Michael Holt, renowned neurosurgeon, awoke with a start as the ring of his alarm rattled through his ears. He sighed as, with both his eyes still closed, he reached blindly for his phone. Not being able to grasp it, he gave up, instead opening his eyes just a peek to allow himself to adjust to the morning sun that flooded the well-kept apartment room. His side ached terribly.
"You gonna turn that off?"
Michael jumped at the sudden voice, looking toward the end of the bed, where a woman with auburn hair and a glowing smile sat, her legs crossed. He propped himself up on his elbows, took a few deep, startled breaths, and stopped the alarm. Still burdened by the remnants of sleep, he looked at his ex-wife again, his eyes focusing. "How long you been here?" he said in a gruff voice.
"A while. But I didn't want to wake you," she said, still a sweet grin at her lips. She watched him with a sense of peacefulness.
He laughed sourly a bit as he pushed himself off the bed, regretfully pushing away the warm covers and making his way to the closet. "Is that why you've come back from the, uh, from the great beyond? To watch your ex-husband sleep?" He opened the closet door, and turned back around, a quizzical look on his face. "Hey, where do you go when you're not here?"
"I don't know," Anna responded, bemused. "I'm here, and then I'm…gone. And if I was in control, I would not choose to show up and watch you have a nightmare." She finished with a slightly guilty expression, as though she'd been caught while sneaking treats out of a forbidden cookie jar.
"Who says I had a nightmare?" He turned back and began rummaging through clothing in search of an outfit for the day.
"You tossed and turned a bit," Anna said, seeing straight through his false nonchalance. She knew him too well to not notice that something was bothering him. "What was it about?"
Michael made his way back to the bed with his suit in his hands, looking distraught. "I was at the clinic, and I knew I had a patient, so I walked from room to room, but couldn't find anyone."
Anna seemed curious. "And then?"
"Then I found a man." Michael put the clothes down, and walked forward a little. He seemed bewildered by the dream, like it was some unsolvable puzzle. "He was about my age, looked like me." He paused. "And he opened his mouth to talk, but-"
"Michael, do you want to talk?" She asked, concerned.
Michael just plowed on, the thoughtful and confused expression drained from his face. "And his head turned into Kate's, and he told me to get my ass to work, which is what I have to do now." He turned, walking toward the door to the kitchen, dismissing the subject entirely. "Hey, next time you drop in to spy on me, could you at least start the coffee?" He turned around, with a faint smile playing at his lips, which dropped off of his face as soon as he saw that Anna was no longer there. "Please?" he said to the empty room, going to start the coffee maker.
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The car ride to Clinica Sanando was unpleasant. Michael couldn't refrain from thinking about the nightmare he'd had, the one he'd blown off when Anna had asked about it. He'd been having many of them lately, but this had been the most disturbing.
The first part he'd told her had been true. Michael had found himself walking through the clinic where he worked ten hours a week, and it had seemed absolutely deserted. Not even the gentle hum of the few pieces of equipment the clinic could actually afford could be heard, their surprisingly soothing tune absent. Looking through rooms, he knew he was searching for something or someone, though it wasn't exactly a patient. It was…something strangely familiar, though he was having trouble recalling what exactly. The clinic looked different, too. The yellow-ish light that usually shined down brightly – so bright it oftentimes gave Michael a headache – was dim, and green. A thin fog made it hard for him to see his own feet. It danced a ghost dance before retreating away as he cautiously made his way forward.
Why was this familiar? He recognized the clinic, of course, because he worked there part-time. But that wasn't what was making him feel unsettled. It was the disconcerting realization that made his head throb, when it hit him like a car – he'd been here before. This strange place that was so eerily silent, and dark. This duplicate image of the real world, but more…dead.
Then he'd stumbled into the room. Exam Room 7, read the plate outside the door. He'd finally managed to find someone else in this quiet place. It was a man. At least, it must've been. Though it was bathed in shadows, and was itself a dark figure, it seemed to be about the height of Michael. Despite not being able to see the man's face, Michael knew it was staring at him. He'd had goose bumps – if that's even possible in a dream. But a sinuous shiver had made its way up his spine as a chilled breath escaped his mouth in a gasp. The thing certainly was not Kate, as he had told Anna. It was something repulsive, something that should not have been there, in the corner in Exam Room 7.
