Читать книгу Tasya - Vincent Gallo - Страница 1

The light in the room was bright, and the sound around was silent.

“I have never spoken to anyone about this and have kept this secret locked inside my mind. I have not withheld my words out of fear, but because I doubt that others are able to understand me and my particular psychological predicament. They may be sympathetic and supportive, but I'm certain they would lack understanding.”

Hugh stood up straighter, his gaze cutting a path directly in front of him.

“I hope that you can help me, that you can give me your professional assessment and advise me on what to do.” Hugh closed his eyes and took a slow and deliberate deep breath. Upon opening his eyes, he continued speaking, determined to unveil that which he has kept a secret for so long.

“I have… I have hallucinations. When they come unto me, sometimes with the speed of a creeping fog or other times like a bolt of lightning, I see bizarre sights. People morph into mythical creatures; their faces and bodies change as if they were wet clay and shaped by ethereal hands. Animals begin to talk and debate about topics foreign to their understanding. Skeletons reanimate and live as if their fleshy bodies had never died.” Hugh rubbed the two-week-old stubble growing on his chin and continued on with his monologue.

“For a reason that I am unable to comprehend, these theaters of my mind are triggered when I encounter the news. If I read a newspaper, scroll through headlines in my phone, hear someone speaking about a hot button topic, or anything else overlapping with the news, then my mind crafts these hallucinations for me. I don't have an exact answer as to why the news floods my conscious reality with unreal images. That is why I am here, to tell you about my curious condition and accept your professional recommendations.”

Anxiety bubbled and Hugh felt simultaneously hot and cold from the tension of speaking about himself. He found this nervous energy to be both annoying and thrilling. Annoying, in how it reminded him of his lack of courage. Thrilling, in how this was a bodily sensation that he did not get to experience every day.

Hugh peered at the face looking back at him from the bathroom mirror and ran his fingers along the nicks and cuts from that morning's shave. The razor had spared his neck, but his cheeks were peppered with scratches. He had rehearsed his speech dozens and dozens of times over, even as blade met stubble, and the sharp pinches from each minor wound made him wish that he had left himself looking scruffy and unkempt.

Stepping closer to the bathroom sink, Hugh turned on the faucet and choose the tap with cold water. He let the water run and after some time splashed a handful of cold water onto his face, thinking that is what all the heroes do in the movies when they are on the precipice of a challenge. Hugh ran his hands from forehead, tucked his hairs behind his ears, and flicked away the excess water on his fingertips into the sink.

With a quick twist, Hugh switched off the running water and looked down at his watch. It read 2:27 and Hugh knew that it was high time to get back to the waiting room. If the receptionist didn't come knocking on the door to see if he had fallen asleep, then she would certainly be calling Hugh's name any minute now. Furthermore, he was certain that he had been in the bathroom longer than most would deem socially acceptable for a public space.

Hugh flung the bathroom door open and was greeted by a man a wearing a face that looked like it had been carved out of a gnarled tree. This living piece of bark didn’t try to slip past Hugh and enter the bathroom, but instead blocked Hugh’s passage to the waiting room and blasted him with eyes ripe with irritation and contempt.

“I've been waiting to use the toilet for about twenty minutes!” The man growled and puffed his chest out, which made him look even more like an ominous tree. “I was of the mind to start hammering on the door, but I heard you talking and mumbling to yourself, like some crazy person.”

Hugh's face flushed red, and a searing pain of embarrassment swelled in his chest. He didn't want the first person to know about his hallucinations to be someone who had overheard him while in the bathroom.

“Did you hear anything I was talking about?” Hugh's question was a faint whisper but sounded like thunder in his own ears.

“The sound was too muffled to make out anything, but I highly doubt you would have had anything interesting to say anyway. Probably just some insane nonsense.” The tree raised his voice, ignoring Hugh's whisper as a plead for privacy in this matter. “Never mind! Get out of my way. I've waited long enough already, and I need to go!”

The man shouldered his way past Hugh, sending Hugh stumbling sideways off to the side. As Hugh was recovering and righting himself, the bathroom door made a thunderous slam and the lock bolted into place.

Hugh turned to make his way back to the waiting room, but unintelligible grumbles and muffled shouts stalled his steps. Hugh returned to the source of the noise, the bathroom the man had just entered, and brought his ear closer to the door. He couldn't make out a single phrase or word from the man within.

With a sense of relief that the tree had spoken truly, Hugh pivoted and jogged back to the waiting room. He had no desire to invade anyone's privacy nor still be standing there when the tree would exit.

Plus, it was almost time for his appointment, and he didn't want to be late.

Hugh returned to the waiting room just as his watch struck 2:30.

He came to the right place at the right time, but the receptionist seemed to possess a different notion of what constituted the ‘right’ time. She was sitting behind her desk, utilizing her time to shuffle and reshuffle a tall stack of papers that reminded Hugh of a massive deck of cards. He wasn't sure if she was merely trying to make herself look busy in an attempt to ward off patients who wanted to pester her about the start time of their appointment or if this was her last day at work and she wanted to sabotage everyone's medical records.

Whatever the case, minute after minute trickled by and Hugh remained sitting at the right place, but now at the wrong time.

Hugh's watch read 2:47 and the receptionist was now in the process of shredding her finely shuffled stack of documents. Knowing that this would take some time, Hugh resigned himself to study the waiting room.

After a brief inspection of his surroundings Hugh figured that if you've seen one waiting room then you have more or less seen them all. Waiting rooms have their own characteristics that allow them to fall into the taxonomic category of being a waiting room. They are smaller than football stadiums but bigger than prison cells. They have chairs, walls, a water cooler, and a TV which plays movies on mute—making one wonder what sort of comfort a muted TV could provide to someone visiting the doctor.

This particular muted TV was playing an old Western film. Lips moved without sound. Guns fired without any high-pitched twinge, as customary of some Westerns made at that time. All Hugh saw was a soundless scene of a man in black trying to pick up his hat, and nameless gunslinger shooting the hat away from him.

