March 26th, 2024 11:27 p.m. – I think I’ve done it. I’ve made a breakthrough on the antisera. With a simple, two amino acid change in the protein, the antisera binds more effectively to the brains neuroreceptors. With an electrolyte injection, I can reactivate neurons in the brains of diseased rodents. I believe that it can work on human specimens up to 3 days old. If this works, then I will have found a way to effectively bring patients back from beyond the point of death. I cannot overstate the importance of this discovery. All I need is a cadaver that’s fresh enough to experiment with. The three-day threshold will pose a unique challenge in acquiring a specimen. It will require further thought before I am to go ahead.
March 29th, 2024 1:18 p.m. – I have spoken with the hospital and the Department of Anatomy and have found a family who are scheduled to take a loved one of theirs off critical care tomorrow afternoon. They have agreed to send him to my lab following a short grieving ceremony. I have their written approval, though I have made no guarantee of my success. I don’t want to give them too much hope. Particularly the patient’s fiancé, who the patient had been on route to the chapel to wed, when his car was struck by an oncoming SUV that had missed a red light. I’m worried that she more than anyone doesn’t realize how much of a long shot this is. But I’ll do my best.
March 30th, 2024 8:12 p.m. – The body has arrived. I have him right here, laid out on my bench. He’s a young man, 24 years of age. He is 6’ 1” and weighs 174 pounds. Aside from some exposed tissue above his right eye, and a fracture along the parietal skull, the head remains entirely intact. There is concern that any intracranial bleeding may interfere with the electrolyte solution. I don’t expect the antisera to revive him completely, but as long as there is some measure of brain activity now, six hours after he was pronounced dead, then I think this test can still be labelled a success.
March 30th, 2024 8:36 p.m. – I have administered 20mg of the antisera, and after a twenty-minute wait, have just administered an equal dose of the electrolyte solution. I noticed an immediate spike in brain activity in his parietal lobe. There was no movement from the patient, but after five minutes, I noticed a faint flutter in his eyelids. Talking in his ear shows a proportionate response in the auditory cortex. The brain is capable of taking in external input.
March 30th, 2024 9:00 p.m. – His eyes are open. At the present, they’re only looking forward. He hasn’t yet glanced to look around the room, but his eyes are piercing in their focus, as if he’s processing more than just his initial surroundings. His pupils are an opaque white… what may be due to cataracts from damage to his ocular nerve from the incident.
March 30th, 2024, 9:08 p.m. – There’s movement. His fingers have started to jitter. They’re feeling the cuffs of his coat. He still has on the black tuxedo he had wore to his wedding day. His head occasionally spasms, as though just now regaining feeling. Heartrate is 33 beats per minute. His hands have begun moving more noticeably up and down the sides of his body. He’s feeling his buttons, the flower of his lapel, and now the titanium top of the bench. It’s really quite remarkable. I’ve not detected even a flicker of movement in his moth-eaten eyes. He has not blinked since awakening.
March 30th, 2024, 9:12 p.m. He’s trying to stand. There are straps in place, but they’re only loosely attached. They snap off with disappointing ease. Perhaps I should’ve been more optimistic and sprung for the thicker straps. There is a noise that he’s making… a low groaning, as though he is in pain or incapable of making more complex a sound.
March 30th, 2024, 9:14 p.m. I’ve tried speaking with him. I called him by his name. He doesn’t respond. He’s now seated on the edge of the table. He’s breathing heavily, his chest noticeably rising and falling. A reflex test shows no response at all.
March 30th, 2024, 9:18 p.m. I’ve tried introducing myself. There’s no sign that he understands. He is still. I don’t know if he’s listening or if he’s even aware, but I think the sound of another person is at least calming for him.
March 30th, 2024, 10:25 p.m. Little has happened. The groom is much the same as he was an hour ago. I’ve taken photos of everything that I’ve observed tonight, but when I left the room to get the camera, I returned to find him standing in the corner of the room. At times, he’ll stagger forward a step or two, or slouch against the wall. Always his head is down, his open mouth dripping drool on the floor while he stares ahead as if in a trance. I want to observe him for the night to see how he progresses. I am now seated at the desk in my office, which has a view of the lab from a large window. For the time being I will start recording my findings, but I will look often in case anything of interest happens.
March 30th 2024, 11:06 p.m. I am alerted by a loud crash. The patient has stumbled into a small table with scalpels, knocking them onto the linoleum floor with a clatter. His groaning now is louder now than before. I can hear it as clear as day through my window. It’s a deeply labored noise, creaking with every syllable as though his throat is severely dry.
March 30th, 11: 44 p.m. After completing my preliminary reports, I tried speaking with the patient, hoping that perhaps he could understand me. I explained the situation as simply as I could. I mentioned his wedding, the accident, and the agreement with his family. I went into detail about his operation. His pale eyes were watching me throughout, but there is no sign of any understanding in them. Still, at least he’s attentive. I might be naive for trying, but there’s always a chance that he could be understand more than he seems.
