He clutched his head in his hands, praying for the roaring to stop. Oblivious to the presence of onlookers, he fell to his knees, slamming his head against the floor with brutal force. Writhing on the floor in agony, his hands scrabbled to find purchase on the tile, as if he would burrow into the ground in search of sanctuary. Abandoning his efforts at digging, he began to cry. Great, wracking sobs convulsed his lean body, paroxysms so fierce, they looked strong enough to rip him in half.
The man watching from behind the glass could remain idle no longer. With infinite sadness in his eyes, he nodded to the men next to him. The four of them -- the strongest available -- entered the small cell to restrain the anguished man. While three of them held him down, a task that required all of their strength, the fourth administered a shot.
Within moments, the man's spasms began to subside. His body began to straighten itself and stillness began to overtake him. Having seen his torment before, in all its fury, this seeming placidity was all the more terrifying, for it resembled nothing so much as rigor mortis. The difference, the observer noted, was that this corpse's eyes were moving, darting back and forth behind closed eyelids, and signaling the onset of dream-laden sleep.
This, the man behind the glass knew, might serve only to torment the patient more. For while his body was now free from its unthinking rampage, Seifer's mind could not escape his nightmares. Until the medicine wore off, Seifer had to confront his demons alone.
"Let me know if there's any change," said the observer, his voice quavering with sympathy.
"Yes, Mister President," answered the attendants as one.
"Please. Don't call me that. I'm not feeling very presidential right now."
And with that, Laguna walked slowly away from the room where Seifer lay prostrate, trapped within the vortex of his own imagining.