Not being able to understand what the man in black and the gunslinger were saying annoyed Hugh, but it wasn’t as annoying as his seat. The chairs in the waiting room had seat cushions barely more padded than an economy class flight seat, no arm rests, and black metallic frames that not only cradled the cushion, but also rubbed and scraped the outmost parts of the hips. No matter which way Hugh positioned himself in the chair, there seemed to be no way to become comfortable. Even if he had a PhD in advanced Engineering and Physics, Hugh still wouldn’t be able to calculate the optimal sitting position to alleviate his discomfort.

Hugh had a sneaking suspicion that the designer of these chairs secretly visited waiting rooms like this one in order to observe people sitting in his creations. This architect of discomfort and annoyance would sit silently, his thoughts unknowable to others, and get pleasure from patients’ attempts to solve the unsolvable conundrum of how to become comfortable in these chairs.

Hugh squirmed a bit more in his torture device of a chair and looked around. There weren’t too many people alongside him in this indefinite state of waiting. There was a couple, quietly arguing about where to eat after their appointment. A young girl was sitting and reading a book, whose cover depicted a black spaniel wearing a detective hat and coat. Behind the spaniel stood an extraordinarily large red chalice surrounded by menacing and clocked figures brandishing jewel encrusted daggers.

Something more curious than the cover of the girl’s book was that Hugh could not locate the grumpy man from the earlier bathroom encounter. If he had left the doctor’s office then Hugh would have seen him cut through the waiting room. Since Hugh hadn’t seen him, Hugh estimated that the grumpy man had been in the bathroom for well over twenty minutes.

Hugh thought about marching back to the bathroom and giving the grumpy man a taste of his own medicine when he finally opened up the bathroom door. Hugh’s revenge fantasy was cut short when the anticipated and fated moment came to pass.

The receptionist was calling his name.

“Mr. Mekta! Mr. Mekta! Please come to reception desk,” the receptionist was yelling and Hugh could hear a grating frustration in her voice saying that she had been the one waiting for the last twenty plus minutes for Hugh to make his presence at the desk.

Hugh approached the desk, glad to be out of the indefinite state of waiting and out of that horrendous chair.

“I’m Hugh. But, pardon me, my name is not Mekta, it’s Mechta.” Hugh tried to sound polite, not wanting to offend the reception and be sent back to the waiting area as vengeance for said offense. “The 'ch’ in my last name is pronounced like the 'ch’ in 'cheese,' 'cheap,' and 'chicken’.”

The receptionist placed a meticulously manicured nail on his name in the file. She read it over and rolled her eyes at what was written there.

“I’ll make a note of the spelling and pronunciation in your file.” The receptionist said but didn’t make any notes in any file.

“The doctor is waiting for you in room 27.” The receptionist continued. “Please go over there,” she lethargically pointed a nail at an indeterminate position behind her, “and then turn there.”

Hugh peered around the receptionist to see where 'over there’ was. He could see a hallway with four branching corridors.

“Pardon me,” Hugh said, “but what do you mean by ‘over there?’

“What do you mean?” She replied curtly, her lazy demeanor had changed to one that had just been offended. “I’ve just told you where to go.”

She spun around on her chair, extended her arm out at full length, and made various quick movements with the tip of her long nail.

“Go over there, and then turn there.” The receptionist said.

Hugh responded to her attempt at precise directions with a dumfounded expression. Behind this dumbstruck look, Hugh was making the mental calculations of whether it would be advantageous to ask her to elaborate on her directions. After triple checking the results of his mental computations, Hugh decided to hold his tongue.

He simply thanked the receptionist and headed ‘over there.’

Hugh walked down the hallway and past the first two adjourning corridors. He felt relief that the room numbers were descending from one hundred and that all that he needed to do was to go to the end of the hallway and see which adorning corridor led to the twenties.

As Hugh approached the end of the hallway, he could hear the receptionist shouting from behind him.

“Mr. Mekta! Mr. Mekta! I told you already, please go over there! You are going the wrong way! Turn back and turn over there!” The receptionist shouted and tore a piece of a paper, which Hugh hoped wasn't his file, in two.

“Do I go over there?” Hugh called back and shifted his gaze from the reddening face of the receptionist and pointed to the rightmost corridor that he had passed.

“No, to the other one!” the reception cried and tore a small stack of papers, that had magically appeared in her hands, in half.

Hugh walked back towards the two corridors and pointed at the one on his left.

“Yes, Mr. Mekta! That is what I have been telling you this entire time! Don't keep the doctor waiting!” The receptionist threw herself down on her chair with a thumb loud enough to be heard by Hugh down the hallway.

Hugh turned ‘over there' and pondered whether the receptionist's outburst was in part to sitting on a chair crafted by the architect of discomfort.

Hugh entered room 27 and no one was there.

Hugh was both relieved and agitated. Relieved that he hadn't kept the doctor waiting. Agitated that he was forced to play the waiting game again.

Hugh sat down again, but this time straddling the edge of the chair like a trapeze artist on a tightrope. He tried to embody this performer's balance, poise, and grace as he sat along the thin line of comfort and falling off the chair. Unlike the trapeze artist, who plays the game of life and death while performing in air, Hugh continued to play the most irritating game of them all—the waiting game.

Hugh always thought of himself as a person who fell into the laid-back category. There were only a few things that he really disliked; things like pickles, store assistants who swarm you upon entering a store, ice covered sidewalks in the winter, and shoes that grip your toes too tightly. None of these things, however, compared to how much he disliked waiting.

It wasn't all forms of waiting that he disliked. He was fine with waiting for the bus, the metro, or for a barista to brew his coffee. Tension would wrap around chest whenever he had to wait without knowing when the result of his waiting would come to fruition. Hugh always assumed that this was because such situations stole away his ability to control the situation and choose how to act in a given situation. When waiting, he felt that he was being forced to choose without having any alternatives of choice.

The waiting game, and the absence of autonomy, was cut short as the doctor walked in with a clipboard in hand.

