This time when I wake up I'm in a padded room -- I'm too tired to even be surprised. But I'm not restrained, and there's no medical equipment in here. And that is a surprise.
Then there's a voice inside my head, except this time it's unfamiliar, almost alien, and then I realize it's me. My voice, inside my own head for once.
Which begs the question of who's been in my head lately that hearing my own voice is a change.
Then there's another voice, but not from inside my head. From outside. I look to the glass window at the front of the room, and I can see two men, leaning on a desk. One of them speaks into a microphone.
"Nice to see you awake," he says.
"Nice to be awake," I snap.
"We've put you on some new medication," he says. "Hopefully you'll get used to it in a few days."
"My head feels like it's full of cotton."
He smiles. "A lot of our patients say that about the medication we've put you on. It'll pass in a little while."
"What's going on?" I demand. "Why am I here?"
"Shortly after you were admitted, one of our researchers recognized some of your symptoms and gave this fellow a call." He indicates the other man at the table -- tallish, blond, brown eyes. "He's globally known for his work with patients who have your disorder, and he absolutely demanded to be allowed to work with you once he heard all the details."
"Why am I in a padded room?" I ask. I have so many other questions, but that one seems the most pertinent to me right now.
"I'll, uh, explain that," says the tall blond one, and the other man leaves, leaving me alone -- more or less -- with this guy.
He leans forward and speaks directly into the mike. His voice is confident, though he has a fairly strong Japanese accent.
"In my, uh, experiments with other patients, I found a, uh, 'safe distance' -- if you remain at that distance from other people, your treatment will go much easier."
"What's my treatment?" It almost sounds interesting. Almost.
"The medication you're on dampens the, uh, effects of your disorder to a manageable level; paired with physical distancing from distractions, it works to return you to a normal mental state."
"Who says I'm sick?" I growl, stalking over to the window. "I like myself fine the way I am."
He doesn't back off the way I would expect someone like him to. He stares at me; calm, nonconfrontational.
I slam my hands into the glass. "I'm not sick," I tell him. I pound the glass with my hand, and repeat, "I'm not sick. I'm better than other humans, and everyone has so much trouble accepting that. I don't get it," I hiss. "I just don't understand."
And then it's like the strength goes out of me -- it feels like the moment when the caffeine wears off, when you haven't really slept in days, when your body decides to rebel against your mind and send you softly spiraling far away -- and I fall to the floor.
The blond is staring at me all the while. As if he knows what's going on, inside my head.