Through Soulless Eyes

(Please note: I have made a lot of changes to this story. I would like to warn that I might be making further changes in the future. Apologies in advance. :D )

Shivering I pass the columns holding thousands upon thousands of specimens from other experiments taking place throughout the Institution. Exclusive experiments carried out by the greatest in scientific minds.
The temperature is kept to a strict minimum to preserve the cells for as long as possible. The entire loading zone is a gigantic warehouse divided into sections and further sub-divided into corridors, then rows and finally shelves. Numbers, letters and descriptions separating each in luminous signs posted in timely intervals.
I make my way along the corridor made up of two long rows of shelves piled high with petri dishes, blood samples, saliva, eggs cells etc. but I stop abruptly when something up ahead catches my eye.
To anyone not concentrating, or in a hurry, it would have slipped by un-noticed. I might not have noticed it myself if I was functioning on auto-pilot, as is often my flaw when parading along these halls.
I hurry over to examine the lump, poorly hidden by a cluster of cardboard boxes at the end of the aisle and freeze. It's a body. But that's not what gets my heart racing, dead bodies are nothing new to me, seeing as I dissect and extract from them for a living. No, what stops my heart in fright is the familiar unruly curls on this corpse, I know those curls. I've watched them flop over countless hours examining specimens through a microscope.
It’s Miles.