The doctor’s fingers were flipping through the clipboard’s sheets with such speed and precision that made Hugh think that his doctor must have been a high-ranking bureaucrat in another life. Hugh was also surprised at how many sheets there were, for he hadn’t been to the doctor in quite some time. How could the doctor have so much medical information on him without Hugh ever coming for regular visits?

“Good day Mr. Mechta. My name is Doctor Carni.” The doctor said, still dexterously flipping through the sheets on the clipboard.

Hugh watched as the sheets swished on the clipboard and a sudden realization dawned on Hugh – he was finally going to talk to someone about his hallucinations. Adrenaline filled him and he felt an inner giddiness at the prospect of revealing his inner most self and receiving feedback from a medical professional.

Hugh was ready to speak.

“Good day to you too doctor,” Hugh said and stood up from his trapeze artist’s chair. “I want to talk to you today about my unusual condition —"

“One moment Mr. Mechta.” The doctor cut through Hugh’s words like a newly sharpened knife through paper. “I see here that you haven’t been in for a medical examination in,” Dr. Carne flipped through the pages on his clipboard once again, sheets of paper moving like they lived in fear of the doctor’s fingertips, “quite some time. We need to take your biometrics.” Dr. Carni flashed a teethy smile that could be taken as either reassuring or condescending. “Height, weight, blood pressure.”

“Is all that really necessary?” Hugh asked, confused by the doctors demands. He had been expecting to discuss his inner self, not fret over his external self. “Aren’t height measurements only for children who are physically developing?”

“All of this is standard practice, Mr. Mechta,” the doctor replied. “You haven’t been here for a while and we merely want to document your biometrics, for when you return. Pertaining to your height, we want to make sure that your tiny frame isn’t shrinking.”

Hugh was a bit taken aback by the word 'tiny.' He was not tall, but he always imagined himself as fitting in the medium category on the height spectrum. He wasn’t sure if the doctor used that particular word in order to be derogatory or if he made the wrong word choice by accident.

The doctor led Hugh to a scale in the corner of the room. It was like the scales that the doctors had used when he had been a child. There was a tiny pedestal to stand on and a metal bar with a sliding apparatus that could be adjusted to determine someone’s weight. There was also a measuring stick that could be extended vertically and placed atop the patient’s head to get a height measurement.

Hugh felt uncomfortable reliving his childhood experiences at the doctors, but he followed the orders of Dr. Carni’s beckoning hand to proceed. Hugh stepped on the scale and the metal bar sharply tipped downwards with a loud crash of metal on metal. Dr. Carni ignored weighing Hugh for now and his hand darted right for the measuring sticking. He extended it above Hugh and rested it on his head.

“One hundred sixty-five centimeters,” Dr. Carni remarked and started to scribble in the file. Hugh peeked from the corner of his eye and the doctor’s pen appeared to move in a manner more appropriate for drawing shapes than writing numbers. “Not bad, but I don’t think that you will ever play professional basketball. It must be a bit frustrating trying to grab food from the top shelf in the grocery shop, yeah?”

“Pardon me, Doctor,” Hugh said, perplexed by Dr. Carni’s remarks, “but how are my chances of playing professional basketball and the height of shelves in shops medically relevant?”

“They are not relevant in the slightest,” the doctor said with an expression showing nothing other than pure professionalism, “I’m just speaking out loud. Please, don’t mind me. Let’s now check your weight.”

The doctor’s hand darted again, but this time to the mechanisms that measure weight. Hugh was surprised by the speed of the doctor’s hands, guessing that he may play some sport that required lightning quick reflexes.

Hugh averted his eyes from the numbers on the scale, having had never been fond of knowing his own weight. Looking up at a calendar that depicted a sunrise shining over a botanical garden, Hugh could hear the clinks, clunks and scrapes of metal on metal as Dr. Carni worked with precision to get the weight down to the exact gram.

The sounds of metallic mechanisms moving against one another brought back emotions from Hugh’s childhood. He had been terrified of doctors reading aloud his weight because Hugh had been a very overweight child. The numbers that the doctors would utter pained him just as much as the children at school teasing him, calling him names, and even throwing batteries at him due to his robust size. As the numbers on the scale grew, Hugh had felt that the probability of abuse from classmates would increase, and as the numbers decreased the likelier it was they would ignore him. Every time he had stepped on the scale was like being at a fortune teller forecasting future events.

Even though Hugh had trimmed down in his adulthood, he still harbored unease towards scales and their numeric representation of his body weight.

The sounds of metal against metal disappeared and was replaced with the sound of pen against paper. Once more Hugh stole a glance at the clipboard and Dr. Carni’s pen strokes looked too long and oblong for writing numbers and letters. Hugh couldn’t help but imagine that the doctor was drawing a doodle of Hugh standing on the scale.

“Well, Mr. Mechta, this is quite disappointing…” Dr. Carni said and made a series clicking sounds with his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I must say that you could stand to lose a bit of weight.”

“Pardon me?” Hugh responded curtly, shocked by Dr. Carni’s words.

“Well, Mr. Mectha, you are in adequate shape, nothing to worry that much about. I’m just saying that you could maybe hit the gym more often. You know, to burn off some of that extra fat.”

Dr. Carni’s usage of 'nothing to worry about,' 'I’m just saying,’ ‘you know,’ and even the adjective ‘adequate’ perturbed Hugh. He felt that the doctor was attacking him with a dagger and using these phrases to cloak his sadistic verbal thrusts.

“I really don’t like your phrasing doctor.” Hugh said and stepped off the scale. “I know that I am not a muscular movie star, but the way you are speaking is quite demeaning.”

“As I said before,” the doctor replied and waved a dismissive hand, “don’t mind me. I’m just speaking out loud.”

“But you are the doctor,” Hugh said as he tried to remain calm and move the conversation in line with logical reasoning, “You should be giving me professional consultation, not speaking your mind as if you were at a social gather —”

“Please don’t be so sensitive.” Dr. Carni said. “Let us take your blood pressure and then we can talk about why you have visited today, does that sound good?”

