All names in this story have been changed to protect the identities of the involved individuals.
Ever since the first year of secondary school, I have been plagued by horrible migraines. They would occur multiple times a week and last for hours at end. It always went the same way, I started feeling a slight pressure behind my right eye, before it slowly evolved into a constant feeling of being submerged in the depths of the oceans. As if that weren’t enough, a sharp stabbing pain was added into the mix, like a knife being slowly forced into the artery on the right side of my temple, before being removed again just to return a few moments later. Even though every single doctor I visited was dumbfounded, I, myself began to notice patterns in the migraines. They usually were closely tied to the quality and quantity of sleep I had the night before. Too much sleep meant migraines; not enough sleep meant migraines. Unfortunately, there was no perfect amount of sleep to guarantee no migraines at all, so I had to continue my research.
Over the years, my mom has always been supportive of me. Before I was of age, she diligently brought me to my doctors’ appointments and picked me up from school when the migraines forced me into the dirty and vandalized school bathrooms to throw up the few bites of breakfast I had eaten.
My mother herself had suffered from migraines, “Until the day your sister was born” and so had Grandma before her. They too had endured them and were still alive and well.
I was and still am grateful for the support my family always gave me, especially my single mother braving all these challenges, while still allowing my sister and myself a comfortable life, will forever inspire me to be better, which is why I enrolled into a nearby university when the time came, and moved to an apartment within the same city.
When the years turned into a decade however, my patience and resolve began to run thin. Every doctor I visited, every medication I took and every therapy I tried, failed to absolve me of this torturous ordeal I had to endure for a not-unmentionable portion of my time. Time, and especially time for myself, was something I had an abundance of, whilst laying in my bed with my head pulsating with the same amount of pressure as the water at the bottom of Mariana’s Trench and having a figurative machete sticking out of it.
When in pain, the human brain at a certain point tries to distract you from it. At least that was my experience when, trying to take my mind off an especially severe migraine attack, occurring shortly after my 25th birthday. Memories I had thought long forgotten reemerged and disappeared, people and interactions rushing past my inner eye at a pace I couldn’t consciously keep up with. The surrealistic and dream-like reenactments of situations long past racing by were mentally and physically exhausting me to the point, that I fell into a long, dreamless slumber. 10 Hours later, I awoke, still exhausted but freed from the migraines. This particular session, while not the precedence of this form of migraine, had brought me to a breaking point, I decided to search for new alternatives to rid me of this predicament once and for all.
Looking through the web, I found a write out from the local medicinal department of the university, searching subjects for a study on migraines. I filled out the forms, truthfully answering all the questions and describing my migraines in detail, before sending out the application and spent the rest of my day going about my usual routine as a student.
Only two days later I received a response, promptly inviting me to visit the responsible department as soon as possible. The lazy student that I was, I had completed all my university-related duties by Friday at 3 PM and decided to head out to the Department of Neurology, which was only a short bus ride from the part of campus most of my classes were situated in.
Arriving at the building my navigational app gave me the address to, I was struck by the modern look of the facility, seemingly brand new, the large, windowed exterior reflected the light off in a way, that you could barely make out what was inside: Many floors of office space and laboratories. I approached the glass doors, which opened automatically and revealed a sterile looking, polished white lobby, with a receptionist seated behind a desk surrounded by glass windows. As I walked up to the counter, the receptionist, a young, blonde woman with striking blue eyes happily greets me.
“Ahh, Mr. McConnell, we’ve been expecting you!”.
Slightly taken aback by the fact that she had recognized me, without me having sent a picture through the application form, I enquired about what they needed me for so urgently.
“Professor Richter personally reviewed your application form and wanted to invite you for a personal conversation right away. He is the leading scientist of this study and as luck would have it, he is currently available in his office. If you’re okay with that, I’ll let him know and send you up!” the receptionist cheerily explained, while already grabbing her phone from its rack and tapping some a few buttons.
