The drive up the long winding road to Clear View was intimidating in the dark. It had been a couple of days prior when I'd seen this road in daylight. Now, as I sat slumped in the backseat of a transit van, I began to have doubts as to whether I should have signed up for this at all. A sudden shaking ripped through my body as I fought back the urge to vomit. I wiped the cold sweat off my brow with my shirt sleeve. The time for denial is over; I need help.
Clear View had a private therapy program created to aid those who'd had similar experiences with government exclusive technologies, pharmaceuticals, and so forth. The government isn't keen on letting the general public know about its missteps, so it doubles as a drug rehabilitation facility for the everyday drug user—the coke heads, the heroin addicts, the alcoholics, etc. It sits majestically on a mountain top overlooking scenic forests, lovely lakes and the like. My sentence was ninety days. I knew they would be hellish, no matter how comfortable they made me, no matter how beautiful my surroundings.
The ARI I'd used was a preliminary model. I was among a handful of other agents who received training; we were the guinea pigs in an experiment to test ARI's abilities and limits in the real world, in real cases. Of the five agents who received training, I was the one who experienced the most undesirable side effects. Though I resigned from the FBI after my last case, I was still required to check in with the ARI project managers. They recommended at my last update that I undergo rehabilitation at Clear View since my condition was worsening rather than improving. At first, I declined. I kept trying to tell myself that I was getting better, that the events of the last month were at last becoming hazy in my mind, no longer important. I tried to tell myself that the shakes were normal—I was just cold, that the vomiting, the headaches were normal—maybe I got food poisoning?
I stopped using ARI after I'd failed to solve a case that resulted in three peoples' deaths, but my need for it still haunted me day and night. The triptocaine no longer helped, and it too was causing its own share of problems. That synthetic sludge that was supposed to "take the edge off" was wearing on my brain, my heart, making them weak. I used to get nose bleeds sometimes after using the ARI; after waking up to a coughing fit one morning and spewing blood into my bathroom sink, I decided it was time for some therapy.
The US government was ready to wipe my ass if I requested it—anything to avoid a lawsuit. So I received private quarters in an exclusive treatment facility. I met with a team of doctors that had been trained to deal with my case, to help me cope with the aftermath of ARI. I was allowed privileges normal patients wouldn't get, like the ability to leave the facility as long as I was accompanied by a member of Clear View staff. Anything to sweeten the deal.
After touring the Clear View property and my future three month dwelling place, I returned home to make arrangements and tie up loose ends. I got my neighbor to look after my apartment. I called my mother and told her I was going on a special case, that I wouldn't be able to contact her for a while. She didn't know I'd resigned; I didn't have the guts to tell her the truth. There wasn't anyone else to say goodbye to. My involvement with the FBI limited my social interactions so I hadn't made any real connections outside the workplace.
I was set to go to the facility the following Monday. I went in to update the ARI project managers one last time before my departure. I collapsed on the subway and awoke at headquarters. I was lying on a hospital bed in a dim room. Dr. Yasuda, the doctor that had been overseeing my case, came in minutes later, a grim look on his face. "Your condition is worse than we thought. We fear it is no longer safe to leave you on your own. We are making arrangements to send you to Clear View tonight."
I was put in this van an hour later and was on my way. The nurse they'd sent with me had been watching me warily the entire trip as if she expected me to croak at any second. She gently touched my arm as we approached the building. "We're here," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
She got out first and, along with the driver, helped me out of the van. Another nurse emerged from the front door pushing a wheel chair. They set me down gently. The two nurses briefly murmured to each other. Their voices were too low for me to hear, or maybe it was the fact that I was so tired, an overwhelming urge to sleep weighing on me. I suddenly began rolling and I realized the other nurse and the driver had already gotten back into the van and were driving away.
"My name is Jennifer," the Clear View nurse whispered into my ear. "I'm going to take you to your room now and let you rest."
I wanted to ask her why I was being treated like I was nearing death-they'd explained so little at headquarters when I'd woken up—but I was so tired I couldn't speak. She wheeled me down many hallways, unrecognizable in the dark. I was soon in my room; the queen sized bed, much bigger than the other patients' beds, called out, ready to embrace me.
Jennifer gently lifted me from the wheelchair and placed me on the bed. I wondered how the woman, probably half a foot shorter than myself, could maneuver me so easily. I looked down at my baggy clothes and remembered all the weight I'd lost over the past month.
"Would you like me to help you change clothes?" she asked.
"No," I said, a bit embarrassed despite my exhaustion.
"Ok. Just call for me when you're ready."
Jennifer left the room while I undressed. I was relieved to put on clean clothes; the ones I'd been wearing were drenched in sweat. I collapsed on the bed, grateful that I wouldn't have to move anymore for the night. "I'm finished," I called out weakly.
She was barely in the room before I felt my eyes closing. I felt her attaching a monitor to me. The door opened again; I heard footsteps, high heels clicking on the floor. A new voice, deep yet feminine, talked with Jennifer. Then she spoke to me. "How are you feeling Norman?" I struggled to open my eyes but with no luck. I listened to their conversation resume, hearing only their voices, not their words, and I fell asleep.