Hugh took a deep breath and stole a look at his watch. They have been spending too much time on these routine procedures, which Hugh was suspecting weren’t necessary.

“Let’s move on.” Hugh said, giving the doctor the benefit of the doubt that maybe he was being too sensitive to the doctor’s words.

“Wonderful!” The doctor’s intonation hit a crescendo that may not have been intended. “Come over to this chair and I’ll take your blood pressure and then we will be all done with your biometrics.”

Hugh mentally sighed at the fact of having to return to the torture chair, but he did as the doctor ordered.

“Relax and roll up your sleeve.” Dr. Carni said and took the blood pressure measuring device from an adjacent drawer. “I’m going to wrap this sphygmomanometer around your bicep… Do you know what a sphygmomanometer is, Mr. Mechta?” The doctor gave a curt giggle. “Can you even pronounce it?”

“I imagine that it is the instrument that you are holding right now and will be using to measure my blood pressure. As for your second question, no I cannot pronounce it because that word is not in my daily lexicon.”

“That’s a pity, Mr. Mechta.”

The doctor fastened the cuff around Hugh’s arm, jammed the stethoscope in place and started to squeeze the pump. Hugh felt the pressure build around his arm, limiting the circulation of blood to his fingertips.

Hugh noticed that the doctor forgot his clipboard and pen next to the scale, on the other side of the room.

“I see,” the doctor mused, “just like your weight, not that bad. A bit low. I bet you get woozy and almost faint after a hot shower. Perhaps you get lightheaded when you stand up too quickly, holding onto the armrest as the world spins around you.” The doctor laughed out loud and continued. “I admit, I made that joke with full intent. I couldn't help myself! Funny, don't you think?”

Hugh instantly shot up from his chair and ripped off the sphygmomanometer.

“That's enough Mr. Carnie!” Hugh didn't call him ‘doctor’ for he felt that Mr. Carni had stepped over the boundaries that demarked proper professionalism.

“Whatever do you mean? I told you not to mind my words, as I sometimes speak aloud.” The doctor replied, holding his hands up in a defensive position. “I feel that you are overreacting.”

“I didn't come here to be belittled or be subjected to your underhanded jokes.” Hugh shot back with anger visible on his face and disdain in his voice. “Imagine if I had made such remarks towards you! You know what? I think I shall!”

Dr. Carni stood there, arms crossed, and Hugh wasn't even sure that he was listening to him. His face was that of someone lost in a daydream.

Hugh didn't care, he proceeded with his speech.

“I could say to you—look at that big belly of yours! Be careful so as to not knock all those expensive prescription drugs, which I'm sure line your pockets for a fancy holiday, off the table when you turn around to pick up the clipboard you forgot over there! I could also mention that thinning head of hair you have. Look at it! It's so thin that even a family of sparrows desperate for housing in the winter would avoid it!”

Hugh's pulse was racing, and he felt that time had dilated. He had never lashed out at someone like this before. He felt embarrassed of himself, but also proud of himself for standing up to the doctor.

The doctor's arms did not unfold, nor did he move a single muscle in his body, but it was becoming evident to Hugh that the doctor had been listening to every one of his words. Hugh's embarrassment and pride shifted to fear as the doctor's face started to reconfigure itself. Dr. Carni's mouth and eyebrows twisted, bent, and curled to morph his visage into an expression that conveyed something hovering between murderous and ecstatic.

“Mr. Mechta! Your words are slanderous, defamatory, cruel and just plain hurtful!” Dr. Carni roared through warped and undulating lips. “I am offended by your insensitivity and lack of manners! I must ask you to leave at this very instant!”

Hugh didn't require any persuasion. He made straight for the door but stayed his hand on the doorknob, seeing that Dr. Carni's clipboard was within reach. In one bound, Hugh took the clipboard in hand and flipped through his files and notes on his biometrics. Hugh didn't search for long because the files were not files at all, but blank sheets littered with weaving spirals and wavy concentric circles.

Hugh threw the clipboard at Dr. Carni's feet and left the room. He vowed never to go ‘over there' again.

The next morning Hugh called another doctor's office and scheduled an appointment.

To his astonishment he was offered an appointment for not only the same day but in a few hours from his phone call. He accepted the offer without hesitation, glad that he would be able to put his experience with Dr. Carni behind him.

Hugh arrived at the doctor's office, and everything went smoothly. He didn't even have time to inspect the layout of the waiting room, the movie being played on the muted television, or whether the architect of crippling chairs had distributed his wears to this clinic. Upon walking into the office, the receptionist greeted him with a professional smile and beckoned him to her desk.

“Mr. Hugh Mechta, the doctor is waiting for you in room 27.” The receptionist said just as Hugh stopped at her desk. “Please go down this corridor. You will pass a painting of a black Spaniel, and room 27 will be directly on your left.”

Hugh was astonished by how quickly everything was moving, from the same day appointment to being directed to doctor without a second of waiting. He had no desire to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he thanked the receptionist and asked no further questions. He set off down the corridor in search of the painting and his assigned room.

Hugh opened the door, and the doctor was seated, waiting for him. He was a pristine looking older man with everything in white. His coat, pants, shoes and even his facial hair were white. His mustache and goatee were the most surprising, for they were atypical for a doctor. His mustache was big and bushy, but the ends were tied with wax and pointed upwards. His goatee wasn't connected to the mustache at all but sat on his chin like a bright white pointy pillow.

“Hello Mr. Mectha. I'm Dr. Zelv.” The doctor said and gave Hugh a firm handshake. “I'm very glad to see you today.”

“Hello doctor,” Hugh replied, “I'm glad to be here. How are you doing today?”

“I’m doing very well. I plan on taking a vacation next week,” the doctor put on a big smile and his face took on the shape of a schoolboy who had been speaking a new toy or game, “so I’m quite looking forward to that. I’m going to a very interesting place.”

Hugh waited for Dr. Zelv to proceed further and describe his vacation destination, but the doctor just sat there and stroked his beard into a sharper angle. Only after a few seconds of silence was Hugh hit with the notion that the doctor was expecting a follow up question.