Seeing how well-intentioned this lady seemed, I attributed my earlier doubts about them recognizing me to paranoia. “Surely there must be a university database, where my student ID picture is stored, allowing them to retrieve my file.” I thought to myself, while listening her talk to, presumably, Professor Richter. “…. alright, great! I’ll send him up!”.
Following her instructions, I made my way through the sterile, and surprisingly empty lobby, to the equally sterile elevator, bringing me up to the 10th floor, where a few carpets on the hallways, and pictures adorning the walls, gave a well-needed relief from the monotony of the buildings entrance room. In walking I studied the pictures, which portrayed the history of the Department, each one underlined with a plaque, giving a short glimpse into various neurological personalities, which the institute gave rise to, as well as certain milestones in the building’s history. The picture closest to the end of the hallway, where Richter’s office was located, depicted the institute in its current state, the plaque telling of recent financial subsidies and the subsequent construction of the most modern neurological institute in the country. I couldn’t help but notice the absence of a certain Professor Richter in all the pictures of great personalities borne from the institute and even staff pictures of the past and current staff of the institute.
As I knocked at the door of Professor Richters office, I began picturing what this man would look like, imagining an Albert Einstein lookalike. When a surprisingly soft voice answered with “Come in!”, I entered the office to see the man, who would be an integral part of my life in the following weeks.
Professor Richter was a middle-aged man, with pale skin and a few unruly patches of hair left on his balding head. His lab coat had some barely noticeable coffee stains on it, and his beard was, like his hair, patchy and unkempt. His eyes were, as his voice, soft and calm and he exuded an aura of relaxation as he introduced himself as the leading scientist of the migraine study and explained why he had invited me so promptly.
“Your descriptions of the migraines intrigued me, Mr. McConnell, these flashes of dream-like memories you described were…. most interesting. I believe they deserve proper studying, as they could give hints about the origins of your migraines.”
To this, I agreed, because of the timing of the particular form of my pains he was referring to, at the verge of falling asleep but also at the peak of their intensity, this seemed reasonable.
“I know, that I can’t expect of you, to come here during your migraines, which is why I would recommend a long-term study, which would entail you staying here for about a month, so we can properly record the times and intensities of your attacks, as well as trying to induce these dreams you talked about.” Richter continued, starting to get a little bit excited about this research.
Realizing his overexcitement, he quickly added.“Of course, you will have as much time as you need, to think about this. But know this: You would be fairly compensated, and living comfortably within the perimeter of the facility, but always within walking distance.”
At the mentioning of compensation, my ears perked up.
“How much are we talking here?” I asked, more intrigued by this offer than ever.
“You’d be receiving 25€ per hour. Applying that to the whole time of the stay, that’d add up to 18.000€.”
I was shaken. 18.000 would put me in a comfortable place for the foreseeable future, especially considering the slight possibility of a cure to my ailment being the result of this study.
“Allow me to explain my theory, before letting you off to decide.” As I questioningly look at him, he continues,
“I believe the dream-like memories you are seeing at the peak of your migraines, could be your brain processing memories stored within the Amygdala. That is the brain portion, connecting your memories to your emotions, if you excuse my rough description. Your Amygdala seems to be overburdened, which is confusing to me, considering you reported no past traumata in your application forms. Hence, the need to research this!”.
As I nod in feigned understanding, Richter goes on, raising his voice slowly,
“I am convinced: If we could find the cause of your Amygdala running in overdrive, we could also find a way to reduce, or even cure your specific form of migraines, it could be revolutionary!”.
His confidence gave me the last push to accept the offer, I would have some explaining to do to my friends and family for my long absence, but it seemed well worth it. As we arranged that I would be returning tomorrow, Richters excitement started to show itself more obviously, he really appeared to be invested into this study.
While riding the bus home, I already began to fantasize about, how in a month from now, I would be celebrating the arrival of my potentially pain-free life in a week-long drunken stupor, covering the tabs of my friends in the process.
