Moments later, a dingy fluorescent light flickers to life above me, illuminating the stone room with a pale glow.
“And that’s enough of the boring stuff,” the voice behind me announces. “Is our little friend back in his tank?”
“Safe and sound,” one of the robed figures replies.
“Let’s get to work.”
Now that he’s speaking English, I immediately pick up on something familiar in the man’s tone. I’ve heard his voice before, and not just in some mysterious recovered memory.
I know him.
Two of the robed figures get to work pulling a large rolling cabinet into position, the metal structure filled with an assortment of crackling computer servers and hardware boxes buzzing along. This is sophisticated equipment, while the previous ritual felt like the polar opposite.
A computer monitor rests on the middle shelf of this cabinet, along with an empty vessel about the size of a shoebox. Heaps of cabling spill from the backs of the machines, snaking out of view along the cold cement floor.
The fully scrubbed nurse approaches this apparatus, sliding a vial of my blood into the chamber and closing the door. This prompts a powerful sucking sound, followed by a loud metallic click as some interior latch falls into place.
“Sanguis link is locked in,” the nurse announces.
One of the robed figures approaches with a glowing tablet in their hands, reading aloud from the digital screen.
“Coordinate X: seven, zero, zero, point, one, nine, four, two, two, nine. Coordinate Y: five, two, one, nine, point, six, eight, two. Coordinate Z: six, point, zero, two, six, seven. Moving on to timeline. Coordinate A: seven, four…”
As this figure with the handheld device drones on and on my nurse diligently types away before their monitor, inputting enormous strings of code.
Remembering this is nothing more than a memory, I am fascinated by the sheer amount of detail, detail that can’t possibly be accurate. While I have faith in the broad strokes my brain is painting, there’s no way I could remember these long coordinates. My mind is just filling in the blanks to conjure a coherent picture.
The question is: How much of this really happened and how much is some fantastical leap?
“Last one of the night! Places!” the man behind me calls out, prompting more of the robed figures to spring into action. They start making preparations in various parts of the stone chamber, one of them carefully testing the hinge of a large metal ring while two more roll the cabinet holding my blood into a very specific position. They’re glancing down, turning the cabinet so it aligns with some particular arrangement of unseen floor markings.
“Ready for tether,” announces the nurse.
Machinery springs to life, whirring louder and louder as the fluorescent lights above me flicker and sway. Several of the figures step back and make room, clearly on edge.
Gazing down from my position on the table, I notice sparks of pale blue light swirling through the air. They dance and ignite just past my feet, surging with arcane power as the hum of computers escalates. Soon enough, the crackling flashes stir a surge of energy, tearing through the space before me like a knife across taut canvas.
Frigid air erupts through this bizarre opening as distant, caustic screams flood my ears.
Above me, the robed figure steps forward and leans over so I can finally bear witness to his familiar, smiling face. Gazing back at me is Dr. Smith, who places his hand on my shoulder in an attempted gesture of care.
I flinch.
“Sometimes to walk in the light you need to spend a little time in the shadows,” he submits.
The tear that hovers before me grows larger and larger, the edges glittering like embers of a turquoise fire. A figure approaches through this supernatural hole, reaching out with long, pale fingers as they climb through the slit.
My eyes fly open.
I find myself laid out in a similar position, tucked into a hospital bed with various plastic tubes pumping me full of fluids and painkillers.
The chaos of roaring computers and flickering lights has bluntly ceased, leaving me to enjoy the quiet peace of a single, softly beeping monitor on my right.
“Dr. Smith,” I whisper aloud, the words barely slipping from between my cracked lips.
I’m smart enough to know these drug-induced walks down memory lane can be skewed and distorted, that an epinephrine-fueled trip into the depths of my psyche should be the last thing I count on while considering the surgical removal of faith from my life. After all, how can I turn away from the congregation’s wild leaps and unfounded teachings if I’m making wild leaps of my own?
I refuse to walk that path any longer, and hazy memories are not enough.
I need evidence.
Still, there’s nothing wrong with a little psychedelic imagery to point me in the right direction.
I settle into my hospital bed and gaze at the ceiling, anxious to heal. My body can barely move, but my mind is working overtime, plotting away.
Beware a curious person whose attention has been piqued.
11, 14, 15.
I remind myself of Dr. Smith’s private safe code, mentally repeating the digits over and over again.
The door flies open and my parents rush inside, overflowing with raw emotion.
“My baby!” Mom cries out, making her way to one side of the bed while my father moves to the other.
A nurse follows them in, making sure my folks don’t get too riled up and accidently yank out some important medical tube from its socket.
“How are you feeling, Rose?” the nurse asks.
“Tired.” I struggle to push the word out.
“Any pain?” she continues.
I slowly nod my head, prompting the nurse to offer an expression of sympathy. “We’ll bump up the morphine for you.”
The woman strolls over and makes some adjustments. My pain instantly dissolves.
“I’ll give you all a moment,” the nurse explains sweetly, “then I’ll come back to go over some technicalities. The important thing is that you’re here, and you’re stable.”
I consider replying with heartfelt thanks, but this would require far too much energy. Instead, I offer a long, slow blink, which the nurse seems to have no problem translating.
“She’s a fighter,” the nurse informs my parents, prompting them to exchange glances.
The nurse takes her leave and soon enough it’s just the three of us basking in the glow of my gentle heart monitor. I hadn’t realized it, but they’ve already started praying.
I don’t join them, thankful to have a decent excuse at the moment.
As soon as they finish, Luke and Lisa stand up and kiss me on the forehead, gazing into my weary eyes with profound love.
“I know you’re feeling really tired,” Mom whispers, “but there’s a few questions your dad needs to ask you. It’s very important for you to think hard about your answers before you give them, okay?”
“Okay,” I croak.
“I know you weren’t a part of that scene,” Lisa coos before stepping back.
As my mother says this I sense my heart quicken, and it takes every ounce of discipline I can muster to calm myself. The monitor next to me registers this petite spike, but my parents are too wrapped up in their questionnaire to notice.
“What happened out there, honey?” Dad asks.
A little broad for someone who can barely speak.