Whoa look it's chapter 10! There was a timeline issue, but I fixed it and it makes Logan seem crazy…but oh well that's sort of how it is anyway.
All of Logan's days had become a rotation. In and out of Rochester, in and out of the Mayo Clinic, in and out of the hospital bed.
Right now, he was in Rochester, in the Mayo Clinic, in the hospital bed.
He was sitting on top of the hospital bed, in a hospital gown. His mother was sitting in one of the black plastic chairs near his bedside. Dr. Jones was standing in front of them both.
He had been in this position so many times, this exact situation, that he found it hard to remember what exactly had happened to land him here this time.
His disease, of course. And tests, and those test results.
Blood tests, mostly.
HIs blood was fine. He felt fine.
Just, his legs ached, his arms ached. But that had become normal, weeks ago.
"It's just a precaution, a preliminary action," Dr. Jones was saying.
He had said that about Logan's increasing medication intake. He was stuck taking a permanent assortment of eleven pills that, as far as Logan was concerned, he shouldn't be taking yet. Surely, Dr. Jones knew there was such a thing as overdose. He was prescribing too much medication.
Logan had been taking these eleven pills for a week now, stirred in with plain vanilla yogurt. He never felt like eating anyway, the hospital visits had become so frequent already, he felt numb already. He had bad introspection to begin with, the Mayo Clinic just made it worse.
The Mayo Clinic made everything worse. Reminding him he had a disease, a rare genetic disease, that maybe a handful of people had. Reminding him he was lucky he was showing symptoms now, not when he was little, because he would live longer than most other patients.
Logan didn't want to live longer, like that was an accomplishment. He wanted the disease to be over and done with.
He didn't want to live through the immobility, the cognitive impairments—everything.
But clearly, he was already suffering from the immobility issue.
There were four red braces laid neatly to the left of him. Two for his arms, two for his legs.
"He has to wear these all the time?" Logan hears his mother ask.
His mother asked all the questions with that quavering tone of voice. The scared tone of voice, when he knew she couldn't be scared.
She was pumped full of meds, just like he was.
Dr. Jones nodded at her. "With the exception of sleeping, the braces should otherwise stay on throughout the day."
The only thing Logan wanted to do was sleep, that had to cancel out the brace-wearing requirement.
"Should—"
"They might be tight for the first few days, but it would be best to start using them earlier."
"Today?"
Logan wasn't going to put the braces on. Nobody could make him do anything, not if he didn't move.
Though, in this case, that seemed counterproductive, he was given braces explicitly because he couldn't move. Couldn't move as well as normal. He could still walk.
"Today would be best," Dr. Jones told them.
So, Logan's mother slipped on the braces.
His arms ached, his legs ached, and he was in so much pain.
But it didn't matter, because the hospital scared the nerve to talk out of him.
So he was silent.
He had remained silent throughout the rest of the appointment. And the car ride back. Maybe his mother was concerned, going two hours without talking was pushing it, even for him.
Even for him when he was like this, shutting down.
But he had been good at the silent treatment when he was younger. He didn't want to talk then, he didn't want to talk now.
He didn't have the energy to talk. He didn't have the energy to look at her. He didn't have any energy at all, which was ironic, because wasn't all the doctors—medical professionals–supposed to be making sure he had energy? That he still had enough energy to stay alive and function properly?
Because if so, they weren't doing their jobs.
Logan felt tired, drained, and dead. He didn't care that he was tired. If he was tired, he could sleep and take these horrible braces off. He could feel his legs again.
He didn't care that he was drained, that was the hospital's fault. He made a firm resolution, he would not step back into that hospital for at least another month. He would not suffer through another two hour drive for another month. He was only subjected to monthly checkups, he just had to get through to the end of August without any mishaps.
But he did care that he felt dead. He felt dead because he was dying. He felt dead because everyone acted like he was.
Walking up the stairs to his bedroom was too much, the braces made sure he was confined to the couch. The couch was stiff underneath him, the braces were tight around him.
Everything hurt. Everything was uncomfortable.
He pretended he didn't know his mother kept glancing at him as she made dinner in the kitchen. He knew, of course, because she wouldn't stop looking.
Not until he struggled to get off the couch, and struggled to walk to the kitchen.
Not until he sat down at the kitchen table, on a chair that was wobbly. The table was uneven.
He stared ahead of him when she took her seat across the table.
There was a full plate of food in front of him that he already knew he couldn't eat.
But she kept staring, and wouldn't stop until he took a bite.
Logan ate silently. The new braces on his legs were too tight, the amount of pressure applied there was absolutely unnecessary. He could still walk.
Why was everyone treating him like he was dead already? Like he couldn't do anything, when he most definitely still could.
Except, maybe, eat. The pressure on his legs might be unnecessary, but the pressure on his arms was unbearable. He could feel the circulation cutting off, he could feel his feet and hands go numb at the same time.
It wasn't cataplexy, because he was still sitting upright. He winced anyway, it hurt.
"Are you okay, Logan?"
He nodded, forcing himself to take another bite of food. He wasn't hungry, either. That didn't matter, he knew he had to eat. And he knew everyone knew he wasn't eating.
So he ate.
"How are the braces?"
Unbearable. And inconvenient, since it's impossible to put them on himself. According to Dr. Jones, who might be a medical professional, but it didn't seem like a well informed opinion.
"Fine," he lies.
It's not really a lie, one day it will be fine.
Pre-truths, that's what James called them.
"Are you sure?"
His mother had stopped eating. She wasn't finished, she still had most of her food left, like him. But she wasn't going to eat anymore, she had that look on her face. She was concerned.
He missed not having to see her concerned face. Her concerns were unreasonable.
