Excerpt:

The cold research facility floor glistened in the morning sunlight. The small glass rooms offered little privacy and little protection from the harsh wintry conditions of the world outside. They were isolated in there. Here in this sterile bubble of loneliness and desolation. The wind sliced through the empty corridors, weaving through them gracefully.

Samuel Wick opened his eyes. He could see nothing but light. His eyelids slammed shut, in a desperate attempt to shield his frail eyes. He blinked, looking around the room, trying to drag the individual objects into focus. Searing pain rushed through his skull. His hand instinctively grabbed hold of his head. He knew he couldn’t end the pain but it didn’t stop him trying. The pain eventually passed as Samuel lay on his bed heaving. This was not the first time, but he still had not gotten used to these severe migraines or whatever they were. They had started little over a month ago and he just wasn’t sure why. The facility therapist was clueless as well. He had been through so many tests and not one of them shed even a little light on what the problem was. The only hint he had been given was when he had overheard Dr. Stromberg talking to a doctor from another facility. From what he heard Dr. Stromberg say, Samuel knew that the doctors were hinting at the possibility of schizophrenia. He was in denial. There was no way he could believe that…

His trail of thought was cut off by the sudden sound of his door opening. All he could see was the dark silhouette of a man standing over him. The man was tall and slim and stood over Samuel, nervously swaying. He was clearly worried about being there. He stood still for some time in an attempt to gather the confidence to talk.

‘Dr… Dr Brooks wants to see you in his office’ the concealed man stuttered.

Samuel sat up slowly. He knew it was time for his medication again. He rubbed his temple once more, to see off the last of the intense pain that resided there from mere minutes earlier. Standing up, Samuel followed the man through the ghostly corridors of the Dennis E. Hughman Institute for Medical and Pharmaceutical Research. They meandered through the drab, grey hallways on their way to the infamous office of Dr Brooks. Dr. Brooks’ office- many of the volunteers had gone there and left as completely different people, shadows of their former selves. Worry clouded Samuel’s already distressed thoughts. He had been to Dr. Brooks’ office so many times and left unchanged, but what if this time it was different?

The man pulled out a chair with a loud screeching noise and instructed Samuel to sit down and wait for further instructions. Samuel moved into the chair, feeling the cold, sterile metal of its arms cut into his flesh. He felt uncomfortable. The chair seemed to accentuate his growing sense of despair. The man opened the office door and waved a welcoming gesture towards Samuel. His arm drew him in and even though there was no warmth or hope of friendship in the gesture it soothed him.

Dr Brooks sat in his office in a large, black, padded chair. He was not facing the door, as he wanted to see his patients walk in from the side. He felt it was a sign of respect; a sign of authority. He needed that. He needed his patients to know that he was in charge. That was also the reason why his office chair was the only chair in the room. He was a large man both in height and weight, which contributed to his authoritative air. He stroked his moustache eagerly and his eyes lit up as he saw Samuel enter the room.

‘Mr. Wick?’ questioned Dr Brooks as he leafed through his files looking for the one marked ‘SAMUEL WICK‘ which up until recently, had been a bit on the slim side.

‘Yes, you are indeed correct there sir’ answered Samuel respectfully.

‘It has come to my attention, from none other than Dr. Stromberg, that you have been experiencing migraines or some head pain of the sorts? Is that correct Mr. Wick?’ inquired Dr Brooks, peering over the frames of his reading glasses.

‘You are correct in your analyses of those particular symptoms, yes.’ replied Samuel, almost prideful of these facts, or at least, that they were his.

‘Well, I’m not too sure what we could do to deal with this in a helpful fashion.’ Dr. Brooks gave a quizzical look towards him ‘Although, Dr Stromberg and I have been discussing a number of possible causes.’

Samuel froze. He knew what the doctor was alluding to. Anxiety flooded through his mind once more. What if he was moved to a psychiatric ward? What if he was put in isolation? What if he would never-

‘Mr Wick? Are you… Is it acceptable for us to continue with this session?’

Samuel snapped back to reality, forcing himself to deal with his present situation. He had time to worry about the future in due course but right now, he needed to focus. After a few deep breaths, he was ready to go on.

‘I think that I am prepared to continue with this particular session. I am extremely apologetic for the delay.’ Samuel stated.

‘Indeed…’ Dr. Brooks replied unsympathetically. ‘So as I was saying, there is no action we can take to aid you right now.’ Relief juxtaposed the dismay that swept over Samuel’s face. Suddenly, Dr Brooks’ eyes lit up. ‘But, I have just had an epiphany of sorts. Please, if would you care to follow me.’

