Chapter 45
September 25th, 2020
The almost fog-like rain had sprayed Logan from head to toe, coating his running gear with a mist of tiny droplets, as he ran through the foggy park. He felt the gravel crunch under his shoes - left, right, left, right, left... speeding at each straight path, tensing the muscles in his core and arms along with it, lowering his pace when taking turns.
Millbrook's 'What now' played in his headphones - he didn't even really like this type of music, but it kept his bpm high enough. Running was one of his wasy to feel the power in his life where he felt he had very little. Unless he sat at the end of the board room table that is, but even then - there were parties whose interest he was representing. It wasn't just about what he thought. Paryting sometimes did the same. Sometimes going to race cars with his work buddies at Brands Hatch Circuit helped too.
But running was his chosen activity for this particular Friday night yet again. He'd been at it for an hour - nothing out of the ordinary for him, and if he really wanted to, he knew he could probably push it by another 40-50 minutes before heading back home.
No matter the weather, this is where he preferred to be. But especially that night, home was the last place he wanted to be. It was the reason he chose running the poorly lit trails, despite the lateness of the hour on a Friday night when most people kicked up their feet in front of televisions or went out drinking with their friends.
In his case, however, neither of those options, or any other, had much appeal as Odette was due home after a week in Saint Petersburg. She'd been at some conference he really hadn't paid much attention to as she'd spoken of it before leaving. That was the good part about their marriage - they didn't usually spend more than half a month each month in the same location.
Already since lunch Logan's phone had been pinging, indicating messages of how she couldn't wait to be home, of what she had planned for them for the weekend, only to be topped off by some messages that were very close to sexting.
He'd pushed deep into work the entire day, working as late as he could master pretending to have things to do. He worked so much he'd actually achieved the unachievable - he was on top of everything, and by Friday night his inbox was cleared of e-mails to reply and tasks to do. The busy culture frowned upon things like that, as if that meant that he didn't have enough to do. But that was certainly not the case - he'd just put in so many work hours this past month alone he could probably take a few weeks holiday if he wanted to, the HR probably would've forced him to if anyone ever counted his overtime. But they never did, of course. And he didn't really see any point in a holiday either. Holidays gave him too much time to think - and not all those thoughts were the good kind, but he wasn't really confronting the fact knowingly yet. At least working was productive. At least running was part of a healthy lifestyle. Technically at least.
The problem, which he didn't really recognize as a problem, was that most of the muscles in his body ached, from working, among other things his carpal tunnel was acting up again, and from the running ha had an almost constant discomfort in his left knee joint and then, of course, there were his toes. He'd lost a few toenails that week - not something he liked to mention. It was kind of gross, really. But it seemed to be a runners' problem, something that had become almost normal. He also had a headache, but despite everything he pushed on, having simply grabbed a protein smoothie after work and changed into his running gear to avoid going home. He didn't want to see her, he didn't want to talk to her. He especially didn't want to see her when she'd had a few drinks and was as horny as her latest text had indicated. But he hadn't quite connected his need for an escape to Odette specifically just yet either. He was just generally unhappy, Odette was just a part of it.
Another group of people heading out to party in the city crossed his path, staggering slightly from the booze they'd chosen to drink in the park to start their party, a few guys and girls, late teens to early twenties. Local by the looks of them but just a bit off the path of their usual scene, it seemed, something he could tell by the way the girls were dressed up like cheap pornstars almost, platform heels and glittery dresses. He never got why some British girls liked to do that to themselves.
He turned his direction slightly, focusing on his running again, aiming to pass them without so much as eye contact. He was focused, he was escaping - while he ran he felt free. In the best case scenario he would arriving home and simply fall onto his bed from exhaustion without even so much as exchanging a word with Odette. Sometimes that worked.
It was then another ping that rang through his playlist. He glance down at his watch, checking what it was about.
"I've got a surprise for you..," the beginning of the message said, and followed by a winky smiley.
But it was after seeing this seemingly simple and harmless message, something in him cracked. A straight road, Emma FitzGeralds Walk, if he recalled correctly, was ahead of him, and instead of taking the road that would've led him cloer to home, he pushed everything he got into sprinting along that path. It was a dark part of the park, and he only really saw the light at the end of the trail to know which way to run, but despite the darkness he pushed it. And he pushed some more. The last thing he remembered was his phone alerting him to slow down, but he really had no intention to.
He woke at what looked like an emergency room - the NHS kind, gurney beds separated by curtains, people speaking loudly and machines beeping all around him, confused how he'd been out of it this long with all the noise. He'd been set up with an IV, which didn't look like anything more serious than saline.
"I must've blacked out," he muttered, not realizing he was speaking out loud. Strangely enough he actually wasn't upset by this development, nor was he eager to get out of there.
He pressed the call button for a nurse, nonetheless, at least wanting to understand what was going on. But since it was the NHS he wasn't expecting a response anytime soon. By what he was hearing, moans, cries of pain and personnel yelling orders at each-other, he didn't seem like a high priority patient, and he was right.
It was two hours until someone came to check on him, but thankfully that was a doctor not a nurse, which meant he would be getting some actual answers.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Clarke. And who might you be? We currently have you under John Smith nr 2, since you didn't have any ID on you," the young looking male doctor, dark haired and skinny, spoke in a deep Welsh accent, Logan actually being able to differentiate between dialects.
For a moment he actually liked this anonymity and played out a scenario of what would happen if he pretended to not know in his head. But he relented, feeling tired.
