Long has it presided over our age of discordance
And will not wither til its seed returns aflame
To take root in earth unstained by blood
From its renewal blooms the flood
That sweeps away the walls in which our discontent is sequestered
To kindle in all the mercy that spared it
Entitled “the sky its branches, we its roots”
From the notes of Dr. Edgar Dambel
1 - Stolen
“You told your guards that today is your last day at Dambel Psychiatric.”
The patient did not respond. But when he looked away, there was a sharpness in his eyes that the doctor had nearly forgotten.
An oncoming storm had washed all color from the study. Everything touched by its light was dyed the same pallid gray: the leather-bound books, the oak furniture and the young man seated in the chair across the doctor’s desk. The doctor reclined, shaded by his high-backed chair.
“Unfortunately, as your psychologist,” he continued, “This decision is at my discretion. And it is my professional opinion you would benefit from our facility’s continued care--”
The patient exhaled sharply: a quiet scoff. The doctor narrowed his eyes.
“It’s true, there have been...lapses in said care. But all the reason to resume them now. Let’s see now, when was our last appointment--”
“March 8th, 1997. Three weeks ago.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “Very good. We discussed--”
“ This eve, the close of unending winter, the open to awaited release.”
The patient recited the words evenly, with no particular reverence or cadence.
“Of course.” The doctor looked up from his notes, amused. “The--shall we say--contents of your last bout of self harm.”
The scoff again. The doctor ignored it.
“Tell me now, what was going on in your mind when you...wrote this?”
From across the desk, the patient flashed a resentful glare, then looked away again.
“Clearly it belies some anticipation,” the doctor continued, in the absence of a response. “Your stay in Dambel Psychiatric has been...fraught. That you might see it as unending unfortunate but understandable. I see why you might be awaiting your release .”
The patient tried to look disinterested. But the doctor could see a tension in his posture, a tightness in his lips. There was a restlessness in him, one that the doctor had assumed had been snuffed out long ago.
“Today is the last day of winter.”
The patient looked down at his hands.
“This is why you told your guards that by tomorrow you would be free.”
His fingers twitched in his lap.
“But, you must understand that today will end and tomorrow will come. And you will still be a patient of this facility. Regardless of the lengths you go to inflict harm upon yourself.”
The patient’s hands tightened into fists. But, even forty-some years his senior, the doctor was unconcerned. Years in confinement had thinned the patient’s face and limbs. His skin was pale, and carried the translucence of the storm’s thin light. And, laced all over his body were strange wounds, arranging themselves into letters, words, messages.
And pain, the doctor knew, could be more effective than any lock or cuff.
The patient’s anger settled. He leaned back in his chair.
“I thought, doctor, we were done with pretending.”
His gaze met the doctor’s, a steady steel blue.
“What,” said the doctor, “could you possibly mean?” But there was a smile on his lips.
“Two years,” said the patient, “you’ve sent your ‘distinguished guests,’” he said this with the doctor’s American accent, in contrast to his own English, “to come gawk at me. ‘Come see the grisly cost of forbidden knowledge. The burden of impossible prophecy--’ Doctor, you wouldn’t have sent them unless you knew I wasn’t writing them myself.”
The accusation hung between them. But the doctor’s grin only widened.
“Nevertheless,” said the doctor. “You will not be leaving the facility. Not today. Not this spring. Not the next. My recommendation to you, for your own benefit, is acceptance. You will stay here, for the duration of your treatment, until I--your physician--deem you fit to leave. Is that understood?”
The patient looked askance. “In your own words, Dr. Dambel, ‘He hasn’t been wrong yet!’”
There was an indistinct rumble, perhaps thunder. But then, instead of the drum of rain, a distant crackle. It took a moment for the doctor to make sense of the sound. He spun back to face the patient.
“Gunfire? But how--”
But the patient could neither gloat nor celebrate. Instead, his face was twisted with pain. The front of his gown was darkening, red with fresh blood.
The room shook as the explosions neared. Muffled through the walls, there was a chaos of screams. The doctor reached across the desk, grabbing the patient’s blood-soaked shirt. His eyes bulged with fear.
“Tell me! Tell me what it says!”
The patient pulled away and the doctor lunged after him, hampered by the desk. The thin gown tore between them.
Patient and doctor faced each other down, blood dripping between them. The patient looked down.
“ There is no true freedom ,” he read, “ Only death ’”
The meaning of the words sank between them, understanding dawning in the doctor’s face as fear, on the patient’s as shattering hope.
The door to the office burst open. Before either of them could react, a rattle of gunfire split the room.
The doctor looked down, and saw now it was his chest darkening with blood. The realization crumpled him to his knees, then the floor. Behind him, figures in dark fatigues flooded into the room.
They rushed past the dying doctor, quickly surrounding the patient. They stowed their guns in favor of cuffs and a blindfold.
The last thing the patient saw was the doctor’s dying rictus, teeth smeared with blood.
“Good luck,” he said, a laughing, dying hack, “with freedom , Augur.”
And then, for the both of them, the world turned to darkness.
Wind tore at his skin. The sole of his feet ripped apart as he fought to gain purchase on the rough ground. His muscles cramped and spasmed, pushed beyond their limits as he struggled against the stone door, desperately to budge it.
Any attempt to open his eyes against the wind immediately flooded them with stinging tears. The stone was cold and its chill seeped through his skin into his bones, making them feel brittle and weak. But he could not cease his struggle against the stone door. If he did...
A piercing pain attacked his thigh. Though he could not open his eyes to see it, he could feel the skin splitting, the muscle beneath it spasming as it was torn apart. His leg collapsed beneath him. He fell from the door. He scrabbled for some purchase to hold himself up with, but there was none.
The pain was unbearable, his consciousness began to slip. But the gate--
The patient sat bolt upright in the cot, heart pounding, breathing hard. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the concreteness of his surroundings slowed his breathing and heart. He pressed his hand to his thigh, filled with a familiar ache. His hand came away wet with blood.
His captors had driven for hours while he waited blinded, cuffed, and silent in the backseat. Eventually, they’d stopped for the night, and he’d been shunted into this makeshift cell: a small office with a cot and a window.
Most importantly though, he was alone. It seemed his earlier compliance had paid off.
Grimacing, he tore the blanket into strips to stanch the bleeding. Before bandaging the wound however, he couldn’t help but read the message newly written in his flesh.
"...like a vine, around, the seed entwines and grows..."
Its meaning was nonsense to him. He quickly wound the bandages around his thigh and pulled it tight. It wouldn't hold up long, but it would work for now.
Hobbling slightly, he got out of the cot and limped to the door. Now that the guards were likely to be asleep, he tried the door. Locked of course. But maybe the window could be broken...
"Bad dreams?"
He started. There was someone there, at the window.
He recognized the fatigues of the men who had captured him, but not the person wearing them. In the darkness her hair was pitch black, pulled back into a small ponytail. Her eyes were not much more than shadows.
"You could say that," he said warily, though his voice was weak, still out of breath from the exertion of the dream. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. I was going to wake you up, but looks like you took care of that for me." Her voice was muffled through the glass.
"Why?" He searched for some trace of anger in her eyes, but the dark obscured any intentions. Had she noticed him trying to escape?
"I was having trouble sleeping, too," she said. "What's your name?"
The question caught him off guard. He answered truthfully.
"Sebastian. Sebastian Warren," he said. He paused, then asked. "What's yours?"
"Erika Summers," she said. "It was nice to meet you, Sebastian. Sleep well."
She left, disappearing down the hall.
Sebastian watched her go, not entirely certain he hadn't just woken up into another dream.