“Oh really?” Hugh said after putting on his most interested face. “Where are you planning on going?”

Dr. Zelv’s answer exploded forth with the force of a stallion that had heard a gunshot at the starting line of a race.

“Thank you so much for asking, Mr. Mectha!” Dr. Zelv said and clasped his hands together in what Hugh thought to be feigned gratitude or an attempt to bridle his emotions. “I’ve purchased a premium exclusive luxury all-inclusive beach resort holiday. I know that it was expensive, but I’d decided to treat myself. I plan on surfing, lounging in the sun, and getting complimentary massages that come with the resort package. I haven’t had a massage in quite some time, maybe a month or two, so I’m looking forward to it.”

The doctor was speaking as if he were only permitted one breath of oxygen to provide an answer with. The speed of his speech reminded Hugh of when he himself would give speeches in grade school, full of anxiety and fear of public speaking.

“The hotel also provides an all you can eat buffet.” Dr. Zelva continued, seemingly still on solitary breath. “So, I'll eat a lot, then I'll exercise, then I'll eat some more! There is even the opportunity to go horseback riding on the beach, I'm quite excited about that! I have never ridden a horse before, so I think the experience will be exhilarating!”

Dr. Zelv paused and Hugh could see quick heaves in the doctor's chest as he tried to catch his breath. The color was also returning to his face that had turned almost as white as his facial hair.

It also occurred to Hugh that the doctor was fond of using the pronoun ‘I.’ Hidden within his thoughts, Hugh couldn’t help but dub Dr. Zelv as Dr. I.

“I'm sure it will be a fine vacation doctor,” Hugh said, keeping his previous observation to himself, “but where is this resort?”

“I'm sure you have never heard of the place,” Dr. I replied and resumed running his fingers through his goatee, “it's in a small costal city called Yanamire.”

“Really!” Hugh responded with genuine surprise. “When I was a student I studied there for two semesters. I had such a lovely time there.”

“That's all very interesting Mr. Mechta,” Dr. I said and started to stroke his mustache in tandem with the rest of his facial hair, “maybe we can chat about your internship, or whatever it was, at a later date. Now, it's time for my little chick to start his medical examination.”

Silence returned to inhabit the space between them yet again. This time it hung on the phrase ‘little chick.’ The way the doctor looked at Hugh, and how he continued to fondle his mustache and goatee, told him that the doctor had used this combination of words on purpose.

The doctor continued to stroke and wait and stroke and wait. It was obvious that the next step in this interaction was Hugh asking for clarification on the oddly chosen duo of words.

“I don't think I've ever heard a doctor describe a patient as a ‘little chick’ before. What did you mean by that?” Hugh asked, sensing that Dr. I would have stared and ran his fingers through his beard until Hugh had capitulated.

“Well, Mr. Mectha,” Dr. I let out a deep laugh and tore his hands away from his face, “I have a philosophy, or more like a mental framework, for how I picture my patients. You see, I imagine them as baby chicks riding along on a conveyer belt. I work in the factory in which this conveyer belt functions. My job is to inspect, analyze, and prod each of those baby chicks to see if they are strong, healthy and in good shape. If they are not up to snuff then I pluck them from the conveyer belt and send them somewhere where they can receive better treatment.”

The doctor leaned back on his counter, folded his arms and an air of smugness wafted from him.

“It's a great way to visualize one's patients, don't you agree?” Dr. I added and gave his goatee a few pets over.

Hugh found a chair opposite of the doctor and sat down. He wasn't sure if wanted to scream in horror at the image the doctor presented to him or laugh at the absurdity of the doctor's confidence in such a framework for understanding his patients.

“To be honest, I don't really like it.” Hugh started, wanting to both challenge Dr. I's framework and to cease the doctor’s over compulsion for touching his beard when expecting a response from Hugh. “It brings up a lot of strange questions. These chicks of yours on the conveyor belt, where are they going in the first place? I just have this mental imagery of them being sent off to be pounded into chicken nuggets. On top of that, what happens to the ones you pull from the conveyer belt? Will they be rehabilitated and then chucked right back to their doomed future of becoming chicken nuggets? Seems like it's better to be pulled off the conveyer belt during your inspection, for it gives the baby chick a few more moments of non-nugget existence.” Hugh leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his thighs and continued his train of thought. “Furthermore, I really don't like to think of myself as this baby chick, which you describe. It sounds as if I am caught up in a giant machine within an even larger factory that cares not for me as an individual but only insofar as I pass a test and become something that can be useful, sold, and bought. It makes me think that your metaphor for your patients is more so a metaphor for life, that we are all destined to die within a larger system and become metaphorical chicken nuggets. I don't think that I'm this metaphorical baby chick or future metaphorical nugget. Neither do I think that people are like this. Frankly speaking Doctor, this framework of yours is a bit jarring.”

Dr. I pushed himself away from the counter, collected his clipboard with notes and approached Hugh. No signs of offense or anger were present on his face, unlike Hugh's previous interaction with Dr. Carni. Dr. I's eyebrows and mouth seemed to obey the commands of the brain.

“Well, Mr. Mechta, I like my metaphor. It's simple, elegant, and concise. I find it to be akin to Newton's laws of gravity or Heidegger's writings on existentialism.”

“I think we should move onto why I came here today.” Hugh said, not wanting to debate the topics of physics, philosophy, and baby chicks. “Before we start, do you need to take my biometrics, like my height?”

“Your height?” The doctor laughed. “Are you expecting a growth spurt sometime soon, Mr. Mechta?”

“Nope, I have fortunately passed that stage of my life.” Hugh gave the doctor a smile, restraining himself from taking a detour in their conversation and detailing his experience with Dr. I.

“Then I believe we can just skip right to the reason you are visiting today.” Dr. I said.

Hugh took a deep breath and got right to the point.

“I have hallucinations. Believe it or not, they are triggered only when I come in contact with the news. When people are speaking about the news they turn into fantastical creatures and beasts. When I hold a newspaper the ink drips with poison, seeps onto my hands and sears my skin. Dogs start to talk, the sun becomes sentient, and the world around blends into an unreality.”

