Sorry for the delay in updating.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
5:45 P.M.
This, everyone felt, was surely Hell.
At first, Freddie had hoped – prayed – that Sam's attack on his mother and its aftermath would turn out to be a horrific fluke, a product of her so recent physical and mental trauma. But the next several days proved that this was not the case.
Life became an endless loop, a Möbius strip. Each night, Sam acted out the same bizarre dream – she had to be placed in restraints to keep from leaping out of bed. When it was through, she awoke, with her memory of all that had happened in the past day gone. To her, it was perpetually Monday morning, and Freddie, Carly, Spencer, or Dr. Marshak – whoever had the bad luck to be in the room when she awoke – was compelled to explain the situation to her all over again.
The first thought in everyone's mind (though no one dared vocalize it) was: brain damage. But a team of the finest neurologists in the Pacific Northwest, when called in to consult, could find no evidence of any injury to the cerebral cortex or hippocampus. In fact, physically, Sam had now all but completely healed – which, in a piece of bitter irony, only exacerbated her friends' troubles, since it made it all the more difficult for her to believe them when they told her she had been brutally assaulted.
There was only one conclusion left to draw: the root of the trouble was not medical, but psychological. Sam was repressing something – an experience so dreadful that her subconscious mind would sooner purge her memory each night than allow it to surface in her waking life.
As for Sam herself, on this gloomy Saturday evening four words formed the entirety of her thoughts, indeed, the entirety of her being: Don't go to sleep. At the same time, she couldn't afford to eat her beloved meat – satiety might make her drowsy. So here she sat now in Dr. Marshak's office, pouring can after can of Jolt and Full Throttle down a burning throat into a wholly empty stomach, wincing with each gulp as it seared her stomach lining. Her hypercaffeinated state had heightened all her senses to an incredible degree. The tick of the wall clock became a punctuated thudding upon her eardrums; the fluorescent lights above seared into her retinas.
Her two closest friends in the world sat on either side of her, holding her hands. Carly and Freddie could feel Sam's pulse through her fingertips as it ran amok, and exchanged quick, frightened looks. At this rate, she would soon give herself a heart attack.
Behind them, Spencer paced the carpet restlessly. He was a different man now: his posture more bent, his eyes less lively. The spark he had always carried within him was, if not yet extinguished, nonetheless greatly dimmed. Gibby remained pressed into a corner, awkward and uncertain – wanting to be part of the group, wanting to help Sam however he could, but still feeling himself an outsider.
The heavy oak door swinging open startled them all. The elderly physician whom they had all come to know, and almost to regard as a friend, over the past few days entered with a clipboard and a thick-stuffed manila folder under his arm. He slid his arthritic frame awkwardly into the great oaken armchair behind the desk and pressed his fingertips together in a pyramid, a gesture that, they all knew by now, meant he had things to say but wasn't certain how best to say them.
It was Sam who finally broke the silence. "Tell it to me straight, Doc," she said in a jittery, jagged voice. "Whatever it is, I can take it, but I can't go on like I am now."
"I know," he replied softly. "And there's a chance you won't have to. But…"
"But what?"
"It's very risky. The procedure has only been tested on lab animals and in computer simulations up to now, and we can't be sure what the effects will be on the human brain."
"Procedure?" said Carly. "Are you talking about doing some kind of surgery on Sam?"
Dr. Marshak wasn't surprised or annoyed to hear the brunette girl chiming in. He had quickly realized how close she and Sam were, to the point that each of them feared for the other as much as for herself. "Yes, Miss Shay. That is to say, surgery is part of what I'm proposing."
"I don't understand," said Sam.
"A medical company in upstate New York has developed a biofeedback meter that directly stimulates the neurons of the cerebral cortex during sleep with a low electrical voltage in order to induce the production of theta-waves. When combined with hypnosis and the consumption of certain drugs, it should permit you to unlock your subconscious through 'lucid dreaming' – that is to say, a dream-state in which you're aware that you're asleep, and consequently able to manipulate the dream-environment fully. With luck, you'll be able to circumvent the mental blocks that you've unconsciously placed on your memories due to the trauma you suffered."
"So I can control my dreams? " Sam had visibly perked up. "That sounds – pretty cool, actually."
The physician smiled slightly. "Indeed. But, as I said, there are many risks. Neurosurgery is a very delicate matter under the best of circumstances, and we'll be entering uncharted waters."
Sam looked from Carly to Freddie. Neither of her friends spoke, but both gave her hands a gentle squeeze to show her that they would stand by her, no matter what.
It took her only a moment to make her decision. "Let's go for it, Doc."
He nodded. "Mr. Shay, as Miss Puckett's legal guardian, you would need to give your consent as well."
When no one had been able to locate Pam, Spencer, at Carly's urging, had applied to the courts to take over Sam's care. Now, he nodded solemnly. "If Sam thinks it's best, I'm willing to trust her judgment."
"Very good." The physician rose. "Sam, come with me, and we'll get you prepped."
Outside the office, the hospital corridor was deserted, save for a lone orderly mopping the floor. Carly hugged Sam tightly for a long moment. Gibby patted her on the shoulder. Freddie, trying desperately to mask his concern, only gave her a gentle punch on the arm and said, "Remember, Puckett, you have to get better soon. I don't have anybody to insult me and call me names, and it's driving me nuts!"
"No need to worry, Frednub. I'll be back on my feet and snarking at ya in no time."
It wasn't until the little group had turned the corner and disappeared that the orderly looked up from his work. A Cheshire cat grin slowly formed on his face. He gave a tuneless whistle, and murmured to the empty air: "Vaya con dios, Samantha. All sorts of unpleasant things can happen when you go under the knife…little ladybug."