A few calls and visits to family and friends later, I laid down for a good last night of sleep in the usual surroundings of my slightly messy apartment room. Instead, I experienced something, what I had experienced many times before. As if in revolt of my resolve to fight my migraines, they started to act up, punishing me with a powerful combination of quick stabs and long pressuring phases, threatening to pop out my right eyeball. As the pain became unbearable and my thoughts started dying down into a mindless state, the familiar rush of memories suddenly returned. It is a difficult feeling to describe, your brain is racing while your body is falling asleep; you don’t move, in fear of pain, but your head is spinning nonetheless, your inner eye seeing and listening to incomprehensible amounts of memories while at the same time fading away into a sleep. In the exact moment I fell asleep, it felt like somebody was screaming into my ear in pure agony, hellish screams of pain mixed with whimpers of prolonged suffering. The volume of these screams rose for about 2 seconds before quickly disappearing, as quickly as they had come. Gripping my head in a final explosion of pain I was prompted to jump up in cold sweats looking around my room in panic. Seeing nothing amiss, my heartrate started slowing down and after taking a sip of water, I laid back down, now relieved of pain and more exhausted than before. While still looking around my room for a moment, exhaustion got the better of me, and I drifted off to sleep, this time for real.
The next morning, I was back on the bus, this time packing a suitcase with a weeks’ worth of clothing and some toiletries, as well as my trusty PlayStation.
Taking a last deep breath when approaching the Department of Neurology, I took in my surroundings. On this bright late-April day, with the first trees greening and colorful flowers starting to blossom in the gardens of the institute, it seemed half-bad, knowing this would be my customary environment in the upcoming month. The atmosphere shifted however, while entering the sterile lobby of the main building. Once again, I walked up to the receptionist, sitting in this large room all by her lonesome in her windowed booth. In a brief conversation, she told me that my room for this month would be on the ground floor, to allow me easy access to the facility, should I have to hurry back, and that the inspection room would be adjourning to it. She gave me the keycard for my room, explaining that my room was directly accessible from outside. Glad about the fact, that I wouldn’t have to pass through this unappealing lobby, every time I returned back to the facility, I accepted the keycard, thanking the receptionist, and followed her directions to my room, where Professor Richter would be awaiting me.
This time Richter appeared more conscious of his appearance than the last time we had met, his coffee-stained slightly greying lab coat replaced with a gleamingly white one. His patchy beard was trimmed off, and his hair less accentuating of his encroaching baldness. Despite his changed appearance, his excitement continued where it had left off the day before, he happily greeted me and showed me around my sleek room, equipped with all necessities. In truthfulness I had to admit to myself, that this room was better equipped than my own. While inspecting my bathroom, Professor Richter pointed out the remaining two doors within my room, one of them leading outside, directly towards campus, and the other one leading to the examination room, which was essentially just an ECG-chair and a MRT-machine, connected to screens in the examination room’s antechamber, which is where Richter would be staying during my inspections.
“I am glad you could arrange to stay here so quickly, I am excited for the results we can achieve together!” Richter declares as he prepares to take his leave from my new abode. He puts down a note on my nightstand and points out a button above it.
“This button will let me know that you are experiencing migraines, it will notify me 24/7. That way I can immediately prepare the examination room. Alternatively, when you are in class or elsewhere and start to feel the symptoms, you can text me on this number”
he said pointing at the note,
“and then head straight back to the examination room. Like I said, I expect you to always stay within walking distance, that means on-campus. Should you need anything, just ask and I’ll see what I can do.”
Heading outside, Richter stops once more in the doorway, smiling back at me:
“You know, when all of this is over and everything works out, we both might become famous. All that’s left is for you to sign our contract, we can’t leave it at a verbal agreement.”, he chuckles, “you’ll find it in your nightstands’ drawer, feel free to give it to me tomorrow, should you sign.”
The contract was fairly straightforward, all the conditions Richter had mentioned, even the wage, were printed out verbatim. The only issue that stuck out to me, was the fact that I contractually obligated myself to take no painkillers to suppress the migraines. Considering he wanted to study my pains, this seemed reasonable, so I signed the contract and spent the rest of the night in anticipation of the next month. Anticipation, which was unwarranted, as the month turned out to be mostly uneventful. Most of the days I spent doing chores for university and gaming, on warmer days I could spend a few hours outside, talking walks through the Botanical Garden of the university, neighboring the Department of Neurology.
