Hysterical Blindness: Darkness of the Mind [Amnesic Sylar/Gabriel POV]
The forest was silent save for an owl who hooted into the distance, its wings pressed tight against its body and its eyes scanning the leaf-covered floor for food. Silence weighted heavily on the area, the trees the only thing making noise as they creaked against the faint wind that stirred up from the south. A pair of headlights briefly illuminated the silent territory before vanishing into the darkness.
The ground between two trees, seemingly out of the way of any signs that humans had visited it recently, quivered as a single arm shot out from beneath the dirt and leaves. The fingernails on the hand were coated with dirt and so also was the thick black hair on the arm. The same owl gave a shrill hoot before flying to a farther away tree to escape any danger should it come. It glared at the arm as it fell to rest on top of the dirt, fingernails digging into the moist ground. The arm ceased to move for a moment and the bird relaxed some, lowering its alert state as no danger seemed to be posed now.
A second arm then shot out the ground inches away from the other one. It was also coated heavily in dirt, as black as the one beside it as it also came to rest upon the top of the ground. The owl, deciding it was too much, screeched in anger and flew away, landing several feet away in a high tree where it knew it would not be bothered. The bird then proceeded to gaze to the ground for a potential snack late at night. With both arms now resting on top of the dirt, the ground quivered as another piece of the body forced its way to the surface. A human head, still alive and connected to the body itself, made its way free and drew in all the oxygen it could find with a gasp.
The human was male with brown eyes and black hair, although one could not tell it from the way he looked. Sylar, as he was known to all but himself, stayed where he was for a moment before shoving some dirt off of him and attempting to stand. His first few tries were shaky and resulted in failure but he soon got the hang of it. The clothes which fit smoothly to his frame confused him as he saw the clear evidence of bullet hole and blood around the edges of such holes. Yet on further examination no such wounds appeared on his skin. How could that be so? Furthermore, who was he? No memory, no indication of having existed prior to the rising out of the dirt came to him when he thought on it. Sylar took a step and three small bullets fell to the ground from somewhere in his jacket, which showed the most evidence of the wounds that no longer remained.
With clean air rushing into his lungs with every breath he took, Sylar looked around. He could tell he was in a forested area but he had no idea of where exactly he was. He picked up one of the bullets, a small little cylinder that fit nicely into the palm of his hand.
A grave dug for another. Dirt thrown on top of him. Another man pulling out a gun. Three shots, clear into his chest. The man leaving, although his face was not visible.
Sylar recoiled, dropping the bullet as he jerked away from the weapon used to hurt him. He had been shot? Was that how the bloody holes in his jacket came to be? There was something about that which made his heart race and he had to look around again to make sure he was alone. He was but it did not calm him much. Sylar picked up the bullet again, examining it. So he had been shot, it was not just a fantasy. The bullets had been real, he had been shot at. Somehow he was still alive.
His hand reflectively ran through his hair as he stared at the ground in search of the bullet after he dropped it once more by mistake. How could he have known all of that information from just one touch? The thought worried him slightly but a bigger problem arose. Who was he? Why didn't he remember anything? Could certain events have happened that he simply blocked out? Sylar wasn't sure but if the holes in his jacket were still fresh, he assumed that he might have been shot in the head as well. But there was no blood on his collar to justify that idea, nor was there a bullet hole in the back of his head.
The sound of an engine caught him, although it sounded incredibly far off. Could it be a road? A way to civilization? To someone that knew him or just knew his name at least? The temptation was too much to pass up and so he set out for the road with shaky steps, catching himself by clutching to trees when he almost lost his footing. The ground was not as even as he had hoped it would be and thus by the time he made it to the road he was covered in dirt from his head to his feet. That dirt mixed in with the blood on his jacket and clotted up the holes made from the bullets that should have taken his life.
Sylar walked unsteadily on the pavement on the road, keeping his focus straight ahead. It's not much longer, he reminded himself mentally as he again ran a hand through his hair. It looked a mess, same as himself really. The rolling of tires on the gravel pavement reached him from behind and he was almost tempted to turn around and look. Maybe it's no one? He thought as the sound drifted closer to him and sirens flared up, also from behind.
The tires that rolled up alongside him seemed well-worn yet the noise of the sirens drew him to look at the vehicle completely. Inside sat a man of perhaps African descent in full police clothing. How Sylar knew it was a police officer he wasn't sure but it seemed that his brain knew of more then it was letting on to him.
