M McDonald - March Into Hell

Scott winced at Mark’s harsh laughter. He could hear the underlying pain and saw the way he held himself, as if bracing for an attack. “If you want to tell me something, it will be held in confidence, if that’s what you’re worried about. As far as crazy, well, I can tell you right now that after years of experience dealing with mentally unstable people, you don’t seem to fit the bill.”

Mark’s eyes flickered with hope, but it was replaced almost immediately with a guarded look. Whatever he was about to tell Scott was causing him to put up a protective front.

“I…I have a special camera, and when I use it, I get photos of future events. Always tragedies, never any good stuff." Mark's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "It would be great if I got photos of winning lottery tickets, but so far, it's always bad stuff. Anyway, most days…well, except for while I’ve been here in the hospital, I take the photos, develop them, and that night, I dream the details.”

Although brimming with questions, Scott decided to just sit back and listen without asking anything until Mark was done speaking. When the other man paused, he encouraged, “Go on, I’m listening.”

At first, Mark had looked down while speaking, but now he met Scott's eyes. “I use the information to fix things… to save people. It’s what I do.”

Scott nodded. It was apparent that Mark completely believed what he was saying.

Surprise flashed on Mark’s face. “Well, that’s pretty much it. I don't know how it works or why I'm the only one it seems to work for, as far as the dreams go. Just lucky, I guess." A self-mocking grin faded. "I used to wonder but…” He took a deep breath and gave a small shrug, wincing slightly. “I gave up questioning it…until now.”

Scott had more questions and while he wanted to believe Mark, it was an incredible tale. He'd treated many patients over the years who suffered from an altered sense of reality. Many thought they had special abilities. Some believed that they could fly; others claimed to read minds or to hear voices telling them the future. This was the first time that anyone had claimed to be able to foretell the future with the aid of a camera and dreams.

“Have you spoken to anyone else about this…gift…of yours?” Scott tried to phrase the question as neutrally as he possibly could, but his skepticism must have slipped through anyway. Mark faced him, his eyes boring into Scott while anger, hurt and then resignation slid through their depths.

Mark’s voice was like cold, hard granite. “Yes, as a matter of fact I have. I was imprisoned for over a year. Those guys…the interrogators…they know how to get a man to confess to anything if it'll make the questioning stop."

Scott tried to keep his expression neutral, but this was news he hadn't expected. "So, these interrogators-they believed you?"

Mark looked out the window briefly before dropping his gaze to the floor. “No. Not at first. I tried proving it one time, when I predicted the questions and outcome of an interrogation session, but…months went by. I don't know if it helped, but eventually, I was released due to lack of evidence."

Scott had to ask. "Evidence of what?"

"Terrorism."

The comment was so matter of fact, Scott had to replay it in his mind to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Terrorism?"

Mark's skin took on a pink tinge that Scott detected even with the pallor from the man's recent blood loss.

He looked Scott straight in the eye and said, "I didn't do anything, so you can stop worrying. Since my release, I have a few people who believe me…but I can't go into details. I…I shouldn't even be telling you. I've been told the camera is now classified information."

“Ah.” Scott couldn’t believe how disappointed he felt. “I see.” He was beginning to believe that this was a very unusual case because Mark didn’t display any of the normal symptoms of being delusional. He didn’t ramble, he made eye contact and he seemed perfectly sane, except for this one specific delusion. Classified information. The perfect excuse not to give information and paranoid schizophrenic people often claimed government conspiracies and connections.

“It's true. There was an incident at the Cubs game last summer that I helped the government prevent…but my part in it was kept under wraps.” Mark’s voice sounded defensive as he stood and hobbled a few steps to the window, leaning against the sill. He was quiet for a long moment while his eyes seemed to focus on something out in the park across the street. Scott noticed Mark’s throat working as if he was going to say something, but he didn't, and after a moment, his shoulders slumped as though in defeat.

Scott sighed. He wanted to help this man so badly, but he was at a loss. He decided to change the focus from the camera to Mark’s mood swings and possible depression. “I wonder if you could tell me about your outburst yesterday. What triggered it?”

Mark’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile and he shook his head ruefully as he turned from the window. “You’ll have to be more specific. Which outburst are you talking about?”

“Whichever one you want to talk about.”

Mark gave him a long look and sat down again. “You’re good at this psychiatric stuff, aren’t you?”

Scott smiled. At least Mark looked calmer now, but Scott still kept a watchful eye on him. He’d learned long ago that patients tended to have mercurial mood swings and were unpredictable.

“I was talking to Jessie and Jim-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but who are they? Just so I can keep it all straight.”

“That’s okay. They’re friends, sort of. I found out yesterday that-” Mark stopped and his gaze dropped to the floor again, or maybe his feet, Scott wasn’t sure. “-they were the ones who found me. I guess I had a hard time with that.”

“Why did it bother you, Mark?” Scott observed his patient and noted how his skin flushed.

“It bothered me because I can imagine how I looked up there. I feel so stupid!” Mark swallowed and kept his head lowered. “Of all the people to find me, it had to be them."

"Why is that a problem?"

"Because they'll think less of me."

“Why do you care what they think of you?”

Mark raised his head and sighed. but kept his face averted. “I guess because I really respect them a lot. Jim…well, he’s a good guy." He paused and laughed. "If he heard me say that, he'd think for sure I'd gone off the deep end.”

"Why is that?"

"Because he was one of my interrogators."

Either Mark was one of the most forgiving guys in the world, or as an interrogator, this Jim fellow had created a kind of Stockholm-type bond with his prisoner. Interesting concept.

“And you think that he’ll think less of you now that he’s seen you at what you perceive to be your lowest point?”

Mark nodded. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers for a few seconds and then cleared his throat. Scott thought he was going to say something more but he didn’t, he just took a deep breath and let it out slowly…shakily.

“And the other person…Jessie? Will he think the same thing?”

Mark shook his head. “She.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jessie…she’s a woman. Jessica.” Mark’s face turned a deep red and things became a little clearer to Scott.

“Do you have feelings for her?”

“We tried to have a relationship, but it didn't work.” Mark’s voice was low and Scott had to lean forward to hear him.

“How come?”

“How come? I’ll tell you how come.” Mark lurched out of the chair and turned to face Scott. “Because she thought I was a kook as it was, before I went to prison.” He waved his hand in front of himself to indicate the injuries, “And now there's all this. Life with me is a non-stop party. What's next? Burning at the stake? Beheading? I can't ask a woman I love to deal with all of this."