Michael had begun running away. Tripping over a lone IV pole, he'd fallen onto his side. Cringing and full of adrenaline that masked his pain, he bolted for the door. Once he'd escaped the clinic, though, his eyes had not been met by the busy street in the poorer part of New York. He could not see his car, his sleek black Maserati Gran Turismo. It was gone, as well as were all the buildings. He'd looked behind him, desperate for an explanation, and found that there was that thing looking out the window at him. It still didn't have a face, and it was as though the figure was clothed in solid black, for no color could be seen, even as the green flickering lights from above cast a sickening glow down upon the creature. And at that moment, Michael hadn't been sure whether he'd preferred the thing had just chased him instead, for this was much worse. He was filled with a sense of dread. The shadowy man had peered out at him, seeming to say, I can be patient.
A chorus of honks awoke him from his trance. Michael swerved on the road, gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles, to avoid hitting a bicyclist. He needed to clear his mind, to extract the sour memory of the nightmare from his head, or he feared he was going to actually hit somebody. But, since his mind refused to be silent and let him safely drive to work in peace, he pulled off of the road that led him to Clinica Sanando and instead parked on the street outside of the small coffee shop he visited relatively frequently.
Making his way in, he suddenly stopped, halfway through the entrance. He just realized why his side was hurting since he woke up this morning. But no, it couldn't be. He'd never been a sleepwalker, and he'd woken up in about the same position he'd gone to bed in, the position he always slept in. He put his hand to his side, pulling it away sharply, a hitch catching in his breath. He resumed walking, but this time, he headed straight for the bathroom in the back of the coffee shop. As soon as he was inside, he pulled up his shirt, undoing the neat way he tucked it into his black pants. He found bruises, just as he had expected. They were hideously dark, a blackish blue that spread over his ribs. Michael gaped at his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. He'd gotten this in his sleep, he hadn't had it last night when he was awake. But how had he managed to get wounded when he hadn't even left his bed?
Tucking his shirt back into his pants, he paused to take several deep breaths, staring at his disoriented reflection. How? he mouthed to himself. But his twin in the mirror only stared back at him, the same clueless expression that was on his face.
A ringing came from his pocket. He fished around, finding his phone. Hesitating a second before answering, he finally accepted the call, bringing the device to his ear.
"Where the hell are you?" said a frantic voice from the other side of the line.
"Kate, I know I'm late."
"Yeah. I do too," she replied, sounding aggravated.
He was surprised. Kate didn't usually get too irritated with the job, even though it was a handful. Something must be really wrong.
"Just get over here. I could use your help."
Michael looked in the mirror once again. He sighed. "I'll be right over."
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Kate met him at the front desk. As soon as she knew she'd gotten Michael's attention, she led the way down the hallway, where she stopped and waited for Michael to catch up.
"What's the problem?" he said, halting before her.
She looked perturbed. "I'm not exactly sure. A young patient came in this morning, said he'd fallen off his skateboard near the construction site up the street. You'd think that explains the bruises he has on his back and ribs and the possible broken rib."
"Right," Michael agreed.
"But check this out. He told me he skateboards every chance he gets. But the skateboard itself looks barely even used."
"He could have just bought a new one."
Kate shook her head. "He came here straight after falling off. It doesn't have a single scratch on it."
Michael stared at her. "You think he's being abused?"
Kate looked grim. "I think it's the dad. Our patient certainly seemed like he didn't want him to find out he's paying us a visit."
"Okay, so we contact the mom," Michael offered.
"Well, there may be one tiny flaw with that idea."
He frowned. "What? You already called the kid's father?"
"Right as soon as he showed up and we got his name." She seemed to be becoming more distraught by the minute.
Michael rubbed his eyes in frustration. "Okay. Well, what if the dad isn't abusive? What if there's another cause for his bruising?"
"Then we'll have lucked out, I guess."
Kate looked over to the lobby, and after a moment of searching, her eyes lit up. "I have an idea," she said, then she swiftly made her way to the front desk. She walked toward a middle-aged man with mousy brown hair and a beard to match, wearing a decent suit. He looked almost out of place in the little clinic. "Hi," Kate greeted the man, putting on a smile. "You here for Steven?"
"Yeah, I'm Ben Tucker," the man answered. "I-I just got a call about my son Steven. Is he- is he okay?" He seemed worried, but that was a normal response that a parent has when their child ends up in a clinic or hospital. However, could it also mean that Ben Tucker was nervous about possibly being found as an abusive father?
"I'm Doctor Kate Sykora. I'm the one who called you and Steven's doing, uh, fine. We just can't treat him without your consent," she laid a clipboard with a document on it on the counter before the man, "so if you could just sign this."
Ben seemed fidgety. "Um, you know, we have insurance, so maybe it's better if I take him to a nicer place?"
"Don't worry, he just took a tumble off his skateboard. A few scrapes and bruises, he's gonna be fine. Just, sign the form," Kate urged, a reassuring smile on her face the entire time.
