Chapter 9: Sanctuary - A Dream of Waking Life

“Matthew!” someone scolded, jarring Matt awake. He twisted at the neck and absorbed his surroundings.

A man in his early fifties, just slightly older than Matt, sat across from him in an overly padded, black leather chair. He wore a black tweed jacket over a black shirt, black slacks, and black shoes – all black. Even his tightly cropped hair was black. The man stared at Matt through large black glasses with incredible disappointment – a look of I told you so spread across his scowl. Behind the man was a large abstract, black-and-white painting that looked like a giant Rorschach inkblot test. It took up most of the wall behind him.

“Did you nod off again, Matthew?” the man across from him asked with more disappointment.

“Dr. Heron!” Matt gasped, remembering the nurse’s words.

Just a dream, Matt reminded himself. I just need my meds.

The thought strobed suddenly in Matt’s mind, telling him this was exactly the sanctuary he’d been searching for.

“Meds!” Matt blurted out.

“Oh, we’ll get to that,” Dr. Heron assured him didactically. “You haven’t even been taking them, Matthew!”

Dr. Heron seemed genuinely disturbed by Matt’s behavior. There was something else in his tone too, an incredible anger from somewhere deep inside him.

Matt nodded vigorously, pushing away every thought that didn’t pertain to the meds.

“I ran out!”

“Over four months ago!” Dr. Heron nearly barked, releasing a tendril of indignation from some fathomless pit inside him before collecting himself. “I’m sorry, Matthew. I am. I’ve just been so worried about you. Everyone has.”

Matt shook away his observation. Of course he’s angry with me. I’m his patient. He’s just worried. He can help me, Matt told himself, basking in the oasis of the realization amidst his desertous despair.

“I’m confused,” Matt began telling him, but Dr. Heron held up a hand for Matt to stop.

“Of course you are. You’ve been off the Serotel for what might as well be a lifetime.”

“But –”

Dr. Heron shook his head. “But what? Why do you do this to yourself, Matthew?”

Matt shook at Dr. Heron’s words, uncertain of what he meant exactly.

“My dreams,” Matt began telling him, but again, Dr. Heron waved away his words.

“I’m writing you a new prescription of Serotel. I’m doubling the dose. Just for now. We need to get these hallucinations under control.”

So I am hallucinating. There’s something wrong with me. Has there always been?

“Am I crazy?” Matt asked him, unable to remember if there had even been a diagnosis at some point in his past.

How long have I been like this? How did I get here? Where are the others? Matt saw May in his mind. Where is she?

Dr. Heron finished writing the script, then answered Matt. “No, not crazy,” he said simply. “Just chemically imbalanced.”

Dr. Heron rose from the colossal black chair, allowing it to swing round and reveal the whole of the abstract inkblot. Matt imagined braided white cords overlaying a black background; then his mind shifted, and he saw the inkblot as fathomless black spills over a barren white background. He forced his eyes away from the painting, not wanting to lose himself in it.

Dr. Heron fished for something in his top desk drawer, then removed a bottle of Serotel.

“This will hold you over for at least a month,” he said. “Here. Take one now.”

Dr. Heron removed a single large crimson pill from the bottle. Terrible paranoia coursed through Matt’s veins at the sight of the pill, and he had to use every bit of himself to stifle the sudden urge to run.

Something isn’t right, Matt warned himself.

“Matthew…” Dr. Heron said, offering him the pill like a parent to a child.

“I’m just confused, I just –”

“I know,” Dr. Heron confirmed. “That is exactly why you must take this pill, Matthew. This will help you.”

Yes, Matt confirmed inwardly.

No! Another part of him shot back. It was the old man. The medicine, Matt thought in horror through the mind of the old man from the dream. That’s exactly what caused all this confusion, making me think my dreams are real.

“I don’t want it!” Matt shouted, standing in anticipation of some unknown threat.

“Matthew!” Dr. Heron ordered, furrowing his dark brows over his pitch black glasses. “You are in my care. Do you understand that? You signed over that power the last time this happened. I am telling you to take this pill for your own good. Do you understand me?”

“No!” Matt shouted back, half pleading. “This is just a dream!”

Just a dream, Matt told himself, now seeing the obvious unreality of this world with ease.

“I’m an old man. I know the truth!” Matt said, nearly laughing at the impossibility of it all.

Matt caught Dr. Heron’s eyes, and his stare was like blades plunging through the depths of Matt’s soul.

No! No! No! This is the real world, Matt realized. The old man is the dream. This is real! The old man is the dream! He’s the dream!

“No!” Matt screamed, reeling at his own terrifying certainty just a moment ago that he was a dream character.

“I need help!” Matt cried to Dr. Heron.

“Take the pill for goodness sake, Matthew! Free yourself from this torment, will you? Take it now!”

Dr. Heron’s words seemed to inject themselves into Matt, controlling him like a puppet. Matt felt himself reach for the crimson pill, grab it, pop it into his mouth, then swallow it.

No, you fool! Matt told himself as the old man. This is just a dream!