ONE:
I wake in a cold sweat; the sheets around me are wrinkled and thrust in random directions tangled hazardously with my legs. I sit up and smooth the hair away from my forehead. I can feel the perspiration like a fine layer coating my skin and increasing my unease. I slip out of bed and pad over to the bathroom. Running the cold water then splashing my face before toweling off. I head for the kitchen for a cup of chamomile.
I settle onto a kitchen stool and gaze out the window at the dark night. There isn’t much in terms of tourist views; the small island of Sydia is about 300, 000 square miles of endless sandy dunes. Since the Institution is the center of the new development it is the main focus. There are no retail stores or leisure opportunities of any kind. Those are all reserved for Central.
The city is made up mainly of half-finished buildings that will become the new facilities for other laboratories and examination organizations.
Since the discovery last week I haven’t been sleeping well. My nights are filled with nightmares. The images assaulting me range from cold lifeless eyes to grasping fingers. I keep replaying the scene over and over again inside my head. The events stuck in my head like a broken record, replaying over and over again with no end in sight and no off switch.
I gaze into my cup, draining the last dregs of my tea. The taste of the chamomile leaves are bitter on my tongue. I remember a similar burn. The bitter taste of bile rising at the back of my throat last week. I close my eyes and recant the events again.
I knelt before Miles. Reaching out a shaking hand to lie flat on his chest. He wasn’t breathing, of course he wasn’t. There was a small pool of blood slowing creeping around him and his skin was cool to the touch. The evidence was abundant and painfully clear but something in my brain wouldn’t let me accept it.
I flattened my ear to his mouth and with a stubbornness borne from pure panic and desperation, I performed C.P.R. I can't tell you how long I sat there, I could barely see through the blur of tears clouding my vision and I kept pumping at Miles’ chest until my own muscles started to shake with the exertion, quivering under the strain.
I was shaking, tears pouring down my face and sobs wracking my entire body. I was a complete mess. Eventually I recovered enough to acknowledge the ugly truth staring me right in the face, Miles was gone and he wasn’t coming back.
I didn’t want to leave him but I had to go and get help. Shakily getting to my feet I hesitated on unsteady legs. I looked down at Miles. At his shaggy curls that even in death would not give him any respite. His beautiful hazel eyes were robbed of their natural luminous warmth and replaced with a horrible coldness, dull and void. Like a fish.
I glanced down at my hands, now stained with Miles’ blood. In a sudden hysteria I had to get his blood off me, the red bloomed like a dangerous flower flowing from my hands to the soft material of my cashmere pants.
I made my way back through the maze of the basement and headed above to level one in search of someone, anyone at all. The journey and what followed after I found a security guard patrolling the east end was all a big blur after that. Once I could make myself legible things started moving really fast. The security guard called in backup and soon the room was filled with half a dozen frazzled guards all barking orders and asking questions.
Of course I had to inform my superiors. As it was late into the night, or early morning depending on your viewpoint, and everyone had already gone home for the weekend I had to wake up a lot of groggy none-to-happy men. The chairman from the board of directors was the first and it all dominoed from there. It was absolute chaos.
I guess someone called the paramedics because soon there was a flurry of motion as the sirens and the blinding lights came upon us. I was swept into the burst of frantic energy as the medics found and assessed the body, after gaining the approval of a very unhappy chairman, the body was moved.
That’s what they kept calling it. It was no longer Miles, my partner and my best friend. It was now referred to as ‘the body’. He had become nothing more than a mysterious puzzle piece. The root of a very lively situation.
I was there for hours. For the most part I was inconsolable. The medics advised I had gone into shock, I had stopped crying hours before but I still hadn’t accepted what had happened. I couldn’t do more but stare out confusedly at the people checking on me asking me how I felt, what I saw, what happened.
I was lead into a small gray room with only a desk and two chairs facing opposite each other. While I sat I could hear the commotion outside but I was deaf to everything but the ringing in my ears and the pounding in my head.
I wasn’t left long before the chairmen walked in. He sat down and started talking to me he explained that Miles had been moved to a secure location but when asked he wouldn’t tell me where. He wouldn’t tell me what had happened or where exactly they had taken Miles. He refused to acknowledge my requests when asked if Miles was okay, if he was even alive. I was informed that the authorities were on their way and that I was now involved in an ongoing investigation.