The man paused. Reluctantly, he finally nodded, pulled off a leather glove, and took the pen she offered him. He signed, his raw knuckles clearly visible. No wonder he'd been reluctant to sign, he hadn't wanted to reveal his injury. Kate looked over her shoulder briefly, seeing that Michael was intently watching from behind the window in the closest exam room. He gave Kate a weary look.
Ben finished signing, and he put the pen down. "Great," Kate said. "Have a seat, and I'll get him to you in a couple minutes."
"Thank you."
Being her courteous self, Kate nodded kindly before walking back down a hallway that led to the room where Steven was. Michael met her while she was walking, with a stern expression.
"Did you see his knuckles?" was the first thing she asked.
"Yeah. Looks like he's been punching somebody."
"Alright, I'll call the police, and you can try to get the real story out of Steven." As she spoke, the two doctors watched Ben Tucker insert money into the vending machine in the lobby, then push a few buttons, requesting his order. He stepped back, and when the snack he paid for failed to exit the machine, he grew angry quickly, smacking the machine hard, creating a ruckus.
"The hell's his problem?" Michael said, following Kate out to calm Ben.
"This thing ate my money!" Ben yelled, to no one in particular. He resumed punching the machine, people all around whispering and moving their children away.
"Take it easy," a police officer said, moving toward him and trying to hold him back.
"Go to hell!" he told the officer.
"Tucker, you need to calm down," Michael called.
Though his hands were being restrained, Ben still managed to kick the vending machine hard enough to shatter the glass near the base, his leg turning crimson as he pulled it away from the piercing shards. He cried out as the officer and Michael came forward to catch him as he fell backward, stricken with pain. "Let me go!"
"Listen, you cut your leg," Michael told him.
"Dad?" Steven had run out of his room.
Kate turned and hurriedly walked to him. "Steven. Let's go back into an exam room." She tried to usher him back.
"What's he doing here? Did you call him?" He sounded betrayed and he looked at Kate with fear in his eyes.
Michael and Kate exchanged another look as she led Steven away from the violence. Their suspicions were confirmed. It had to be the father.
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Michael was not enjoying this at all. He had already been experiencing a mild headache as he rushed into work that morning, especially after discovering the injuries he'd sustained in his sleep. But now, his headache was much worse. It hammered away at the inside of his skull, beating an unsteady rhythm as his head throbbed. He had assisted Ben Tucker into an exam room to tend to the man's bloody leg, all the while Ben recovering from his violent fit.
Michael already despised Ben. Not because he broke the vending machine, Michael understood that. It pissed him off when he put his money into something and didn't get what he asked for, too. But because this father had almost certainly been the abuser of his own son, and as far as Michael could tell, Steven was a great kid.
Michael was kneeling on one knee, working on Ben's leg, when Ben announced with disdain, "I think that'll be fine. Can I just get my son and go?"
"Not unless you want to risk a mother of an infection." He looked down at his work, where he was almost finished stitching. "You went at that vending machine pretty hard. Must be quite the chocoholic."
"Last couple of months, just seems like everything's making me crazy. Things that used to roll off my back just don't anymore. I don't know what's happening to me."
"Feeling stressed?"
"Yeah, I am that. Drive a town car for UN types, foreign diplomats. Some of them are not so easy to deal with."
Michael glanced up at Ben's hand. "Stress making you punch walls?" he asked suspiciously.
"That? Oh, no. I got this ch-changing a flat tire."
Michael looked up at the man warily. Ben's story was so ridiculously false-sounding, he wondered why the abusive father didn't just confess right at that moment. He was an avidly bad liar.
"You done? Can I get Steven and go?" Ben said anxiously as Michael took his rubber gloves off with a soft snap.
"I need to bandage it up."
Ben's pocket began chirping. He pulled out his cellphone. "Uh, this is my wife." Michael went to the other end of the room to search for bandages as Ben proceeded to speak with his wife. "Hi Julie. No, it was just a little accident, I cut my leg. Doctor stitched it up and now I guess he's gone down the hall, looking for something to wrap it with." He paused. "Well, it's kind of a dump, and the doctor's arrogant."
Michael was still in the room. He'd stopped his searching once he'd overheard Ben. The man honestly didn't see Michael walking around to his left. Slowly, the doctor approached Ben with a look of concern, until he was in front of him.
Ben looked at him, as though surprised to see he was in the room. "Umm…I gotta go, honey, he's back."
"Didn't see me standing there?" Michael said, grabbing a piece of equipment.
"Um, no. I guess not."