Hugh sat back in his chair and was surprised at how easy it was to speak about his hallucinations.

Hugh decided to continue with his monologue.

“Even though my hallucinations and reality overlap with one another, I'm able to distinguish what is and what is not fiction. If a cat stands up on his two legs, pulls out a soap box, leaps onto it, waves around a crusty old walking stick and starts to criticize the news on how they are fear mongers, I have no doubt that this cat is a projection of my mind.”

“Mr. Mechta, if I'm correct, you haven't spoken to anyone about this before.” Dr. I said after half a minute of silence and contemplative mustache rubbing. “Why have you decided now, of all times, to seek professional assessment?”

Hugh wrinkled up his nose and traced his finger across the bridge. His nose was a tad crooked, but he had never seen that as a flaw. It was a part of him and made him who he was. The hallucinations, on the other hand, Hugh found harder to not view as flaws because everyone had a nose, but not everyone had hallucinations.

With that thought in mind, Hugh proceeded to answer the doctor's question.

“I've chosen to speak to someone about this because I have a burning desire to know why this is happening. Is there something fundamentally wrong with me? I don't mean neurologically, but as a person, as a member of society. Am I a broken baby chick or does my curious condition reveal something special about me?”

Hugh was confused about his emotions. He wasn't sure if he felt proud and strong for speaking about his inner self. He felt that he had spoken about it confidently. On the other hand, he also felt vulnerable for exposing himself. So, should he feel confident, vulnerable, a concoction of both? Or something else altogether?

Hugh brought his hands to his face and rubbed where a mustache and goatee would have been if he had ever decided to grow one. He knew that he'd have to wait for the doctor's response to get a better sense of how he should feel about what he had just said.

And wait Hugh did, because the doctor spent about five minutes rubbing, massaging, caressing, and twirling his facial hair in silence. Every time Hugh opened his mouth to speak the doctor held up his hand, signaling Hugh to remain silent and not to break his train of thought. It seemed like the doctor was processing all the information that Hugh provided him with and was waiting to download a response from some external server that would tell him how to respond.

The doctor's answer was not one that Hugh expected, and evoked disappointment more than anything else.

“Mr. Mechta,” Dr. I said with a deep exhale, “I find you to remarkable baby chick. With that said, I cannot help you personally, but I can pluck you off the conveyer belt and ship you off to someone who can. I'll jot down some contacts, who specialize in neurology, and you can schedule an appointment with them.”

The doctor wrote down his mentioned contacts and tore out the sheet of paper from his clipboard.

“Doctor, I know that there are different medical specializations, and you may not specialize in people who have hallucinations, but can you give me some feedback based on your own medical training?” Hugh asked, glad that Dr. I could refer him to some other specialists, but still wanting the doctor’s take because he was the first-person Hugh had opened up to about his hallucinations. “Other than me being a ‘remarkable baby chick.’”

“No. I cannot.” Dr. I said curtly as he folded up the paper and passed it to Hugh.

Hugh tucked the paper away into his breast pocket and gave it a reassuring tap even though he knew there was no way it could fall out.

“That seems to conclude our appointment Mr. Mechta.” Dr. I said. Hugh half expected him to starting playing with facial hair again, but he didn't. All he did was give a shrug. “My next patient won't be here for a while, maybe you would like to stay a little longer? We can chat more about my vacation if you'd like.”

Hugh stood straight up from his chair, eager not to fall into the trap of a one-sided conversation, and fumbled out a fib that needed to care for his niece and tend to his garden.

Dr. I brushed his goatee and gave Hugh a dubious look that said that he hadn't believed one word about the niece nor the garden. Not wanting to test to what extent the doctor had believed him, Hugh expressed his thanks for the list of references and hurried out of the room before Dr. I's hand could transition back to mustache twirling.

Hugh cut through the empty lobby and out into the street, wondering when the next patient would arrive.

Hugh got in and off the metro. During the entire journey home, his thoughts were focused on the imagery of himself as a chirping little bird riding the convey belt of destiny to a grim nugget ending.

Although the doctor had used this framework as a medical tool for understanding patients, Hugh couldn't help but extrapolate it and see it as a metaphor for contemporary society. Was everyone just coasting on the conveyer belt of life to a meaningless doom? Were they all just hapless riders, oblivious to the void at the end of the tunnel, whose only reprieve on the track towards death depended on the whim of an omnipotent hand that would scoop them away, only to return them to a fate which everyone must face?

Dr. I's framework left Hugh with a sense of dark unease, that in the very end, there is only death.

Scenes of chicken nuggets fled Hugh's mind once he exited the metro. The bright rays of the sun shined down on him and the warmth coming from overhead tickled his skin with tiny reminders that he had yet to inspect the list of contacts in his pocket.

Hugh slid the folded piece of paper out of his pocket and had a sense of joy at who he would call and who he would continue his voyage with next. He felt himself on a sort of hero's journey, one in which the ending would see him having a better understanding of himself and why he had hallucinations.

The warmth from the sun intensified and Hugh could feel the heat spreading from his wrists to his fingertips. His fingers started to grow hot from the sun’s rays. It was as if the sun was simultaneously urging Hugh on and trying to catch a glance of the names etched on the paper.

Hugh unfolded the paper and disappointment unfolded from within his heart…

Hugh had heard the idiom ‘chicken scratch' used to describe someone's handwriting. The notes by Dr. I exemplified that idiom and then some, for the notes were unreadable. It looked as if a three-year-old child had taken a pen and tried to practice writing cursive after he or she had watched a cartoon character do it on TV.

Hugh tried to decode the phone numbers in the mess of Dr. I's handwriting but only the numbers 2 and 7 were printed clearly. Deep in the chaos of curved lines that made up the letters in the names, he was only able to make out a handful of them. He wasn't sure if his mind were playing tricks on him or if he were straining his eyes too much in the vain attempt to read the words, but the only legible letters spelled out ‘chicken nugget.’