"Had a little too much to drink?" The officer asked as he rolled down the window closest to Sylar, his eyes showing some mild concern over seeing the bad state that had befallen the amnesic individual.
Sylar cast him a blank look, refusing to look directly into the man's eyes. How was he to know what drinking was? He knew nothing, had no memories what so ever. Didn't this man understand that?
Slowly the officer pulled the car to a stop and got out, reaching into his side for his gun. Sylar stopped, uncertain of why the man had stopped the vehicle. Did he want to help? Was they why the car had stopped and the man had gotten out?
"On the ground," the police man ordered, indicating the action with his gun. "Hands above your head." Sylar hesitated, confusion overtaking him. This man didn't want to help? Why would he get on the ground? "Down! Now!" The officer barked, pointing the gun directly at him.
He stumbled onto his knees and raises his hands to block the brightness of the headlights. His eyes flickered with uncertainty as he watched the officer stare him down for a few moments before reaching with a free hand into a free pocket.
"This is Captain Lubbock," he said into what seemed like a walkie-talkie, "requesting permission to bring in a guy I found on the road. Bullet holes in jacket, dirt and blood all over him . . ."
" 'We accept your request,' " someone answered from the other end of the mobile device, the dialect reflecting an Indian tone to it. " 'Bring him in.' "
Lubbock put away the walkie-talkie and motioned for Sylar to stand. "Come with me," he ordered as he stepped around the car and opened the backseat door.
Sylar followed quietly, afraid of speaking up. Who was this man? What did he want? Why would one be as harsh to him as this man had been?
Slipping into the backseat Sylar watched as the officer shut the door and proceeded to walk back over to where his door was. The seats were made of soft cushion material, dark in color. Of course everything seemed dark with no light shining on it.
"Get your seatbelt on," the Captain growled as he slid into the front seat, hands going to the wheel of the car.
Seatbelt? Sylar felt around for several moments before realizing that he was sitting on it. He quickly moved over and clicked the beat into place. Lubbock gave the engine a crank and pushed down on the gas pedal, leading them both farther into a new place for the amnesic individual that sat in the backseat and knew not who he was.
The Baltimore Police Station was dark, and lonely.
Sylar rested the palms of his hands against his forehead and sighed as Captain Lubbock waited just outside the door, talking with someone who shared his skin tone but was of the opposite gender. The cell where he was being held was simple, small even. The main wall had a thick layer of glass on it, the others were only brick. There was only one door out of the room, it had a small window etched into it which also held glass. The tabletop, which held his now chained hands to, was reflective due to a polisher used on the onyx-colored granite.
How had he ended up in this place? He had wanted only to know who he was, not find himself held up in a police station. How hard was that to understand? He wanted answers, any at all.
Leaning back in the small folding chair that had been provided for him, Sylar pressed his palms harder into his forehead. He remembered nothing! Not even the faintest clue as to who he might be. How was he supposed to help them? They wanted answers, he knew that much, but he couldn't provide them if he didn't know what they asked of him. The date? He had no idea. His name? Oh, he wished he knew that. The current President? How could he know that?
There had to be a way of finding out the truth. Somewhere in his mind lay the answers he so desperately sought. The only problem was working to find where that answer-all place was. Which couldn't happen right now with his mind basically a blank slate, waiting to be written upon.
The door suddenly opened and both dark-skinned people entered. Sylar let his gaze fall to the table as the women sat down across from him in the only other chair in the room.
"Hi," she said cheerfully. "My name is Dr. Gibson, I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"
Sylar would have laughed had the thought not worried him. She wanted to know his name, something even he didn't know. Hadn't the officer told her this? That he knew nothing of who he was!
He panted for a moment. This place scared him. Why was he even here? All he wanted was answers. His mouth opened for a second before he closed it again. He felt uncomfortable talking to this doctor while that police officer was in the room.
"There's been a lot of that," the officer muttered as Sylar saw him cross his arms and lean back against the door.
"Starts and stops?' Dr. Gibson asked as her warm brown eyes turned to Lubbock for an answer, as well an explanation for why the man before he was even here.
"Mostly stops. What are you thinking?"
"Could be an aphasia," she said thoughtfully.
Captain Lubbock seemed confused. "Could be what? Speak English!"
"Any trauma to the head could result in brain damage," Dr. Gibson informed the very bewildered police officer as she returned her gaze to Sylar.
"He was like this when we found him," Captain Lubbock commented drily.
