Chapter 3

The regular beeping of machines, the sanitized smell, the pain mixed with the feeling of being high, were the first things he was aware of when he woke up. He had no doubt where he was, in the hospital, but he couldn't remember what had happened to him. He opened his eyes and discovered that he was in a white, windowless room with few furnishings: no chair, no television, no chest of drawers. He was surprised and saddened that no one was at his bedside. He couldn't understand why none of his colleagues, or why Nick wasn't at his side.

He tried to recall the latest events, his argument with Nick came back to him as well as their arrival at the crime scene, the oil he'd followed to the alley where he'd collided with Demetrius James, then the blackness. A tear, which he wanted to wipe away, ran down his cheek, but when he raised his hand, his wrist was blocked by a metal ring. Surprised, he looked down and realized he was handcuffed to the bed.

Anxiety gripped him, he couldn't understand why he was handcuffed and couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it. Time passed and he became increasingly stressed, trying to revive his memory, without success. He also began to worry about Nick, and hoped that nothing had happened to him.

He was so lost in thought that he was startled when the door opened. A young black woman in a doctor's outfit entered.

"What am I doing here?" asked Greg immediately.
''Don't you remember?''
''No, I don't remember.''
''You know, Mr. Sanders, you won't get better until you accept what you've done.''
''What have I done?''
''You killed your partner, Nick Stokes, with two bullets following an argument."

Greg was unable to react for long seconds, there was a kind of emptiness in his head, he couldn't assimilate the information, but then the doctor opened one of her files and showed him a photo of the crime scene. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he discovered the image of Nick's body on the ground in a pool of blood, two wounds, one to the shoulder, the other to the thigh, clearly visible. Beside him lay the lifeless body of the policeman who had taken them in, a hole in his head.

''Your colleagues found your service weapon at the scene," continued the doctor, pointing to the object in the photo. ''Only your fingerprints are on it, and the bullets match.''
''No! No! I couldn't have done that.''
''Mr. Sanders, you've had a stroke of madness.''
''No, this can't be.''
''He told you he'd agreed to meet one young woman.''
''No, he would never do that."

Greg began to choke; nothing in what the doctor was telling him was making sens. Nick would never betray him and he would never shoot him. Yet the photo showed him the horrible truth. He couldn't breathe, the thought of what he'd done sticking in his throat. His mind repeated the new information over and over, and he felt himself losing it.

A cup was pressed to his lips and he swallowed the contents without thinking. He swallowed the contents and felt himself fall asleep. It seemed to him that the doctor was whispering words in his ear, but he didn't grasp their meaning until darkness overtook him.

The revelation of what he had done came back to him before he even opened his eyes. He rolled into a ball on his bed as best he could despite his handcuffed wrists, and cried. He couldn't believe Nick was dead, but the photograph of the crime scene was imprinted on his retina.

Greg cried until exhaustion, heard the doctor pass by again, swallowed what she presented without opening his eyes, heard her speak to him again without understanding, but the image of his gun in his hand imprinted itself on his mind. He tried to chase the memory away, but the harder he tried, the more precise it became.

The first thing he saw was himself pointing his gun at the man he loved. A litany of "no" came from his mouth as he watched his own memory unfold. He did all he could to interrupt his vision by recalling positive memories. He remembered Nick's strong arms around him, the feeling of being safe in his embrace, of belonging there, but this feeling of well-being was chased away by the words of his man in the alley.

"Greg, you know what? We're not going anywhere together. My mother's right, it's time I married a nice girl.''

The memory of those words made his tears redouble. He couldn't understand where this decision had come from; apart from the fact that Nick was hiding their relationship from his parents, everything was fine between them. He saw himself incredulous, then destroyed and finally ravaged by hatred.

Once again, he found himself taking his gun and pointing it at the man he didn't want to let go. The officer tried to intervene, but Greg shot him in the head before pointing the gun at Nick and shooting him in the shoulder. The Texan yelled at him that he was crazy, and the younger man fired again. He saw the man he loved collapse and ran off, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Greg was crying his eyes out, he couldn't believe what he'd just remembered. He wondered if these images hadn't been implanted in him, if they hadn't been fabricated, but why would his brain have created this idea, and then there was the unadulterated photo of the crime scene.

Despair rushed into the young man's heart, crushed by what he had done, and he cried himself to sleep.