She was unreasonable, she was unstable.
"Yes," he lied.
That would be a permanent lie. He didn't feel fine, he felt sick from food, and maybe that would improve when he wasn't petrified in a hospital bed.
But he felt numb in his legs. Weak in his head.
It hurt to think, it hurt to concentrate.
It was easy to blank out in the hospital.
So easy, so easy, he forgot where he was every ten minutes.
He didn't want to blank out here, he didn't want to forget.
He just didn't want to concentrate on his mother's concerned face.
Everyone was looking at him like that now. Kendall, Camille, Mrs. Knight. And now his mother.
James didn't have that expression yet, because he didn't care.
Neither did Carlos, Carlos lived in blissful denial.
Or Katie. Katie was like Kendall, she never really showed her emotions.
Except Kendall was losing his mind, so maybe Katie wasn't like Kendall after all.
Logan stood up from the table. His plate was full of food he never touched, he picked it up.
Too much.
He set it back down.
"Honey?"
He started walking towards his bedroom, he needed to stop concentrating on being able to walk, he needed to stop everything.
He needed to lay down in the darkness of his bedroom, surrounded by the blue light of his computer screen, and figure out exactly which symptoms of the disease he was exhibiting.
"Logan."
He needed to get away from his mother.
"I need to talk to you."
He didn't care. He couldn't focus.
Fingers coiled around his wrist.
Of course it was his mother.
But he jerked his wrist out of her grip, like he didn't know.
She held his other wrist. Both of them.
"Look at me, Logan."
Was she stupid? She had to be stupid.
It wasn't enough that he didn't want to.
But he was also physically incapable.
One of the first symptoms he had expressed was difficulty with eye movement.
He couldn't look at her.
She was stupid, whatever she had to say would be worthless and uniformed.
He sat down again. She had her hands clasped in front of her, sitting across from him again.
Their full dinner plates were abandoned to the side of the table. Along with that, a stack of envelopes. Bills she forgot to pay, probably.
She was not a responsible adult, how could she possibly be deemed fit to care for another human being?
It was a full stack of unpaid bills. Unopened mail, with red OVERDUE NOTICE stamps.
Unopened mail. Emails.
He needed to check his email, he had sent out emails. To Yale, he always wanted to go to Yale.
He was going to go to Yale, to medical school.
It was August first, that's when acceptance letters to medical school are sent out.
He needed to check his email.
He stood up again.
"We need to talk," his mother insisted.
"I need to pack," he told her. "For Yale."
He had caught her off guard somehow, because her mouth closed, lips pressed firmly together. She blinked. Her eyes were closed for too long. Then she reached out across the table and grabbed his hand.
Why was she acting like this? Why was she caught off guard like this?
He was going to go to Yale, he had applied or needed to apply, it was the med school acceptance deadline.
He needed to be accepted. He would be accepted, of course.
"That's what we need to talk about."
Her words came out slowly, and frantic, at the same time.
They were absolutely not talking about this. He was eighteen, an adult, he was going to college. He needed to pack for college.
And maybe being in a band thwarted his plans a little bit, he wouldn't be following the typical college timeline. But he was going to med school. He was always going to go to med school.
"We're not talking about that," he muttered. There was no need to talk about it. He had already been accepted, or needed to apply, one of the two, he couldn't remember.
He just knew he had to go to Yale. He had been to Yale before, Camille had visited him there on the campus.
"This is not up for debate."
"Great, then we don't need to talk."
She was going to say something stupid and untrue, misinformed by unprofessional doctors.
"Logan Mitchell."
That didn't work on him. He was an adult, it couldn't work on him. She, legally, had no authority over him anymore.
"Sit down," she ordered him.
That didn't work on him, she had no control.
He wanted to yell at her.
But he had to concentrate on walking.
"You're not going to Yale," she said to him, as he tried to walk away.
That worked.
"Of course I am," he said, turning around. "I've already been accepted."
Or he already applied, he doesn't exactly remember, he just knows. He knows he is supposed to go to Yale, he's been to Yale before, maybe he's already been there for a while, he remembers the dorm rooms, one of them had to be his.
He doesn't remember which one, which dorm.
He doesn't remember.
His mother gasps.
"Honey," she spoke softly. She might be crying. Holding onto his hand. "You haven't been accepted to Yale."
That is not true, that is a lie. He has been there before, Camille visited him, he remembers going on the plane, and Kendall drove him to the airport. He walked around Yale for hours. He's been to Yale before. He was studying at Yale.
He is home for the summer, and needs to go back.
"Yes," he insists. "I've been there before."
She is rubbing her thumb over his, squeezing his hand tightly. His whole body feels tight, there are red sleeves on his hands and legs. Everything hurts.
"You have."
"I need to go back for the next semester."
He's studying neuroscience. He knows that, he's always wanted to study neuroscience, he's been in all the labs before, all the buildings.
His mother is looking at him, tears down her face.
"Sweetheart."
It doesn't make sense why she's talking to him like this. Nothing is making sense.
Nothing is making sense, he's been to Yale before, he's been to Yale before.
Yes, he has been to Yale before.
He has been to Yale before, because Camille took him there when he visited her and her family in Connecticut.
What had he been saying? He doesn't remember what he said, but now his mother is crying harder, squeezing his hand tighter.
"Mom," he says.
She doesn't respond, she can't look at him, she's shaking her head slowly.
"What did I say?" he asks her.
But she shakes her head at him, and they are there, silently crying over the dinner they won't eat.
He doesn't want to eat again, to breathe again.
He does not want to live long enough to forget again.
But he will forget, and they will end up crying like this.
He knows that, he's researched.