If I experienced migraines, I let the Professor know and, if necessary, abandoned my classes to head straight to the examination room, where I would undergo constant scans during my episodes of migraines. To the credit of Professor Richter, I had to admit, he was caring for my well-being, making sure I was always comfortable while I was undergoing examination. A few particularly strong migraine attacks excited Richter to an almost disturbing level, considering it was my pain that caused this excitement. These seemed to yield promising results however, as the Professor seemed to always be in a good mood the days after, so I didn’t judge too harshly.
The month passed quicker than I thought it would, with Richter calling me into his office on the last morning of my stay. I packed my suitcase, storing it near the door, and moved up to the 10th floor, taking the stairs to get in a bit of movement, as the last few days of the study had turned out to be a rainy weekend, which I had spent at home, watching movies and gaming. I walked down the familiar hallway, this time ignoring the pictures and plaques decorating the walls and knocked at the door of Professor Richter’s office.
“Come on in!” came the absent-sounding response. I entered his office and looked around for a moment, nearly overlooking Richter hunched in his office chair behind two towers of books.
Even though I did have a few migraine attacks in the last month, the last week had been quite uneventful, so I had barely seen Richter. This time he looked worse than the first time I had seen him. Hunched in the chair was a tired looking man, looking unhealthily pale and not dressed in his gleaming white coat, but in an oversized grey hoodie, underlining his ill-looking skin-tone.
“Oh, it’s you, I must have forgotten that it’s the last day of your stay. Excuse the mess.”
I told him not to worry about it, thanking him for the comfortable stay, his attentive care and asking if he was working on any results yet.
The last part made his expression go slightly grim, a quick, downward twitch at the edge of his lips, he quickly corrected into a slightly unpleased expression.
“I’m honestly less than pleased with the progress I’ve made, your scans have proven invaluable, so you are not to blame if I may say so, but I fear my equipment proved to be insufficient. Unfortunately, I was not able to pinpoint the exact cause of the migraines, I wouldn’t even know where to begin, considering your non-existent history of traumata. Sadly, we do not have the necessary capabilities to discover what these memories are. But if we could…”, a slight tint of euphoria seemed to return to his voice, “if we could … we could discover a way to reign them in, it could not just be a solution to your migraines, but also to PTSD, I could essentially eradicate it!”.
He composed himself, “Like I said, your data proved to be invaluable, I have it backed up and can continue my research into this. I will try to find out, how I can induce and visualize these dreams and what causes them to overburden your Amygdala. As you’ve been such a great subject, you will be the first person I’ll inform, should my research bear any fruits.”, he winked, “feel free to come by anytime you’re feeling migraines, I’m afraid I won’t be able to offer financial compensations anymore, however.”
Having said this, he rose to his feet, offering me his handshake and wished me well for the future, once again promising to contact me in the future. As I leave the Department of Neurology behind me, I am disappointed in the lack of direct results, but knowing my new account balance, that disappointment was quickly alleviated.
In the following year my expectation of a follow-up call began to lower with each passing month. As every doctor that had come before him, Professor Richter had failed to find a solution to my everlasting problem. I didn’t even visit his institute during this year’s migraines, feeling that I’d just waste my time further if I weren’t to get paid. Just over a year after the conclusion of our study, his name showed up on my phone’s screen as an incoming call.
He seemed really excited about contacting me again, exchanging some courtesies and asking about my last year, before coming straight to the point. He had made a breakthrough in his research and wanted me to come over to the Department of Neurology as soon as I was able to. His renewed confidence and the fact that he, unlike any other doctor before him, had actually followed up on me immediately convinced me. The following Friday afternoon after class, I walked on over to the familiar building, looking harmonious as always, with the reflections of the botanical gardens’ trees visible in one of the windowfronts.
Walking through the unchanged lobby, I saw the receptionist squinting her eyes together, before widely smiling after recognizing me,
“Mr. McConnell! Nice to see you again! Are you here for Professor Richter?”