Matt fell to his knees and grabbed at his skull full of electrifying chaos, wishing he could just know for sure what was real.

Dr. Heron let out a great sigh as Matt began sobbing into his own open palms.

“You are already on your way to getting better, Matthew.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Matt asked solemnly as Dr. Heron gently lifted him back onto the couch.

“We’ve been over this, Matthew. We don’t know. No one does. Some kind of schizophrenia. You disassociate yourself from reality, and you disassociate your dreams from your self-image. This time, though, you are displaying signs of amnesia.”

“This time?”

“Yes. You go through cycles, as do most with serious psychological conditions. Fortunately for you, there is a medicine that works. You only have issues when you stop taking it. So, Matthew, why did you stop taking the Serotel?”

“I –” Matt began, but he still couldn’t remember anything before the first time he woke up confused in the cell of the Reaper world. Sure, there were a few flashes from childhood – walking in a park, attempting to lucid dream, fishing with his dad – nothing concrete or profound, though.

“I really don’t know,” Matt admitted. “I woke up this morning from a series of nightmares, and when I reached for the meds, the bottle was empty and dated from February. I…” Matt trailed off, uncertain what to say.

“The obvious correlation is the success of your business. You stopped taking your meds almost exactly when you signed the deal with Congo-Rayo.”

Dr. Heron offered Matt a moment to speak, but Matt could only shake his head in continued confusion.

“Who?” Matt struggled, unable to recall ever hearing that name before.

Dr. Heron cocked his head. “Okay. I admit, I didn’t anticipate this level of amnesia. You forgot a few people’s names and a few parts of your life the last time you stopped taking the Serotel, but this is different. You’re forgetting basic facts of your life now. Do you understand what might happen if you stop taking your medicine again? Missing a day or two, okay, that might happen. But Matthew...this is serious! You forgot about the largest tech conglomerate in the world – who you signed a contract with.” Dr. Heron let out another exhaustive sigh. “I can’t imagine what might happen next time, Matthew. Do you understand?”

Matt shook his head. “No,” he said simply.

Dr. Heron nodded gently. “Right. That’s fair. Everything will come back to you in a few days, Matthew. As long as you stay on the Serotel. Do you understand? I’m going to be sending you text reminders to take your pill each morning. I’m going to need you to text back after you take it. And if I don’t hear from you within a couple hours, I’ll have to notify the authorities to start looking for you.”

Matt nodded with grim acceptance. “Sure…okay, sure,” he said, desperate for a reprieve from the madness. “I just want this all to stop.”

Dr. Heron nodded with newfound understanding. “You really don’t remember. Okay, I’ll remind you. I saw you at the beginning of March, and you left my office after telling me you didn’t need a drug to make reality make sense. And then you just disappeared. There were talks about holding your funeral. No one was really sure what else to assume.”

Matt saw an incredible strain for emotional control in Dr. Heron’s features.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, feeling guilty for making so many people worry. “I wish I hadn't done that. Because now I’m so confused. Now everything is...I’m just not sure what’s real…” Matt shook his head, feeling like crumbling again.

This is a dream.

No! This is real! May is real. I’m real!

“I need something to help me fall asleep without dreaming while the Serotel kicks in,” Matt said. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m too confused. I’m just so –”

Dr. Heron held up a hand for Matt to stop.

“Not to worry, Matthew. We’ve been through this before. Take these.”

Dr. Heron suddenly held three small white pills in his hand as if they had always been there, just waiting for Matt to ask for them. This time Matt didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the pills and swallowed them.

“I’m not sure how you swallow pills so easily without water,” Dr. Heron chuckled, and Matt felt strangely comforted by the grounded simplicity and familiarity of his words.

“Lie back, Matthew. Those will knock you out. I’ll have your bodyguards carry you back to your apartment and make sure you get safely to bed. Now’s not the time to leave anything in your control. You just go to sleep.”

Matt didn’t even try to ask about the bodyguards he had never seen before, or why he still lived in his old apartment if he was supposedly a rich man now.

So tired. So goddamn tired. He wasn’t sure if it was the sleeping pills or his panic, but Matt felt as heavy as packed mud as he sank slowly into the couch.

“Very good,” Dr. Heron said, the giant inkblot directly behind him. The strips of black looked as if they were moving of their own accord, and Matt thought suddenly of the Reaper’s wild arms flailing death at naked flesh.

No! I don’t want to go back there! I don’t want that!

“Go to sleep now, Matthew. No more dreams. This will knock you out.”

Yes, Matt thought. No more dreams. No more!

No! Matt realized suddenly. This is the dream. I’m an old man in some strange corridor. This isn’t real.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Heron said, curling his lips into a rapacious grin that bordered on evil. “They’re all dead anyway.”

“What…” Matt managed, but his mouth could barely move, and his vision was already blurring into darkness.

“Sweet dreams,” Dr. Heron chuckled to himself maniacally.

That’s just in your head, Matt told himself. That’s just a hallucination. But Matt couldn’t be sure.