If anyone were watching him in the beginning of this affair and wondering why someone would stop outside the metro to open up a piece of paper, instead of just heading home, then they would be struck with even more wonder as they saw him toss the paper into the air and let it float down onto the sidewalk.

If anyone were to pick up the paper and read it, Hugh was sure they would do the same as he had – they would throw those incomprehensible notes to the wind.

Hugh let the paper sail to the pavement, crossed the busy road, and headed off home.

The sight of his building relaxed him and cleansed the disappointment that had accompanied reading Dr. I's note.

He loved the apartment complex in which he lived. It reminded him of an old fortress that one could read about in a military fantasy novel. Of course, the building lacked the wear and tear of battle, but it still gave Hugh the impression he was living in a fortress. The sides of the building were eight stories tall and stood in the formation of a long rectangle cut in half horizontally. In place of the severed rectangular was a lengthy and high red brick wall that spanned from one wing of the rectangle to the other. Inside this truncated rectangle brick wall combination sat a courtyard that housed a playground for children and circular sitting area decorated with flowers and benches.

One could not enter their apartment outside of this fortress because there were no doors or entrances on the outer walls. To enter the stairway to your apartment required going through the courtyard. This is what Hugh liked the most, for the way you would enter the fortress walls, to gain access to your apartment, was through a series of archways that peppered the walls. Hugh always enjoyed walking through the archways because it made him feel like he was returning to a secure and protected castle. Since the courtyard was directly in the center he was always able to see the people who lived alongside him in the complex, either sitting on the benches chatting, tidying up the flowers in the garden, or playing with their children on the playground.

The building looked like a fortress, but it lacked the militancy and aggression that always comes with these institutions in stories, novels, and history. There were no generals screaming orders, but rather children shouting with glee. There were no weapons being fired, just bottles being dropped into bins. Soldiers didn't stand at attention, just flowers stretching up towards the sun.

Perhaps it was this juxtaposition of the fortress-like style of the building and the gentler tone of life held within that impressed upon Hugh the most. He felt like the building was hugging and protecting the courtyard while providing a secure space for people to live their lives.

Hugh felt secure crossing through one of the arches and moving into the courtyard, but he also felt the distinct grumbles, rumbles, and pangs in his stomach that told that he hadn't eaten for quite some time. He decided to put off going back home just yet and crossed to the northeastern edge of the courtyard. He existed the fortress through another one of its various arches and headed for a nearby café.

The walk to the café was quick and brisk, for it wasn't too far away. That was another benefit of living in the fortress, it was close to many different shops and cafés.

Hugh came into the café, eager to scrutinize the day's selection of food hiding behind protective glass. The hot food on offer for the day was quite banal—mashed potatoes, fried steaks, green beans, soups, some malformed looking chicken, and other assortments of dishes. None of these pricked nor tickled Hugh's interest too much and some choices even gave Hugh premonitions of future indigestion. In the end, he chose a prepacked sandwich to go along with a coffee.

Hugh made his way to the window and even before he had a chance to sip his coffee and unpack his sandwich two women occupied the seats at the table right next to his own. Hugh peered around the café and could see open tables and chairs from corner to corner. The table which these women had chosen was so close to Hugh's own that if anyone walked into the café and observed them, they would have thought that Hugh and the two women were dinning together.

Hugh let out a few coughs without covering his mouth with the hope that his lack of social etiquette would cause them to change tables. The women didn't even pass Hugh a glimpse. He blew his nose into a napkin, but even this they didn't notice at all.

Hugh was of the mind to scoop up his coffee and sandwich and relocate to the other side of the café but he found himself not the master of his own body and was unable to will himself to stand up. The women's conversation had a hold on him and was pulling on his attention like gravity to a rock tumbling down hill.

They were discussing the news and Hugh knew what was sure to come. He inhaled, took a sip of his coffee, and waited for it all to unravel.

The first woman, with curly blonde hair that bounced around her smooth and doll-like face, was stating her position that some young man who had been arrested shouldn't be held accountable for his actions.

“The police are obviously vile and hideous creatures! They simply want to exert their power over everyone!” She tossed her hair back away from her eyes, as if this added weight to her statement. “I've watched the news and seen the clips, the man was doing nothing. The police just grabbed him and threw him to the floor. They branded him a criminal on sight!”

The second woman was a polar opposite to the first. Her face was neither round nor smooth. Her nose, chin, cheeks, forehead and even her lips were all made up of sharp lines and angles. It was like looking at a representation of a fractal in human form. While the first woman had curly blonde hair that bobbed around as she talked, the second had close cropped hair that would only see movement after a few months of growth.

The second woman moved to retort.

“You watch all these clips on TV, but they never show you the full story! This man, who you are making out to be an innocent baby sheep, robbed someone at gunpoint beforehand. People who were there took videos and posted them online. It clearly shows he was being a hooligan beforehand. The police were acting correctly in light of the man's criminal actions.”

“You know what,” the doll faced woman leaned forward with her elbows on the table and raised an eyebrow to her interlocutor and said, “I think you are teensy-weensy bit of a police state loving fascist.”

The second woman sat up straighter, pricked by her counterpart's comment.

“What does that have to do with anything?” The second woman questioned. “I'm talking about how you can't just believe what the TV shows you and that you have to dig deeper —"

Without any warning the doll faced woman's head exploded with the force of a hand grenade detonation.

Her torso smacked against the table and the stump that was her neck oozed and seeped not blood and gore, but a green liquid and scaly skin. The trickling of reptilian flesh and green fluid across the table didn't last for more than a few heartbeats, for reality rewound itself. The explosion played itself in reverse and all the fleshy matter and boney bits flowing across the table and dripping onto the floor returned to their point of origin – to the doll woman's face. Upon returning to the past, the doll face woman was alive and well, but her head had been replaced with that of a dragon.

Hugh turned his attention to the fractal faced woman only to see that she had undergone a change of her own. She had transformed in prickly porcupine with hundreds upon hundreds of needles dangling from forehead to shoulders.