Dr Brooks stood up and walked through the doorway to his left, on the other side of the room to the one which Samuel had entered. The contiguous room was completely clean, a laboratory of pure white. The room projected a quasi- utopian milieu, which radiated hope that the project being worked on there would be successful. Five syringes lay at the side of a workbench, each containing fifty millilitres of pale yellow liquid.

‘Mr. Myers, would you care to hold Mr. Wick still please?’ asked Dr. Brooks calmly.

The nervous man, Mr. Myers, who was the same man who had approached Samuel earlier, walked up behind him and held him down.

‘Just relax. You’re about to feel a sharp pinch. Just a small one- it will help take away that horrible head pain for a short amount of time, it is a soporific anesthetic of sorts’ Dr. Brooks cautioned as he leaned over, menacingly holding the syringe.

The needle penetrated the smooth muscle of Samuel’s jugular and he felt the drug quickly circulate its way through his body. Samuel was expecting a sense of relief but instead the pain intensified. His mind felt like it was trying to rip through his skull. His eyes rolled backwards. Numbness invaded his limbs as he slowly but inevitably drifted out of consciousness.

****************************

‘Did you give him more of the drug? What is different with this subject?’ Dr. Lannings questioned upon entering the room and seeing Samuel’s passed out body on the previously pristine floor.

‘In fact, I did’ replied Dr. Brooks, noticing, as he always did, Dr. Lannings’ demanding tone which made her less appealing to the men she worked with but allowed her to have firm authority and control in the projects she participated in if she wanted it. Answering her demand, he continued on,

‘But our Sam Wick does not seem to be reacting to it as well as the others. I’m beginning to wonder if we should keep him in the test study; negative results would not support the high success rates we are striving for.’

‘We should keep him here. To learn the full effects the narcotic could have on those it is administered to, we must continue to treat him as if he has not had a different reaction to it than the other test subjects.’

Dr. Brooks considered this statement: Could the results of the drug on Samuel appear in the other “research assistants” or test subjects at a later point in the experiment? Should the test subjects be made aware that their true purposes at the Dennis E. Hughman Institute for Medical and Pharmaceutical Research were not to play a small part in a private company’s development of a new drug but to participate in the testing of one?

‘No’ he argued to himself. And shaking these uneasy thoughts from his mind he remembered he had a job, his own purpose for being there.

‘Our Samuel has not yet realized that something serious may be happening around him. I have told him the drug that he will now be aware he is being administered is nothing but a simple knock- out anesthetic and that if he continues to take it, he may get better. Of course, once the dear boy notices that he is not getting better- which he is sure to do if similar results continue- then some sort of action must be taken. But until then, I believe this is the best solution.’

Firmly nodding in agreement with Dr. Brooks’ decision, Dr. Lannings turned to exit the room, but stopped mid- stride and turned back.

‘Do we know if he experiences anything when he is like this?’ she indicated to Samuel’s still unmoving and almost unnervingly still body.

‘There has been no indication of anything. According to the brain analyses our doctors have done while he is in this condition, there are no irregular patterns; it is as if he were simply dreaming.’

Frowning only enough to make a single line appear on her otherwise flawless forehead, Dr. Lannings walked over to the workbench that, when he picked up the syringe, Dr. Brooks had put the file marked ‘SAMUEL WICKS’ down on. Picking it up, she quickly skimmed the information shown upon it- the basis of one man’s entire life. Seeming satisfied with what she found there, Dr. Lannings handed the folder to Dr. Brooks. Her heels made a dry, rhythmic clicking noise as she once again walked towards the doorway she had entered through. Turning around one final time she asked,

‘Was he good man?’

Not seeing the reason behind her question, Dr. Brooks looked back at her and despite this chose to respond.

‘He IS a good man. But this drug could make the whole world good once again.’

Apparently satisfied with this answer, Dr. Lannings departed, leaving Dr. Brooks alone with Samuel Wicks. He looked upon the sleeping man, the man he would, if he had not already, destroy to discover if he had found the answer which would make all of his research worthwhile.

‘It will not matter.’ he thought to himself. ‘Once the world is perfected, this man’s problems will not belong to me, or anyone like myself. If they exist at all, they will belong to no one but him. This man, Samuel Wicks, may be the key to perfecting a gateway to perfection.’

And with these thoughts, Dr. Brooks motivated himself into moving Samuel Wicks back to the bedroom in which he had awoken to searing pain earlier that day.