All of this made no sense to me; half of what he said was not penetrating my numb brain. Eventually he patted my hand in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring but only ended up being patronizing. I waited forever after that.
The minutes passing by with excruciating slowness until finally two men walked in. They were as opposing as two men could be. The first was very fair almost alabaster with hair so light in color it was almost white. He was tall and lean with a stern looking face and disapproving eyes. The second, in contrast, was dark and stocky; he was built like an ox. He had a broad chest and broad face with eyes so dark you couldn’t see the pupils.
They introduced themselves as detectives Weiss and Brinley. They asked me a lot of questions starting out smooth and slow, easy things like where I lived and worked what my name was. As the time ticked by the questions slowly started getting more in depth, and then intrusive, with each cup of coffee that was placed before me I grew more exhausted and frustrated. The same questions were being asked of me over and over again only in ten different ways. It was torture.
I was questioned about my involvement with Miles. How I knew him, how long we had worked together, what we were working on. And other insignificant details: like what he was wearing the last time I saw him, what time he left, did I know where he was headed.
For hours I sat in that plain room in a constant state of denial. I tried to ask a few times what had happened to Miles, if he was ok, where they had taken him what happened to him, who had done it to him. No answers were given. With expressions varying from concern and pity to annoyance and finally after the 10th time I asked blank stares the detectives only answered with clipped tones. That it was “confidential” or “classified”. “We cannot answer that question at this time” was a favorite of Detective Weiss the tall thin one. And Brinley would follow with “It is still an on-going investigation”. I was told nothing but that Miles was receiving the best of care. I could do nothing but wait.
Eventually the questions started petering out and the focus became fixed on my involvement. I was asked to explain why I was down in the basement. Why I thought Miles would be down there. I was shocked when Detective Weiss actually came out and asked me:
“Miss Parker”
“Doctor” I said through gritted teeth. I hated that tone of his voice. Like he was speaking to a petulant child; who was being extremely trying.
“My name is Doctor Parker, I have my PhD.
“Our apologies” piped up Brinley.
“Doctor Parker, what motives might someone have of disposing of your partner?” The way he said it and the look in his eye made no secret of whom he was referring to. I could only gape at him like a sea bass washed up on shore.
“I beg your pardon? You think I killed Miles?”
“We are not accusing you of anything. This is still an ongoing investigation” Brinley was quick to reassure “although to be honest the odds are not looking good in your favor”
I looked back at them, my eyes as big as saucers. I couldn’t believe this.
“Why would I kill Miles?”
“No one said anything about killing”
“But you are implying” I was furious now, I fumed in my seat trying to keep my anger in check. Weiss’ next snarky comment didn’t help matters.
“Quite a temper you have there doctor. Your face is practically beet red. Have you always had a problem controlling your rage? Has it ever become violent?”
I refused to answer, raising my chin in a show of defiance. Their questions continued, getting more and more invasive and trying my patience to the limit. I could only just grasp onto my sanity using what little reserve I had left to keep my tongue.
I knew that now was not the time for my wayward tongue, it was crucial I give them no more ammunition to use against me since it was obvious they were suspicious of me and clearly trying to pin the blame on me.
The questions just keep on coming, I wanted to cry, when it was apparent I wouldn’t give any more information, and I was all but falling out of my chair with fatigue I was finally released. Without further preamble I was awarded a rookie cop to see me safely home.
I don’t remember the journey home or how I got into my apartment. I just remember staring out from my bed, not bothering to remove my clothes or slither under the blankets. With cold detachment I looked out over the sand dunes, at the cloudless night through my bedroom window. The sun slowly starting to rise and the tears began to fall again.
That was hours ago, I look towards the digital display against the wall. Its 10:43am. I get up from the kitchen stool and grab my satchel from the stand beside the door. After setting up the artificial heating system that gives the impression of a 3D fire I pull out the leather journal and a pen from my bag.