"Can you tell me what happened to you?" She asked Sylar as his gaze drifted from the table to her and then back to the table.
Sylar panted heavily, straining himself to rise above his fear of the police officer with the gun. "I was in . . . .I was . . . I was in the . . . In the . . . In the forest."
The darkness of the forest overshadowed him. The crunch of dry leaves under his feet. His disjointed mind and lack of memory.
"Lost. And then I was . . ."
The bare trees. The sound of a far away owl hooting into the night. Squealing of a meal being caught. Tires rolling along the pavement of the road.
"Oh, God," Sylar cried out as he fought with everything he had not to bring up the memory. The one that tormented him and drove him to panic-like fright.
The gun, illuminated by a single light. The sound of two shots fired. Dirt being thrown onto him, but it wasn't his face. That gun.
Sylar strained against the handcuffs as tears stung the corners of his eyes. Make it go away! He screamed mentally. Make it stop! His sobbing turned to inaudibility as he buried his face into his hands and squeezed shut his eyes. He had been hurt. He had been shot. He had been thrown into a grave, left to die.
"Take your time," Dr. Gibson said softly as she watched him calm down enough to talk.
He drew a quick breath before continuing, hoping he could make it through. "Walking. And now I'm here in this room. In this tiny room and I can't . . ."
The sobbing began again and he once more buried his face into his hands. Anything else he might have said became inaudible as he jerked in pure terror. He didn't know who he was! He knew nothing of himself!
"Captain, can you do me a favor and unlock these cuffs?" She asked as her gaze turned from Sylar to Lubbock, determination clear in her brown eyes.
"No. I don't make it a habit of locking myself in with unrestrained lunatics," the officer growled, clearly annoyed at such a question being asked.
"Then can you leave me your keys on the way out?" Captain Lubbock stubbornly walked over after a moment and laid the keys on the table, Dr. Gibson reaching out for them with her hand. After Lubbock walked out of the room, she unlocked the handcuffs that bound Sylar to the table and took one of his hands in her own. He glanced up at her, finally having calmed down. "Let's clean you up, get you some new clothes. Maybe something to drink. I'm going to help you the best I can. Help you figure out who you are, put the pieces together. I promise."
Sylar glanced with uncertainty at her, his eyes filled with worry. He wanted to know who he was but if it involved all of this . . . He subconsciously raised his hand and ran it through his hair once more.
The forest again. Its claim exterior masking the true darkness that had fallen upon it. He had been shot and buried there, left for dead. How could that be forgiven?
By the time that Sylar returned to the room, he was cleaned up. Someone had found him a matching grey sweatshirt and pants and he had put it on only to be rid of the memories of the gun and the bullets. He wanted everything to know who he was. Why couldn't he recall even the slightest thing? It made no sense, he didn't understand. His hair had been combed back into laying flat atop his head, but he figured it wouldn't stay that way for long.
Dr. Gibson met him with a faint smile as he was ushered back into the room, a steaming cup of some liquid between them as he took a seat. She pushed the cup toward him and he stared at it, confused. What was it?
Deciding to take a drink he lifted the cup to his lips. The warm liquid burned his throat as it washed down and the slightly bitter aftertaste caused him to return the cup back to the table.
"It's amazing. What is it?" He asked as his eyes found those of her own.
"Tea. You've never had tea before?"
He shook his head, laughing quietly. "I've never had anything before. It all feels so . . . It feels so new. Like I'm seeing things for the first thing through newly awakened eyes." His hand gripped around the cup. "Hot," he muttered before touching the cuffs that lay on the table. "This . . . It's cold." Sylar sighed. "It's like I . . . I know these things, these words, these feelings but they're . . . I can't put them together. They're not in my head. They're there and they're not. They're gone and it's . . ."
"Scary?" She suggested as he struggled with the right word to say to express his frustration.
"It's very scary," he agreed. "But also somehow beautiful. All of it is overwhelmingly beautiful."
"Jamais vu. It's the opposite of deja vu. It's quite common in cases of seizures and dissociative amnesia." Sylar blinked, puzzled. "That's good news," she assured him.
"How is that good news? I still know nothing of who I was, of who I am."
Dr. Gibson smiled softly. "I think something traumatic happened to you and you simply blocked it out." Sylar couldn't deny that. The gun and its shots were certainly something he wanted to forget, forever. "It means the you in you in still in you, somewhere. I'd like to try a memory exercise, if that's okay?" He nodded. "Close your eyes and tell me the first thing you see," she ordered.