“Nice to see you too! That’s right, he talked about some breakthrough, know what that’s about?”
“No, I haven’t seen him in quite a while, he doesn’t pass through the lobby anymore now that his office has been moved.”, after shortly thinking she added, “it’s actually the room you used to stay in last year.”
“Well, I guess I won’t keep him waiting any longer, he seemed excited.”, I concluded the conversation, before we said our goodbyes and I headed over to what was my room, just a year ago.
Before I even knocked, Richter ripped the door open and invited me in, nearly pulling me through the doorframe with his handshake. He looked better than ever, his skin had turned into a healthier tone, and his cleanly shaved bald head in combination with a full beard made him look younger than I had ever seen him. His eyes represented a stark contrast to the look they had had in our parting conversation after the study, they looked energetic and alive. What was once my room, had been turned into an office, littered with books on every possible surface. A few blackboards had notes scrawled onto them, which even my English teacher in primary school couldn’t have deciphered.
“Quite the change of atmosphere” I commented, only to receive a quick smirk from the Professor.
“Please, please, sit down.”, he said leading me to the chair opposing his at his desk.
“So, what’ve you got?”, I asked, myself getting exhilarated by the excitement, he showed in his voice.
“So, like I’ve said before I suspect the migraines to be rooted in your Amygdala, which connects your memories with your emotions. Which is why it would be reasonable to assume trauma as the cause of your migraines. Seeing that it is not, however, I dedicated the last year into finding a way to visualize these migraine-inducing memories, and into finding a way to slow them down and record them, to see what is plaguing you. Believe it or not, I succeeded, the Department nearly released me of my duties, claiming I was a waste of resources, but with your help, I can prove them wrong.”
“Wait, you can record memories?” I repeated skeptically.
“Not any memories, specifically those, which are causing your migraines. If we could identify those, we could initiate a collaborative psychological treatment, that couldn’t just treat your migraines, but also help PTSD victims in discovering their greatest burdens and treating those effectively.”
“So all I have to do, is come here when I have migraines, and you can record the memories I have during the peak phase?”
“No need, I also found a way to induce this phase, it would be painful, I’m not going to lie, but it could be the solution with a guarantee of no side-effects. I actually have everything set up, come and see.” He said, rising to his feet, stretching out his arm toward the examination room before following me there.
“Of course I could promise you not to look into your memories, before you do it yourself, they are your memories after all. But all it needs is your approval and we could get going.”, he said as I opened the door, revealing that the ECG and MRI had been removed in favor of a single chair, topped of with a helmet adorned with a pointed antenna on a stick, making it look like a fusion between an electric chair and an inverted satellite dish.
“This machine will induce the dreamlike migraine phase, and at the same time record the images you will be processing, directly transmitting them to my computer in the antechamber, where they will be slowed down and saved until you are ready to view them.” He pointed out the cables running from the machine to the antechamber, before leading me there, revealing the set-up he had prepared within.
His computer stood below a table facing toward the examination room, where a one-way mirror allowed him to observe me, without me being able to see him. On the desk stood his screen, where the images would presumably be projected onto. Furthermore, there was a video-camera stood on a tripod facing toward the screen and the window, to record the screen and the chair simultaneously.
“No compensation this time, either?”
“Your compensation will be the guaranteed cure for your migraines, I give you my word.” Professor Richter replied confidently.
Contemplating the years of suffering and hours upon hours of missed activities, events and sleep, I realize that there was nothing to lose. We are in a civilized country, there’s no way this guy could do anything to me, that would harm me. My trust in the Professor prevailed, and I agreed, but asked him for a written form of consent, ensuring the safety of my well-being, a request, to which he graciously complied. Having seemingly prepared this kind of form, I quickly read over it and signed it, allowing the experiment to commence.
Richter seated me in the chair and after explaining how I can remove them myself, put straps on my wrists and legs to protect the machinery, should I have subconscious reactions from the pain. He then fitted the helmet onto my head, and fixated it with a strip around my chain, so my head was held in an upright position. As the white coat of the Professor returned into my field of view, he was excitedly readjusting the straps on my wrists one last time.