March 31st, 12:01 a.m. There is a wailing from inside the room. A horrible, hair-raising cry that has me standing upright from my monitor the sound that I hear it. The noise persists, as if all he wants to hear is the sound of his own misery. He is moving erratically, lurching through the lab. He’s knocked over the fire extinguisher, and, just now, the hospital gurney as well. There is no emotion in his face as he makes the most pitiful noises imaginable. I hope that I am not letting my own feelings cloud my judgment when I say that it sounds as though he is feeling a profound sorrow. His limbs flap loosely beside him, as though he still lacks the motor function to control them.
March 31st, 12:10 a.m. The groaning hasn’t stopped. Any request for him to quiet down goes unheard. I’m reminded of a child feeling grief for the first time and not knowing what else to do with it than to cry as deeply as they can. Out of a grown man, the noise becomes chilling. It’s much deeper and gruffer, like the cry of a wounded animal.
March 31st, 12:22 a.m. I have something I want to try. I’ve called his fiancé. She had expressed a great deal of interest in the success of the experiment when I met with her at the hospital, and when I explained on the phone to her what had happened to her fiancé, she agreed that she, more than anyone, could get through to him. I’ve called her a taxi and am waiting now on her arrival. It has been twenty minutes since the groom started to wail and he’s still going. He stumbles into the wall from time to time and I am worried that he will only act more unpredictably as the drug continues to work.
March 31st, 12:35 a.m. The widow’s taxi has arrived. I escorted her down to the laboratory. Behind the safety of the window, she is now looking at her husband for the first time since his recovery. She is noticeably shocked by his appearance. She looks like she might faint from the sight of him, but I can see also a hopefulness in her eyes that keeps her rooted in place. She sees as well as I do that he’s a great deal closer to what he was now than when he was lying unconscious on the hospital bed. She agrees to help when I ask her, though she only nods her response. Her eyes haven’t left her fiancés since the moment she’s arrived.
March 31st, 12:41 a.m. We called to him, and the groom responded. He shambled up to the glass to where his bride was standing. He had stopped wailing. I watched his cataracts-riddled eyes stare at her with a dead, unwavering look. I’m not sure what’ was in them or what the man was thinking as he looked at the love of his life. But the response in the bride was profound. She was speechless, her hand trembling as she placed her fingers against the glass. The groom appeared not to have noticed the hand, his stare as focused as ever as he gazed intently into her eyes.
March 31st, 12:43 a.m. The bride has asked if she can go inside. I warned her against it, and when she insisted again, I raised my voice to make the point all the more clear. Whatever she saw in the dead man’s eyes was not her husband looking back. I think she’s blinded herself with nostalgia. The fact that she sees something of the old him in his eyes is just because she wanted there to be something of the old him still there. But when I look into those moth-eaten eyes, I see just the unaware, unresponsive look of an animal looking back at me. But she was adamant, and though I tried to hold her back, she still managed to force her way past me. She opened the door before I could stop her, and I watched in horror as she stepped out into the laboratory.
The groom had turned to face her. A low, raspy groan creaked from him. The two stood a meter apart, both looking into each other’s eyes. There was a bottle of sedative on my shelf. In this time, I took it, and drew a needle with one eye as I watched with the other at what was transpiring outside.
She took a step closer. She was practically standing beneath him. His breaths I noticed were ragged, panting into her forehead like a large dog. Pale, clammy fingers wrapped around her arms, and he drew her in. It was the first time I’ve seen him use his hands with any amount of purpose.
She didn’t struggle at first, and I could see that he was panting more heavily now, as though with excitement. She looked up at him, and him, down at her. His mouth hung slacked, occasionally stuttering or dripping droplets of saliva on her shoulder. But she didn’t seem to mind. Her eyes were half open, and she raised her head a bit to nuzzle his cheek with her nose. I could see that the groom had become still as he took in this newest sensation.
And then, with a noticeable breath, the bride pulled his head down and put his lips to hers. The groom’s groaning returned, but it was quieter and a higher pitch, more of a sing-song kind of noise. He pushed his lips against hers. His jaw slacked and his mouth poured over her mouth. I could see the shift from romance to disgust as she tried to push him off her. It was then that I heard the scream. It was muffled by the groom’s mouth over hers, and I could see that blood was starting to stream from her cheeks. His entire weight collapsed upon her, and the two crumbled to the floor as I bolted for the door. When I got in, I saw her flailing on the ground with the groom still at her face, a horrible slobbering sound slipping out from beneath the hysteric screams.
I plunged my syringe into his shoulder blade and administered the sedative. He hardly noticed. I waited a minute and then two for the effects to take hold, and all the while I had no choice but to listen to the shrieks of the woman, with not a thing I could do to help in the meantime.
March 31th, 12:58 a.m. The drug has finally taken effect, but the woman shows no signs of life. It wasn’t my first thought, but I fear for my research and the possibility of a civil lawsuit. Tomorrow morning I’ll tell the family that the experiment was a failure and ask if I can keep the groom’s body a little while longer in hopes that I can one day revive him. I think they are still hopeful enough to say yes. I will say nothing of the bride or the arrangement that we had made for her to come here tonight.
April 8th, 6:31 p.m. It’s been a week since the horrible events of March the 30th. The groom appears pleased with the latest results. I’m happy that he’s finally done with his infernal moaning. The bride is conscious and seems to have taken warmly to him. It’s a shame I couldn’t do something more about the face, but at least it doesn’t seem to bother them.