Sylar cleared his throat before closing his eyes. "Um . . . Nothing. It's just black," he sighed as he opened his eyes in disappointment.
"Just relax. Be yourself," the doctor whispered as he closed his eyes once more, fighting the urge to say that he saw nothing as before.
That sound. The noise of a clock, two clocks. One watch and a clock. One was off, somehow. How could he know that? Sylar opened his eyes, drawing a sharp breath.
"Um . . . That ticking is distracting," he muttered as he sighed and brought his hands together in front of him.
"What do you mean?" The women questioned as Sylar realized the difference between the ticks.
"That clock. Your watch," he muttered as he pointed to each in turn. "They're off. Somehow. Different ticks, different timing. One is faster, much faster." His eyes met hers for a moment before his gaze fell to the watch on her wrist.
"This watch has been running fast for years. I keep meaning to fix it but . . . What . . . You heard that?" Her eyes held skepticism, her tone giving away her desire to know more about his realization that her watch was fast.
Sylar blinked, jerking his attention away from the watch. "Um . . . Uh . . ."
"So this ticking thing," Dr. Melanie Gibson said after a moment of silence enfolded them. "It's good, it's your subconscious. It's probably a clue to your past. Let's try again-"
The door suddenly opened and Captain Lubbock stuck his head in. "Can I see in you in the hall, Doc?" He asked as Sylar grew rigid with fear, remembering the gun.
"I'll just be a sec," she assured Sylar as she noticed his fearful look in the direction of the officer. "Okay?" Sylar finally looked toward her and she smiled softly before standing up and leaving the room.
As the door swung shut, Sylar was certain he heard the voice of Lubbock echoed out. "AFIS just kicked back a fingerprint match. We got an ID."
An ID? They knew who he was now? That mystery was solved? He couldn't believe it, he wouldn't trust it. They could just be lying to him, trying to manipulate him in his weakened state. His eyes flickered with uncertainty as terror crept back into his mind.
Minutes later the door opened back up and only Captain Lubbock entered the room. Sylar looked around, wondering why Dr. Gibson had not come in as well.
"Hands on the table. Palms down," the officer ordered as Sylar focused his gaze on the man.
"Where's Dr. Gibson?" He asked as his thoughts were . . . momentarily distracted.
"I sent her home."
"But . . . No, she . . . She was here. She'd said that she came here to . . ."
"She was here to tell you who you are," Lubbock corrected him. "But we know that now, Gabriel. You're a watchmaker from Queens who murdered you own mother."
"Did you say 'watchmaker'?" Sylar asked, an idea coming to him of why he heard the clock on the wall behind him so clearly.
"I also said 'murder.' And 'mother.' Now hands on the table."
Sylar briefly looked away. "I didn't do anything wrong," he pleaded. "I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't kill my own mother . . . I would never . . ." The officer dragged the chair that Dr. Gibson had sat in towards the walls fitted with the glass window. He stood up on it and pressed some button on the edge of a camera that Sylar had not realized was there until then. "What are you doing?"
Captain Lubbock seemed to enjoy stepping out of the chair and dragging it back over to where it was. "I'm going to use this interrogation room for interrogation again. I'm going to get a confession from you about how you killed your own mother."
"No. I didn't kill anybody!" Sylar valiantly snapped back, determined that the event in which was being spoken of had not been the cause of his memory loss.
Lubbock seemed less interested in the denial. "And then they're going to throw you down a hole, forever."
The pit, the hole dug for him. Another man rolling him into the pit and firing the gun. Dirt tossed onto his frame before the attacker left.
Sylar's hands curled into fists as the officer threw the table out of the way. He was right, he wasn't a killer. That wasn't him. The man advanced toward him as he narrowed his eyes and his arms rose to defend him.
"NO!" Sylar shouted as he closed his eyes, fearing the worst.
The next thing he knew, after opening his eyes back up, the man was thrown out the room by breaking the glass window. How had he thrown the man across the room, breaking the glass in the same instant? His mind perhaps? His hands having risen to protect him? Sylar wasn't sure he knew what to think, how to act. A siren wailed as the broken glass glistened with only traces of blood.
Had he killed the man? Sylar wondered as he stood up and walked over to see the damage he had caused. The police man lay on his back, unmoving. His breath came in quick gasps as he looked around. He had to escape, now or never.