“We will make history my friend. If this works, and the images are really traumatizing memories, I will revolutionize trauma treatment, I could relieve the world of so much suffering.”, he visualized, “I will let the machine run for one minute only, to gauge your reaction to it. Have you decided if you want to let me see the live feed of your memories?”
“I’d rather see them for myself first, I think. No offense, but who knows what’s in there?”
“None taken, I’ll have to control the experiment from the antechamber however, I’ll just not look at the screen if you’re fine with that.”, he added to further assure me.
“Sure, go ahead.” I answered, thinking to myself that our worlds’ tech concerns probably know more about me, than anything Richter could gather from my dreams anyways.
As the machine starts up, I hear a whirring sound as I feel movement on the top of my head. The hum of the machine is slowly being faded out by a feeling of pressure on my right eye and the first stabs hitting my temple. What looked like an antenna, slowly starts to move downwards into my sight, the pointy end is now facing towards me. With a quiet mechanical sound, it slowly moves closer to my face. Suddenly the tip split up ever so slightly, revealing a needle extending from the apex of the antenna.
My heart started racing, and through my pained grunts, I called out, “What’s going on Professor?”, while grabbing the part of the straps, Richter had told me to pull, if I wanted out.
The antenna readjusted itself, moving closer to the right side of my face, on a height, where I could just barely make out the needle, as it was pointed straight at my increasingly pulsating eye. Once it started moving closer to my face inch by inch, I started panicking, pulling at the straps to free my hands. The safety cord turned out to be a fake, my straps wouldn’t budge.
“Stop it!” I screamed out, now wetting my pants from fear. With the needle about a centimeter from my eye, I shut both my eyes, using my eyelids as a last line of protection and braced myself to be blinded, if you are even able to brace yourself for something like that.
The pressure and stabbing began to intensify rapidly, the pain so intense, it was making me wonder if the needle had already struck my eye. Warily opening my eye by just a slit, I saw that the needle had stopped merely half a centimeter from my eye, pointing straight to the epicenter of my headaches. When the needle started to glow is when I lost all my sense of time. The pressure on my entire head was forcing me to force my eyes shut, while the feeling of being stabbed into my temple would’ve forced me to throw my head forward, were the helmet not fixated. I tried screaming, but couldn’t muster the energy to do so, as my body was entirely focused on fighting the pains in my head. It wouldn’t stop there however, the pain continued to increase in intensity, the stabs of a knife turning into the swinging of a executioner’s axe, and the pressure reaching levels, I only expected to find on the surface of Jupiter. I knew the minute Richter had promised was sure to be over, but I didn’t have the means to protest, I was stuck in this hellfire.
After this, my conscious memory is gone, all I remember is the well-known feeling of memories rushing past my inner eye, too fast to comprehend, but more intense than ever. I remember hearing screams, many agonizing screams, some of them even begging for the sweet relief of death. Between the screams I could make out faint sounds, whimpering and crying from pain, and from grief. Gunshots, the sound of metal crunching against metal and choirs of crying, grief-stricken women provided the background noise to what was an unbearable nightmare of sounds of pain and suffering. While not feeling physical pain anymore, the psychological impact of hearing this was close to driving me mad when it continued to go on for what seemed like years, the screams growing ever louder and the wailing more desperate.
Suddenly a flash of light, filled my vision. The sound of screaming continued however, it was the receptionist, hysterically running from the antechamber into the examination room. As she approached, I saw the way she was shaking and how streams of tears were running down her face.
“What’s going on?! Are you okay?”, she screamed while loosening the straps fixating my appendages, her shaky hands making this a long process.
Still in a daze, I removed the helmet once she had freed my hands and tried to slowly stand up before answering.
“You tell me what’s going on? What the fuck was that? He said a minute!”
Breaking down to her knees the receptionist explained through tears “I heard you screaming and saw you in this thing here…Professor Richter he- “, she couldn’t finish the sentence, instead breaking down crying.