TWO:

The Old World is no more. It has been over a century and all those that could have told of the land before are now gone. I am not meant to be documenting this, we are not allowed to now, the truth of our past we are not meant to remember. Yet, I still do I document, I record I create with every stroke of my… The ancients would call this a pen. An instrument, a tool used by scholars to record their findings on plain bits of munched up trees called paper.
It is now forbidden, such practices. No longer do we teach our young how to write. The art of ink is now lost on our generation. I am not meant to be saying any of this. I know I have repeated myself.
The same line is as familiar to my brain as I repeat it to myself every night I open these pages and put pen to paper. I tell myself I am doing it for a reason, I am doing it for someone I am doing it for him.
The New World must be quite changed. If the ancients from the Old World were to walk among the remains I wonder what they would say.
The surface is a foreign concept to any not born into it. It is a treat, a luxury that belongs to the glittering upper crust of our generation, the crème de la crème, the nobility. It is home to only those who can afford it. Those who can afford to work in the domed cities that are free of the parasites and diseases that still now plague the earth. Those who can afford the extravagance and high security protocols of the lavish sectioned and suctioned hotels. The very best is reserved for those of high power: celebrities, high ranking businessmen, clergy and politicians. They have the money, power and influence to own homes of their own, which would cost more than a tiny island in the Old World.
That is just the way it is. The rest all falls as expected, the surface is a shining star, a make believe fantasy for those who have never seen the sun.
The middle and working class live five to ten stories below the upper elite, those who are only minor celebrities or those who are not quite wealthy, pretty or famous enough to reach the high demands of the surface.
The lower castes are left for last. Always last, the poor, desperate, unfortunate lived in the deep catacombs of the earth. So far in the ground the heat from the earth’s core is a sufficient substitute for the sun’s warmth. The use of filtration, extraction and air ducts makes it possible to breath so far from poisoned air above.
This is what we are reduced to. No more than animals living beneath the earth’s surface for survival.
It was not always like this, no explanation is ever given to us but you can never squash a whisper. And a whisper almost always twists itself into a murmur. Then a rumour and myth it is these myths that we must take as fact for the times before.
I am lucky; I have had access to the general learning establishments of the New World. The ancients would call them libraries, though from what I have uncovered on the subject it would hardly compare to the Old buildings.
The Old World libraries made use of tall storage units called shelves. They were used to hold the many pages with prewritten words made from huge machines called a printing press; they were then bound individually according to the content. They were called books.
In the new world the library is now home to the computerised reports and theorems. All information can be accessed here. It requires the use of a computerised unit which will display the required information on a digitised screen.
From the library I have been gone to great lengths to acquire the passcodes and various security protocols to access information from the past. I have learned much but there is more I am still not able to access without additional authorization.
I have discovered that all is true. The stories we heard as children, the whispered musing from child to child. The ghostly stories fed from grandmother to grandchild as a final plea before bed. They were true.
The Reformation marked the change of everything. The world war that raged centuries ago was the result of the growing animosity between the countries of the Old World. It grew like a sickness, a vile plague destroying everything from the inside out like a festering wound that never healed.
What once was a land of peace and harmony, tranquility and humility was poisoned and twisted by the hostile ways of the common human being.
Feelings like greed and envy; emotions of fury and hatred. What once was known as the seven deadly sins became a deadly set of instructions to the eventual ruination of the world, as it was. No one cared for anyone, save themselves.
Any way to get ahead, to make more money, earn more property, more land, gain more recognition, more credibility more power. No means was off limits. People lied, they cheated, they stole and they killed for what they wanted.
And all this was made acceptable, though you will find it written in no laws. It was simply accepted. A major flaw in society, the silent global agreement. What started as a random act of violence or madness, the killing of innocent’s, which was happening, was made news and in some scenarios even entertainment. No one looked at it as a serious problem anymore. The value of honesty and trust, no longer revered as it once was.
Children rebelled against their parents; aspects like respect and humility were no longer recognized. Young girls as young as the age of nine or even younger were falling pregnant with children when they were still children themselves. The concept of chastity was lost.
Men, women and children were left to starve in the streets. Living in horrifying poverty; without property shelter, clean water, or clothing. The volunteers eventually stopped helping. Land was no longer looked after; trees were torn down for living space or furniture. Minerals and natural resources stripped and used yet never replaced. The air was pumped with dangerous and unnatural gases while the land and sea were being deviled and invaded by toxic waste.
The selfishness and greed for power would be the final nail in the coffin for the Old World. The war raged as men fought one another, brutally for the very things that should have been shared by all.
Whole cities collapsed, nations drowned, continents became islands and blood ran through the streets of rubble and crumbling stone.
Millions upon millions died. Families were torn apart. Whole nations in an upheaval of revolt against one another. No one was spared. Children were left helpless, orphaned. Mothers with babies wiped out in their sleep from massive explosions made from military weapons called bombs. They were all slaughtered like cattle. In their arrogance, mighty leaders used the most barbaric means to gain their selfish desires.