"Need to check your eyes. Look at me." He went through the procedure, checking each eye. "Any headaches recently?" I know I've had some, he kept himself from saying. His head hurt badly.
"Yeah. Figured that's what you get when you can't pay your bills," Ben said sullenly.
And when you can't sleep. "Any problems with your peripheral vision lately?"
Ben took a nervous breath. "I almost sideswiped a cab yesterday."
Michael eyed him with worry. "Stay right here," he said. "I need to straighten something out." He no longer believe the man needed to be punished, because the look on his face when Michael swept out of the exam room was quite enough to qualify as a form of torture. Ben knew there was something wrong.
"Where's 'World's Greatest Dad'?" one of the police officers on the other side of the front desk was saying to Kate as he joined them.
"He's in an exam room. I'm afraid you can't take him, the man needs an emergency MRI," Michael responded.
"He'll get one in the jail ward when he's booked," the officer replied, obviously with no respect for Ben.
"His loss of vision is recent and could be progressing rapidly. It can't wait."
The officer thought. "You want me to take him to County?"
Kate interjected. "There's a quicker option."
"And what would that be?" Michael asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"Let me give you a hint. It's got lots of windows and your name all over it."
Michael mentally rolled his eyes, but knew that Ben Tucker was his responsibility now. After all, taking the sick man back to his practice was the quickest option. "Take him to Holt Neuro." He pinched his nose and went over to a wall to lean against.
Kate noticed. "You alright?" she asked.
"Yeah. Got a killer headache, though." Michael squeezed his eyes shut tightly, the lights in the room suddenly incredibly bright. He gasped.
"You don't seem alright." She moved closer and put a gentle hand on his side to help support him, for he'd begun swaying, but that made him gasp again and move away from her touch.
"I'm fine," he guaranteed, but the way he walked suggested otherwise. "Anyway, I've got a patient." Michael shook Kate off and headed for his car, pushing his way through the crowd in the lobby. Once he exited the building, he cradled his tender ribs. As soon as he was finished with Ben at Holt Neuro, he was going to get an X-ray. Getting into his sports car, he began driving down the busy streets of Manhattan.
But something was wrong. Oh, so terribly wrong. Michael felt eyes on him, not from the sidewalks, or the car around him. It wasn't an ordinary feeling, either. He felt, no, he knew that there was a cold gaze on him from the seat behind him. Yet when he'd gotten into the car, he'd been sure he was the only living soul in the vehicle.
Maybe that was still true.
He knew it couldn't be Anna. She'd have announced her presence by now, most likely spooking Michael and causing him to get into a near-accident. Also, he never even noticed she was around until she spoke up. But if this feeling was because he was really being watched, what could be watching him? He always saw his deceased ex-wife walking around, but only in dreams had he even come close to seeing other things in the same situation as her.
Michael wanted out of the car badly, to just finally get to Holt Neuro so he could jump out of his car and get the eyes off him. But it was gridlock, and he found himself shaking. The air had suddenly become so cold. He turned up the heat, trying not to notice the way his breath turned into vapor as it escaped his mouth with each shaky rising and lowering of his chest, and trying to make his eyes avoid the rear-view mirror. Michael could not tell whether he was hearing raspy breathing from behind him, or if it was just his own.
But he was sure of one thing. There was a frigid hand, each individual finger as icy cold as icicles, resting on his shoulder.
He tore off a shoe and threw it at the backseat, straining to look behind him. When he looked, however, all he saw was that his shoe had bounced off only the cushioned leather. There was no one in the car with him. But it sure as hell had seemed like someone had been.
An angry driver behind him honked her horn several times, making him jump so high he hit his head on the ceiling. He forced himself to grip the wheel and calm down, then tried his best to make it back to his practice alive. His knuckles were as white as the snow New York got in winter, though, and his heart continued to race. Boy, was he glad he hadn't gotten into an accident-
"What's got you all tense?" said a sudden voice from the passenger seat.
Michael, pumped full of adrenaline, with his hands firmly attached to the wheel, swerved, his beautiful Maserati Gran Turismo screaming as the tires locked in place, but the vehicle continued to skid. It all happened in a second. Yet for Michael, who sat terrified in the driver seat, everything slowed down, and he saw himself flying, in slow-motion, into the car in the lane next to him.
As the cars made contact, his sports car tearing into a small 2009 Ford Focus, alarms cried and lights began blinking all around him.
Michael felt dizzy. He swore he could almost see stars orbiting his head as he looked down and saw blood on his forearm. His eyes grew heavier, and he felt himself drifting into darkness. Before lights out, he managed to look into the passenger seat, where Anna sat, her mouth wide and eyes teary.