“Where is he?” I said, not expecting an answer, as I warily eyed the door of the antechamber. Slowly I walked up to it, the one-way mirrored windows making it impossible to gain a preemptive glance at what was inside.
While steadily opening the door, I began to make out some red spots on some of the walls opposing to the windows, but nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see. I did not see Professor Richter at first, only noticing the bloodied window and smashed computer screen in front of the desk. In the middle of the room was Richters’ computer, smashed to pieces presumably with the bent tripod laying folded next to it. Looking to the back wall, I discovered Richter the same moment the smell of iron hit my nostrils. His face, or what was left of it, was unrecognizable, instead it looked like a few holes in a landscape of red and white. Only his once clean and ironed lab coat, now turned into a messy rag colored the shade of dark red, served as an identifying trait of his remains. His hands had turned into stumps, with broken off bones peeking out the top, the other half of which were to be found stuck in his own torso, alongside multiple stab wounds.
Worst off, however, was his face. Where once his nose was, only two holes remained, still leaking blood onto his coat, which could no longer be stained. Where his eyes once were, only two cavities remained, closely topped by his severely disfigured skull. I turned my head away from this sight, only to be faced with the bloody wall next to the window facing the examination room. There, a large round blood stain near the corner of the window dripped blood onto the small windowsill of the one-way mirror, where a few barely recognizable teeth were stuck in the stone, explaining the final hole in Richters’ face. This put me over the edge; as I stumbled out of the room, I barely made it outside before violently throwing up, the smell of iron still lingering in my nose.
Looking over to the receptionist, who is still broken down on the floor crying tears of terror, I screamed, “What the fuck happened? What did he do?”, with droplets of vomit flying from my mouth.
“I couldn’t understand what he was saying”, she tried to coherently tell me through her tears, “he was talking about Death, I think. Please, I don’t want to talk about this.”.
The university security officer entering the room – in my fit of rage, I hadn’t even notice him enter – had to forcibly hold me back when I wanted to interrogate this woman. He calmly talked to me, while professionally calling for backup and alerting the authorities. Exhausted from the pain, the horrors I had seen and the emptying of my stomach, I collapsed once the adrenaline in my body had done its job.
When I awoke, I was laying in a hospital bed, a police officer awaiting me. He seemed totally unimpressed by the whole situation, while taking up my witness statements, dutifully reminding me that I was expected to answer everything truthfully. I asked about the receptionist, but he wouldn’t give me any information about her, or her witness statements.
“I suggest you seek therapy, I could offer you information about some well renowned psychologists, or you can go search one yourself.”, he continued, to which I declined.
“Other than that, I presume you won’t be accused of anything in this case. Should you remember anything else, feel free to come up to the station. I will personally attend to you, should I be available.”.
With that being said, he got up and left my hospital room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I was confused about what I should be feeling, first off, I was angry at Richter for breaking my trust, as well as putting me through this ordeal, on the other hand I was sad for the death of this man, whose good-hearted nature I had come to appreciate, and lastly, I was scared. Scared of what Richter had seen, that had caused him to do this to himself, what the visual representation of the sounds, I had heard, had been. Death?
Any research that I tried to conduct, turned up empty-handed. The nurses were only able to tell me, that the receptionist had called security before checking up on my screams and that they had overheard the policemen talking about no records surviving of the experiment. As the status of the investigation remained a mystery, I felt obligated to look for myself. I returned to the Department of Neurology, now seeming much more intimidating in its monotony during a grey and rainy day. The lobby had only one difference to before, the receptionist. As I walked up to this new employee, I enquired about the name and status of the previous receptionist, information they were not willing to give out freely. When I started to make a scene, two burly security men showed up, prompting me to compose myself and leave in a civilized manner. The police station treated me in a similar manner, when I showed up there to ask for information, instead of delivering them.
To this day I am still plagued by my migraines, however I have given up on trying to cure them, the truth which could lay behind them seems to outweigh the pain I am suffering through them. I still carry with me a fear of needles and a newly developed insomnia, caused by the dreams of screaming and crying, that follow me into every night of sleep.