After all this it was what came after that caused our banishment from the surface. The nuclear bombs used in the final world war were the cause. These survivors bear the truth of the future. And the real story begins with them. Besides the obvious physical changes, the genetic makeup was disrupted and the very lines of normality became blurred.
Besides the mutations and the diseases; that arose as a result of the poisonous gases, from the bombs dropped from the skies and the lingering radioactive residue, the offspring produced in the years that followed showed the depth of depravity. Miscarriages and stillbirths were common, many mothers found it hard to carry to full term, when labor came the results were predictable were it not a still birth the babies were born in odd, twisted positions with too many limbs or multiple heads. They were mutations. Abominations.
The whole species was soon in danger of dying out. It took many years and a great deal more experiment’s but in the end artificial insemination and even incubation produced the best results until which with further experimentation allowed the manufacturing of a vaccination.
Since the Reformation, the world has become nothing but small patches of unlivable land. The old lands are now buried beneath the sea and what little land that survived is now monitored and used to its maximum potential.
New breakthroughs in modern architecture and land development have provided a means to create a “false land”. Great amounts of metal are used to create a stable surface which hovers over the vast ocean. While others prefer little pockets of livable communities that lie beneath the sea in a spherical orb.
We have come a long way since then. We have rebuilt ourselves. We live and breathe and eat. The sky is still blue although the sea has turned to a putrid green color as opposed to the clear blue it once was.
Since the founding of a New Colony, what was once known as the Middle East is now known as Sydia, a newly populated area that has been reinforced with modern building, architecture and structural designs. Here is where our Institute for Modern Science is located.
I can recall my lab room which I shared with Miles for the research we were undertaking. I close my eyes and think back to that night.
It was just a normal day that Miles and I were working, the clock ticking away the minutes softly from the corner.
“I'm off” Miles said.
“You’re leaving? Already?” I looked up from my notes.
“Already” Miles confirms. Slipping off his perfectly white lab coat and hangs it on the stand grabbing his winter coat and shuffling into it awkwardly.
“Its eight-forty-five” he consults his wristwatch for good measure.
“Is it?” I ask pushing the papers back on the desk and stretching my arms above my head.
“What have you got planned for the weekend? Anything fun?” I watched as his hazel eyes light up with the excitement, and all the glories the two day break holds.
“Nothing special. I was aiming at some light reading” I hold up one of the doctor’s journals with a smirk which awards me a painful groan from Miles.
“Please don’t tell me your planning on still sticking around here all night?” he glances around the room and I pause to take it in, admiring.
It hasn’t changed much since we have acquired it; our work area is very clean; everything an experimental lab needs to be. Neat, clean, tidy and exceptionally white. The floor is tiled, the walls plasterboard and the ceilings high, making the room a spacious work area. Jam packed with nifty tools, sleek gadgets, a couple of bookcases, two double-door refrigerators and two state of the art microscopes. My baby.
The tables are all steel and the usual gloves, goggles and general equipment are scattered in a somewhat unplanned manner if very tidy. I hate mess and I hate clutter. A fact Miles has retained from our college years, where every little thing in our room had a place. The metal stairs lead to a small office area where Miles has set up camp.
“No, not this weekend” I turn back to Miles. “I'm planning to just have a good night in you know? A little kick back. I haven’t had time for just me in a while.” And it’s true I haven’t, since I started my latest project my life has been all about my work, my days and nights spent bent around my lab and my studies.
“I know what you mean” I look up to see Miles run a hand through his sandy blonde hair “well enjoy it, I know I will.”
“Oh I know you will too”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” his expression screams insult at my unsaid implication, but the quirk to his lip and the tone of his voice prove false.
“Were you aware my ancestors, the ol’ Brit’s used to be huge party-goers? Looks like I take after me mum. You’re welcome to join me you know…”
“Oh no. No, no, no” I shake my head vehemently. I distinctly remember my first (and last) evening out with Miles. A sort of initiation into his more than ample lifestyle. After numerous let downs I finally agreed to a night out with Miles and a few of his friends. I also remember the Monday next and the hangover that impeded on my vision and my concentration.
“Suit yourself” he lifts one shoulder and lets it drop in his signature shrug “but you’re missing out.” I smile at him as he heads for the door not turning as he waves a goodbye back at me. I shake my head once he’s gone, recalling again the night in store for him once he leaves the lab grounds, and shudder.
That was never my scene, the drinking and the partying, the random hookups and the confusion of the morning. I was and shall forever remain the bookworm. I grab another journal and set out again, settling into my chair for further discovery into my latest case.
I consult the documents and notes taken from my predecessor. A Dr. Viktor Aleksei. I came upon these journals accidentally when scourging through the box kept in storage dedicated to my case. I have already read the first volume of his work and findings. I pick up the second volume, a leather clad notebook with the initials V.K.A embroidered in gold on the front. His writings go on to speak of many things. Many new discoveries he has made. His agreement or disagreement with some methods of research.
A few interesting personal comments, some musing of previous scientist, gossip and weekly occurrences. It isn’t until I reach the middle of the third and final journal that things get a little bit more interesting:

April 15th
I have been asked by the Institute to look into a new case. I was given no information; my goal was to research and report back on anything I found out of the ordinary.

My first few weeks working on this case were ordinary. The usual test we run. D.N.A samples were provided and checked. All vital substances: blood plasma, red and white blood cell count. All were mundane and I saw no reason why such a case was even an issue.

That was until today. When working with a different blood sample I came upon something unusual. From the previous samples I had found nothing of concern. But this latest, how can I explain?

It was most peculiar. I have never seen such cells before. At first I had questioned whether I was given a tissue sample from another experiment by mistake but when I consulted the charts there was no mistake.

For now I have no further information and I must leave my findings for next week, Anya has prepared a romantic evening and I have already been warned not to be late.

I scan through the next couple of pages with nothing much more on the subject, no further development as the doctor seems to have taken up some other assignments. Until I come to another:

April 26th
I have since reexamined the unusual sample I have obtained. The cells are most irregular, the shape and texture of the blood cells, especially the white and plasma cells are particularly peculiar.

I have made some notes and I have visited the library to perform further research on cells. I have not found any similarities or any mention as to why these cells appear different.

I had hoped I would find some explanation. Perhaps a certain disease or a defect in D.N.A that would explain these differences. As yet I have made no such connection but I shall continue searching.

The art of handwritten notes is uncommon, very rarely used nowadays. I understand it was once considered a trait to be expected in each individual. Taught to young children and used throughout adult life. The primeval skill is only performed now by those still highly attracted by the Old World and its ways or really old patrons and only for personal or leisure purposes.
But electronics are now widely embraced. The technological world has taken a tremendous leap; everything is digital and electronic, everything connected. It is all documented and kept in the governmental recesses stored in the Society Region (Central).
Since all the doctors notes are in written form I have had to adapt undergoing the lengthy process of interpretation. I perform a daily dance concerning my data pod, Dr. Henrik’s journals, my translator (since all the doctor’s notes are in strong Russian) and a linguistic annalistic scanner.
Through all these portals the back and forth motions make my days run short. Since this is only an on the side interest my reading is limited to after hour sessions. And no matter how far I think I have come to understanding and being caught up in the notes I am no closer to discovering any breakthroughs, it sets me back again.
Needless to say I refuse to ask for help. Since my promotion into the highly classified section of experimentation only six months ago, the recently empaneled plaque on my lab door referring to me as Dr. Parker has created a horrible sense of pride in me.
I set the book down, making sure to marking my place then walk over to the stairwell that leads to the office area. I go about making myself a cup of coffee and searching through Miles’ drawers for the chocolate covered biscuits I know he hides. I grab a slice of cheese and I'm sure to give it to Mildred, our pet mouse, on my way back. Every scientist should have a pet mouse, it’s the ultimate cliché.
Setting my cup aside after taking a scalding sip, burning a piece of skin off the roof of my mouth, I bite into a corner of the biscuit, settle back into my chair and turn back to the journal.
He goes on to tell more of his discoveries, his theories. Some very descriptive sketches and diagrams. There are some equations and quotes from books he has read. I wish I had access to his previous notes.
Since it could be counterproductive, as I might become biased or my opinion on the matter will solely be based on the doctor’s judgments I have not been allowed access. Though it certainly would help.

May 7th
I have started a new case. Since delivering my weekly progress on my case, I have been granted a new assignment. Though my research was not complete and the experiment was still a long way from finished.
I was informed the matter was no longer an issue.
I had doubt about whether I was merely taken off the case for some reason, but Anya has convinced me I am too paranoid.
What could the Institute possibly want to hide with a few blood and tissue samples?