"Logan Huntzberger," he replied. "I did have my ID card and credit card on me, my road ID on my sneakers as well," he added, having not assumed something like that to be an issue. He knew a road ID wasn't an official document, but it should've at least given them a hint, but sure - he go it, they didn't have time to check for each part of his clothing for hints around here.
He continued to ask his age and some medical details, like whether he was on any medication or whether he'd had anything earlier today, just to name a few.
"You wouldn't know your NI number by heart would you?" he asked, having a form to fill out on his tablet.
"I should have it on my phone," Logan began to look around, searching for his belongings. He was still dressed in his running gear, just his shoes and jacket having been taken off.
"I'm sorry, we didn't find one on you," Dr. Clarke replied. "You should make a report to the police, we have a constable here on standby, who can help you with that in a bit. It wouldn't be the first time someone calls the ambulance and takes off with the victim's belongings," he added.
"Right," Logan exhaled. He really would've preferred to do without having to deal with lost personal items, wouldn't anyone? He could recall at least some numbers though, having needed to give the number to someone at HR recently, and they could match the rest to his name.
"But wait, what happened exactly?" he asked, still feeling confused.
"Apparently you collapsed in Hyde Park, signs of dehydration, elevated blood pressure - nothing more severe than that. Sometimes these things combined can do that," the doctor presumed. "Anything unusual you recall before that? Any lightheadedness? Blurry vision? Aches or pains you can tell me about?" he inquired, clearly being in a bit of a hurry.
"I had a headache earlier. My muscles have been a little sore lately, a bit of a case of runner's knee, a few lost toenails," he continued, lightly, sounding like it was no big deal. He then glanced down on his feet, his light grey socks having been stained by blood at yet another toe - he'd probably lost another one.
"But nothing specific just before you blacked out?" the doctor asked.
"I was a little anxious I suppose, I was sprinting," Logan said. "Maybe I just over did it," he added.
"Has anything like this happened before?" Dr. Clarke continued to inquire.
"No. I had my physical last spring - March, with Dr. Souch at Moore Medical," Logan replied, referring to the upscale medical center he'd been using since he'd moved to London. "Things looked fine then, I got a clean bill of health - got praised for my healthy habits in fact," he added, having felt some pride of this praise, knowing his father had had his first heart attack by his age. Beating his father at anything was something to take pride in for him.
"But how often is it that you run exactly? How long, how far?" the doctor asked, adding, "May I?" asking whether he could remove his socks to take a look at his toes.
The sight wasn't a pretty one - and Logan knew it. Blisters, lost toenails and the one that had broken in half that night and was still oozing some blood.
"On most days. That's on top of the gym some two-three times a week where I usually do some weights," he explained.
"Any particular reason? Are you a professional or...?" the doctor continued.
"No," Logan shrugged.
"Well.. as it seems to me you might be just overdoing it a little. The body needs a few days off every now and again, and in your case I'd definitely go back to your doctor to run some additional tests check your heart to be sure, but it doesn't seem to be anything urgent. As for now I don't see you're in any immediate danger unless you push yourself that hard. If you excersise keep the heart rate moderate for a time being," he explained.
"That's it?" Logan asked, feeling a little surprised that they'd kept him this long if that was all that it had been.
"Well, considering out limited resources here, yes," Dr. Clarke admitted.
"So I'm free to go?" Logan asked. He was feeling better - no dizziness to speak of.
"Technically yes, but if you wouldn't mind I would like you to have a word with a psychiatry consultant first. I mean it could be nothing, but sometimes there are just underlying reasons why people over-exercise. It's a form of self harm, and I'd feel better if I made sure you are not a danger to yourself before I discharge you," Dr. Clarke added.
Logan chuckled at his sentence, but seeing the doctor's resolute face, he soon pulled back, realizing he was in fact serious.
"Um… okay, fine," he decided to humour him, replying in a light tone. It was not like he was eager to go home, though he did want to set things in motion on closing his cards, watch and phone, if those were indeed missing like they seemed to be.
"Good. It might be a little bit of a wait, but the nurse can call someone for you, and I'll send the constable to take your statement for the report," Dr. Clarke said, sounding surprisingly relieved to hear his words.
It was for the first time Logan actually considered that his day to day might not actually be that normal. Even if that point he still found his suggestion entertaining at best.
He had the nurse call Odette, but asked them to insist that there was no need for her to come, and closed his cards and SIM with the help of the rather sweet young female constable, whom he found quite pleasant to talk to to kill the time, while there were no others needing her services. He certainly didn't look or sound like a guy needing a psych evaluation for self-harm.
But as he left the emergency room two hours later, a cab voucher in hand to get him home, he was no longer as cheery as he'd been. The psych consultant, an older man - perhaps just over 50, a little thin on the top, had spent quite a few minutes explaining to him that he was exhibiting some symptoms of anorexia athletica. And even though he didn't seem to have major issues with his eating, other than sometimes forgetting to eat during working and not enjoying his food much, having not touched a dessert or anything resembling comfort food in months, he was urged to think about the obsessive and compulsive behavior behind his actions. He was proposed to ponder about the fact that perhaps more than 4-5 workouts a week was a bit much for a non-professional, especially in his age. Considering he wasn't really a candidate needing the help of the NHS to dig deeper into this, he was advised to see a therapist about it or at the very least slow down.
He got back to his apartment closer to 4 AM, and was indeed able to fall asleep on his bed without so much as exchanging a word with Odette. He'd gotten what he wanted, hadn't he?
