Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“What?” she asks.

I motion to the apartment. “ This . I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but… this is it. Every detail feels… right. Like home.”

“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.

A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.

“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.

“I thought you were a medical doctor.”

She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”

“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make you feel?”

“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.

“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.

My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since… well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.

“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.

I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.

“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.

I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.

“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.

“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”

I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”

A door opens and a new voice, deep and masculine, asks, “What did it, the candy or soda?”

“Both, actually,” Allenby says. “He’s going to be unconscious for a long time.”

And then, I am.

I’m paralyzed.

But I can hear. And smell. And feel.

The soft cotton against my skin reveals a sheet. The weight of a blanket rests atop it. I can feel the sheet on my chest, my stomach, and legs, but not my midsection. I’m dressed in boxers. There is a tightness around my wrists. Restraints.

Poor Allenby. I had begun to like her.

A heart monitor beeping out a steady beat echoes sharply. I’m in a small room, full of hard objects. I picture it in my mind. Some kind of examination / hospital room. Cabinets along the walls. A sink maybe. No chairs. Nothing soft aside from the blankets. The temperature on my skin is even, so there are no windows. Or the shades are pulled. Or it’s night.

The smell is antiseptic. Sterile. Like SafeHaven, but with less bleach and more… what is that? Thyme and clove? Strange. But there’s something else in the air. Old Spice. Rose soap. A man and a woman. The man smells new, but the woman is Allenby. The rose scent was fainter on her before, but she must have taken a shower.

I can hear them breathing now that I know they’re there. But what are they doing?

Watching me, I decide. Or listening to the heart monitor. Trying to decide if I’m awake. Too bad for them: my heart rate, at rest, is rock-solid. Anyone else waking up to this situation would panic. A spike in the heart rate would reveal consciousness.

“He’s still out,” Allenby eventually says.

“He did consume both sedatives,” the man says. He sounds older. Sixties, maybe.

“Will he be okay?” Allenby’s earnest-sounding concern for my welfare is intriguing.

“The drugs will wear off soon enough,” the man says. “He’ll be fine. You know he’s tough.”

“It’s not his body I’m worried about. Did the MRI reveal anything? Is the damage reversible?”

“His memories are not our primary concern. Honestly, I think we’ll all be better if he doesn’t remember.”

“He might not comply without them,” Allenby says. “He might run again.” Again? “He already threatened as much.”

The man’s voice is louder when he speaks again. Leaning over me. “Then let’s hope he realizes the perilous nature of his situation.”

Whatever he intends to do with me, it doesn’t hold my attention nearly as much as the revelation that this isn’t my first visit to… wherever this is. Allenby seemed comfortable around me earlier. Like she knew me. They certainly knew I’d go for the candy and soda, even though I couldn’t have told you that about myself. But is she a friend or the architect of my amnesia? Just because she knows me doesn’t mean we’re pals. I can’t conceive of how she’d be both a friend and responsible for my lack of memory. Despite her apparent concern for my well-being, mounting evidence suggests the direr of the two relationships. What experimental scientist doesn’t hope for a positive outcome? Doesn’t mean they’re not willing to have a few patients die—or forget their lives.

A tingling sensation moves through my body, starting in my feet and ending at my head. That’s when I notice the chill atop my head. They’ve shaven off my ratty hair. But why? Have they already performed some kind of surgery, or did my dirty hair disgust them?

The tingling becomes pins and needles. I wiggle a toe beneath the blankets. Mobility is returning.

The man, who is apparently quite observant, takes note. “He’s coming out of it.”

With the ruse up, I open my eyes. It’s harder than I expected, like fighting against the effects of too much alcohol. But the heavy feeling fades fast. A few blinks later, my eyes are open. The room looks pretty much like I expected it to. Mostly white, hard surfaces.

Allenby leans into view, her lion’s mane of gray hair swaying like great pine trees in a strong wind. “How are you feeling?”

I glance toward the man. He’s older than I thought. Perhaps in his seventies, with bright white hair, an equally white beard, and spectacles over his blue eyes. He’s overweight and slightly hunched but carries himself in a way that says, I’m in charge .

I look back to Allenby. “Betrayed.” While she’s focused on my serious gaze, I slowly clench my fists and bend my wrists in, pressing them against the restraints.

“I’m sorry about this,” she says. “I really am.”

“Uh-huh.” I turn to the old man, who’s still watching me. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Hitchcock?” Allenby asks, looking back at the man.

The man stares at me in a way I can’t read. Is he amused or about to torture me? I can’t tell. “Because I’m old and fat and up to no good, is that it?”

I nod.

He dips his head to me in greeting. “My name is Doctor Stephen Lyons. I’m the head of Neuro Inc. You’re currently in our headquarters.”

“I didn’t see a sign,” I say.

“And you won’t. We’re not a public corporation.”

“A black organization funded by the government, then,” I say, watching his eyebrows rise, “which would explain why some of your employees have military histories, though if Blair is military, he needs a refresher.”