I continue my reading on the doctor’s journeys, stopping to stretch out my muscles when I reach the last few pages. I finish off; tuck the journals back into my messenger bag along with my datapod and my reading glasses.
I look over at the clock, a quarter to eleven, and then around the room. I frown at the clutter. There are messy pages lying all over the place. Used petri dishes, gloves near a very messy pile of dissecting tools, a few beakers lying here and there and, as I walk by, a sticky substance on the floor which clings to my shoes.
I heave a sigh and then set about tidying up a bit. It isn’t for another hour that I start rubbing my eyes. I decide to finish up on some last minute checks. See how my cells are doing before I put them back in storage for the night. When I'm done I'm sure to turn off all my equipment, make sure everything’s in its place, grab my coat and scarf from the rack, finger my access card, hanging from my lanyard around my neck and switch off the lights. The door whooshing silently behind me, set up on self-lock, I head out to the elevators.
The specimens are all kept below ground where they can be kept cool and preserved. Scanning my access card the door beeps happily as I slip through. The specimens are catalogued according to species, then level of importance, and lastly lab expert. It is a little trickier to find mine as my case is rated classified and is stored at the very back.
For any regular worker, these premises would be off limits but since my card displays me as a senior member, and an expert I am now part of the elite. I stop before the locked doors for the classified section and type in my lengthy passcode to the digiport beside the door. I head over to the cubicle labeled Dr. Harper and type in another password; I wait until another beep chirps at me. The doors open with a soft whoosh, the crisp air rushing out as I pass through quickly the doors sealing shut behind me.
Shivering I pass the columns but I stop abruptly when something up ahead catches my eye
It’s a body.
I recognize it; I remember watching him leave not some three or four hours ago.
It’s Miles.

THREE:

