pay. You will pay." She raised the knife.

Canfield's eyes filled with horror. The bitch was going to do it! She was going to kill him. Why, if it weren't for this stupid drug paralyzing him, this damn hospital-prison-he'd rip her damn heart out. He'd- She raised the knife higher drowning his arrogant thoughts in cold fear. The drum beat seemed to slow and fill his ears, like the thud of blood in his arteries. The blade reflected the soft, flickering glow of candlelight. The tableau lasted for perhaps a second, then she brought the knife down slowly, ripping into his abdomen and fell upon it, sobbing. Carl rushed in to lead her away. Canfield felt a horrible, searing pain, then all sensation was gone. He fell into a dream state. He knew it must be shock and welcomed it.

He could vaguely hear Feldman dismissing the group, thanking them for their participation. The guards let go of his head and it dropped limply back on the bed. He felt his life leaving slowly like a departing train. Gone was the pain, gone the terror. He was filling with a sleepy comfort. He could only dimly perceive that Feldman had crouched beside him and was whispering in his ear.

"You must believe me when I tell you this was hard for me." Feldman said with deep sadness in his voice. "Believe it or not, I believe in the oath of Hippocrates. I cherish it, in fact. But your kind took that away from me. It's hard for me to accept that all life is not sacred. There are demons, monsters. . .like. . .you. I honestly pray for whatever soul you may have lurking beneath that obscenity of a body. And when you eventually get release, I hope you can find salvation." Feldman paused. Canfield cursed him silently as he felt himself slipping the final few inches toward the sweet release of death, release from the agony this man had caused him.

Feldman stood up and then bent over and brought his lips close to Canfield's right ear so that Canfield could feel the moist punctuation of his breath. "I know you can hear me, Canfield. They say the sense of hearing is the very last thing to go, at least that's what they tell us in medical school. So listen to me, Canfield. Listen carefully."

"I don't know if you ever fully recovered your memory, but you see, Kathy Lyons was not your only victim." He paused. Canfield felt himself being pulled back from the blissful edge of death. An icy fear crawled, like a maggot, into his dying body.

"We know of five other victims, all of them young woman about Kathy's age. Five young woman, Canfield! And with each victim, there are always other victims-family, friends, acquaintances. These victims must go on living with the horror of your acts. They lose everything, while people like you either go to prison for a few years and get a law degree, or at best, die a peaceful death. You have destroyed many lives, Mr. Canfield, in so many ways. It is for this reason..." He spoke clearly now. Slowing the pace of his words so that Canfield might understand each one. "for this reason...that I am going to do my best to bring you back. I'm going to bring you back, Canfield."

No! screamed Canfield, his consciousness now dissolving, vortexing into nothingness, but bringing with it the impact of Feldman's words, like a heat seeking missile following him down into the depths of Hell.

"I'm going to do my best to resuscitate you as many times as I can. To make you pay for even half of the pain you've caused. That will be my goal. I'll. . .be seeing you." And the blackness finally engulfed him

* * *

The buzz of an electric discharge awoke him. He looked around but saw only darkness.

This time, he remembered.

The End

Barry Glick is a 51 year old Registered Nurse living on 27 acres in rural Vermont. His interests are gardening, Solar Power, Chi Kung, and science fiction. He could be called a Trekkie, but he'd hate you for calling him one. He just likes Star Trek, but not Deep Space Nine. He's warming to Voyager. His favorite TV program is Outer Limits, of course, and his favorite authors are Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and Dean Koontz. He has worked sporadically over the years with his longest job lasting one full year. That was a record he is very proud of.