Flux

the metal plates,” her counterpart in Cheltenham sounded dismissive.
    “I know, I just want to see them, after all, he is my patient.” It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the other doctors’ interpretation of the scans, just that she had a gut feeling something physiological was going on in Iain’s head. “So, what’s your thinking about what might be happening?”
    “Beats me; he needs further evaluation to be sure.”
    “When’s he being transferred?”
    “This afternoon. I don’t see any reason not too.”
    With that, they both said their goodbyes and hung up. Rebecca sat for a while in silence, thinking about possible causes of Iain’s psychosis and seizures; apart from the obvious head trauma of course. The human brain is an infinitely complex organ; it’s the very reason she wanted to specialise in neurology, there were always new things to learn and ways for a young doctor to make a name for herself.

    They came to take Iain away in the afternoon; he didn’t know it was afternoon; all concept of time had long since abandoned him. Whatever drugs had been pumped into his system seemed to have done the job; he couldn’t be bothered to ask where they were going. His head hurt. As they wheeled him through the hospital foyer and to the waiting ambulance, he glanced around: This is no Nazi death camp! He thought to himself. His mind boggled; he seemed to be jumping from one place to another: The concentration camp; the abyss; and now hospital. He’d lost track of what was real and what wasn’t. Maybe they’re all real? He gave up and closed his eyes again.

    He could hear two people talking. The words eluded him but Iain knew he was the subject of their discussions. Sleep was trying to claim him again and his eyes remained closed.
    “Iain,” someone was speaking his name. Then again, more loudly: “Iain. Can you hear me Iain?”
    Cracking his eyes open just a little he saw a face looming over him, dark brown eyes and full red cheeks peeping out from above a bushy grey beard.
    “Ah there you are. How are you feeling?”
    Iain half grunted, half sighed in response as the room tried to swim into focus, but not quite managing it.
    “That good eh? We’ll soon fix that. I’m Doctor Jenkins and I’ll be looking after you for a while.”
    Great, another doctor.
    Join us and you’ll never have to see another doctor ever again. Bert’s voice this time, speaking from inside his head.
    Doctor Jenkins was speaking to someone else in the room, someone who Iain couldn’t see through half closed eyes. He didn’t try to understand, or even hear what they were saying, instead letting his eyelids slide closed again.
    Sshh, rest, the soothing female voice in his head gently spoke. Iain felt glad to hear it and allowed himself a small smile as he drifted off.
    Over the course of the next few days, the doctors ran plenty more tests but the results were always inconclusive. Iain was a medical enigma. Rebecca Goodman visited often and Doctor Jenkins, who was indeed a psychiatrist, insisted the symptoms were a psychological manifestation of his trauma. They could never quite come to any agreement and Iain, as he lay in a half stupor, was the subject of much heated debate.

    He was thirsty, the realisation of his discomfort creeping up on him. It was another white room; it hurt his eyes. The restraints binding his wrists and ankles were now undone. Rising to his feet, legs shaky, he went to try the door, only to find it locked. Next to the bed lay a small square box, not white but orange; Iain picked it up and pressed the buzzer. Moments later a short, smiling nurse appeared.
    “Everything OK?” she asked.
    “Thirsty,” Ian croaked.
    “No problem.” She disappeared back through the door, making sure to lock it behind her. A few minutes later she returned with a small plastic cup of orange juice.
    Iain drank it in one.
    “My, you were thirsty. Can I get you anything else?”
    “Another drink please?”
    She went to refill his cup, while Iain sat back down on the bed, wondering where he was and why. Events since Stow were more than hazy and left him somewhat bewildered; he wondered what was real and what was a dream. When the nurse returned she was accompanied by Doctor Jenkins. Leaving the juice next to the bed, she left the two of them alone.
    “Hello Iain. How are you feeling?”
    “Tired and fuzzy headed.” Then, “Where am I?”
    “Hospital.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re