I don’t know when I fell asleep but I knew when the nightmares began. It all started again, all I could see was Miles’ lifeless body lying in front of me. The pool of blood surrounding him and drying into the carpet. I kept seeing his face, pale and expressionless, his eyes were closed. Thank mercy. I woke up screaming coated in sweat. Rushing to the bathroom, I let loose the pitiful contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl.
Rinsing my mouth and deciding on a long hot shower, sounded like the only piece of heaven. I stood under the spray long after the water ran cold. Shivering but not feeling the cold. I was numb to it. Numb to anything. The tears slipping from my eyes mingled with the water, chasing it down the pipes.
It wasn’t unexpected, actually it was rather anticipated, the summons I was given. A leave of absence from work they called paid leave due to grief and mourning. I knew what it was, I was on suspension. The one and only time I tried to go back into work I couldn’t concentrate could work straight. I broke countless vials containing precious specimens. Endless broken vials and beakers were lost due to my clumsy fingers. I worked on; I knew I needed a distraction, something to keep my mind from everything else. I had been out of my mind with it for the whole of the weekend and I couldn’t take it anymore, I needed an escape. Though it was clear work wasn’t going to be much help. Of course that was when my supervisor entered and ordered me, though in a rounded about way with tentative, hushed tones and softened words, I wasn’t fooled. I was forbidden from returning until I “felt better”.
Since then my nights have been the same, I strive to stay awake as long as I can, to ward of the dreams. But no matter what I try I cannot avoid sleep. It always finds me like a demon in the night and it’s always the same.
I replay the same scene over and over in my head. Sometimes Miles is still alive but I cannot hear his pleas as his mouth is gurgling from the blood frothing and flowing over his pale lips. Sometimes I see a hooded figure attack Miles, and at my exclamation he runs of into the night, disappearing into a cloud of smoke. Other times I am I silent witness as Miles stares up at me with urgent pleading eyes. These are the worst, I cannot move, I cannot speak. I can only look down and watch as Miles slips away from me, further and further.
I never got any further information on what happened to Miles. I was called back to see the detectives again. Answering more questions and giving a statement and then days after the attack they announced his death. I sat through the funeral not seeing anything, not hearing a word. I stared at the coffin at my feet through eyes blurry with tears.
I don’t know how many weeks it was after Miles’ funeral before the Institute sent someone over. A shrink, to see how I was feeling. I was forced into a routine to help me “move past it” to a point my sessions helped, along with the bucket full of pill he had in his stead.
I was kept in a daze. Held firmly in the grasp of the drugs they were feeding me to keep me quiet and compliant. I was in a near constant state of euphoria. I had pills for everything. Pills to help with the depression; pills to help me sleep; anti-anxiety; nausea. It all work to the common goal, to keep me from feeling, from thinking. It worked, and I let it.
After a few sessions he suggested I keep a journal. Document all that I was feeling. At first I scoffed at this. I hadn’t kept a journal since my pre-teen years. But after an especially rough night were I woke up in tears, heart pounding and shivering I gave into the impulse. I wrote. I started off on my data pod, but when my paranoid suspicions about who was reading my notes became to overpowering I referred to the time old fashion of pen and paper. I grew to like the feel of it the scratch of the pen and the feel of the crisp pages. The flow of words as they gathered and danced across the pages, filling them with thousands of words.
My days where spent like this recounting my days with Miles from the time I knew him till present. When the writing took on the horrific incident my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and after many attempts, I left it blank, hoping to come back to finish it later.
I have taken to starting my own story recounting my own life and how I got here. My parents and my drift from them.
Slowly I was able to peep out of my depression from losing Miles. I was able to leave the house for a few hours now without panicking. Of course I had no one really to go out with since everyone I knew was from work and they were all avoiding me like the plague or else giving me the pitying or concerned looks I had learned to loathe.
They looked at me as if there was something wrong with me. As if I were mad. And some were even of anger. It wasn’t until the sneers and whispers, I overheard one day, from a bathroom stall in the ladies lavatory if you can believe it, that some weren’t as kind as others. Some were straight out accusations. I hadn’t even given any thought to the idea that anyone could believe I had had a dealing in Miles death.
Again I retreated into my home, staying where it was safe, only venturing out when absolutely necessary for food or a desperate need of fresh air.
I still wrote in my journals but my musing slowly turned to the events of Miles accident. I was finally able to move passed and talk about everything I remembered, what I had seen or heard, felt or even smelt about that day. And some pieces I hadn’t yet been able to shed light on. Dr. Sheen, my psychiatrist, told me it was normal that my subconscious was protecting my brain. Letting it come back to me naturally, slowly when I was ready to receive it.
I wondered more than once if this was the idea of detectives Weiss and Brinley. In sending the shrink to see me, was he here not to help me get well enough to come back, and to help me deal with the grief but to find out how much I knew and to stay until I remembered? To keep an eye on me? Were they using those pills to keep me sedated and to keep me from asking more questions?
After I first suspected this, I stopped divulging any of my recent remembering to the doctor. But I documented everything. And slowly when the picturing was starting reform certain things didn’t make sense.
I started looking into it more, readying up on the articles form the local newspapers and trying to remember all that was divulged from the Institute or the precinct. I became obsessed with finding out the truth.
Something wasn’t entirely right with the situation. The more I thought about it the more I began to realize that nothing added up. Why would anyone want to kill Miles? What purpose did it serve? It had to be someone from the Institute and an upper staff member since Miles didn’t even have clearance to be in the basement in the first place.
What was he doing down there?
It made no sense to me. Even more suspicious was the curious way the whole incident was kept very hush hush. I was convinced the Institute was trying to cover it all up, or at least minimize the damage, since it took a hit because of the scandal; it was already making waves back in central.
All the articles I read were kept to a minimum, not explaining much and giving very little detail. The Institute never divulged any information, though they gave a none to convincing speech on the loss of Miles. After which it was encouraged that everyone move on and get back to work.
What confused me was how much everyone was willing to accept it. It had been less than a month since the incident and although it was the most highly talked about piece of gossip, that was all it was, gossip. No one was truly interested in the reasons behind what had happened. Even the detectives had moved on to other cases.
No one seemed truly interested anymore. Why?
These questions plagued my mind on a daily basis, and coupled together with my meds and the nightmares it was easy to sink back into the depression and just float, letting another three weeks pass in a blur by the magic of colorful capsules, but I couldn’t. I owed it to Miles. I needed clarity, I couldn’t think straight. The night I flushed my pills down the toilet, I vowed I would find out the truth and bring Miles’ killer to justice. I vowed I would avenge my friend and find out what truly happened that night. If it killed me.

Four:


(to be continued…)