Hugh was used to these sorts of situations because he had been having hallucinations since his late childhood. In his adulthood he would sit back and observe his hallucinations like an anthropologist who had been stationed on an alien planet to do research on indigenous customs. Other times the hallucinations wouldn't involve being a mere spectator. Quite often the constructs of his mind would engage him in conversations and partake in activities with him. One time Hugh had hallucinated an elephant that fancied playing badminton and demanded a peanut for every point it had scored.

Luckily, the dragon and porcupine had no interest in playing games with Hugh.

The dragon raked her talons across the table and left wide fissures in the tabletop. She bellowed gray puffy plumes through her nose that filled the air above their heads with curls of dirty smoke. She brandished hungry carnivorous teeth and roared at the porcupine who had been sitting there and watching her interlocutor with a concentrated and pinpoint stare.

The dragon spat out a final column of smoke, tapped her talons on the table, and waited for the porcupine's reply.

The porcupine responded with neither shrieks nor squeaks but with a silent dance of hip swaying, head bobbing, torso gyrating, and shoulder shuffling. Each movement was precisely performed to send just the right amount of vibration through her needles. Hugh could see that the dragon's pupils were oscillating at high speeds back and forth to follow the messages sent not from the dance moves themselves, but from the vibrations of the needles.

The porcupine gave a final shake of her spines and turned her dark bulging and beady eyes towards Hugh.

“What in the world are you staring at?” The porcupine asked and sent her needles into a gesticulating frenzy.

Hugh felt himself a timed mouse because in the blink of an eye the dragon and porcupine were no more. In their place, staring back at him with bewildered looks, were the doll faced and fractal faced women.

“I apologize,” Hugh muttered and threw his sight on his coffee and sandwich, “I was just lost in thought.”

After a few raised eyebrows and a huff from the doll faced woman, the women shrugged and dug back into their food.

Hugh kept his gaze on his food, wanting to avoid any curious glances from the former dragon and porcupine, and realized that he had yet to touch his sandwich. He gripped the edges of the plastic wrapper, readying to tear it open, but put the sandwich down instantly after reading the label. It was a chicken sandwich.

He recalled Dr. I's baby chick framework and was overcome with pity for the chicken in the sandwich, a chicken who probably had been riding along a conveyer belt at one time. Hugh imagined the chicken chirping and flapping its wings alongside avian acquaintances, not knowing that it was on a ride that would transport it in slices to Hugh's hands.

Hugh put the sandwich down, feeling incredibly sad for chicken that had been born, raised, and fed just to end up between bread for a few minutes of consumption. Hugh was neither a vegetarian nor a vegan, but he saw a microcosm of himself in the wrapped sandwich before him. Hugh closed his eyes and told himself that he wasn't a baby chick on the conveyer belt of life, and that he wouldn't one day become a chicken nugget nor a piece of meat in a sandwich.

Hugh scooped up his sandwich and coffee, politely asked the former porcupine and dragon for space to scoot past their table, and went back to the cashier.

He exchanged his sandwich for a simple vegetable salad.

Hugh entered the fortress and passed the playground on his way to home.

Hugh watched as the children zipped down slides, built sandcastles, kicked the sky on swings, and called out to their parents to witness it all. This scene of children at play reminded Hugh of his childhood and sent a shiver down his spine. He wanted to recollect his childhood with nostalgia and yearning but all he could conjure were sensations bitter and sour.

Father dead and mother absent. Always alone and heart in solitude.

Hugh inhaled a few deep breaths to cleanse his emotions and tried to focus on the supersonic screams of children stampeding behind the playground's fence. The past was the past and he wanted to get home and try to find another doctor to call.

Hugh shook off the negative feelings, rounded the playground and stepped onto the path that led past the flowerbed and to his entranceway.

Walking down the path, Hugh noticed a young girl, about eleven or twelve, sitting alone in the flowerbed. He found it strange that she was here in the flowerbed while all the other children were dashing around the playground. Hugh had also never seen this girl before in the neighborhood. If he had then he would have remembered her because her hair was so black that it devoured the light from the sun.

Hugh considered that she may be a new neighbor in the fortress.

Hugh had found it curious that she was sitting alone in the flowerbed, but as he walked by the flowerbed he could see that she was digging holes in the most unusual manner. Not with a spade, but with her bare hands.

He stopped and watched the girl for a minute and was puzzled by why she hadn't been using a spade, or at least some instrument, to expedite her digging endeavors. He was even more perplexed by the fact that would pause and clean dirt from her nails after every single scoop of soil. Even if she lacked the proper tools at home and were forced to dig by hand, Hugh thought, wouldn't it be more efficient if she cleaned her nails upon finishing – or at least after a dozen or more scoops?

Hugh tore himself from this strange sight, figuring that the little girl had her own logic and reasoning for what she was doing, and headed off towards his entranceway.

He pressed his electronic key to the entrance door and stepped through. He had forgotten about the black-haired girl even before the entrance door closed.

Hugh returned to his apartment and flung himself down on his sofa.

The last two days had not gotten him any closer to understanding his hallucinations, but he was determined to find another doctor. Dr. I's notes had been a spark of hope but were now either flopping through the breeze or being munched on by a sewer rat.

Hugh prayed for the latter.

Laying back on the sofa, Hugh swiped his phone on and tapped straight to his browser. He hovered his forefinger above the keyboard at a loss as to what to search for. His last two encounters with doctors had left him demoralized and with little desire for a repeat performance with another Dr. Carni or Dr. I.

Hugh mulled over alternatives.

He considered searching for a neurologist, but he was set against a return venture to a general practitioner in order to retrieve a reference. He also weighed up searching for a psychologist but the notion of paying outrageous sums of money to lie on a sofa, and talk at the ceiling, didn't sit well with him. In the end, he chose to think outside the box. He decided to plug into the search engine the most ludicrous phrasing that he could conjure. After a quick think, Hugh set himself to typing in the search engine: convalescence for those plagued by media related hallucinations in the modern era.

Hugh wholeheartedly expected the browser to admonish him with an error stating that he shouldn't search with such stupid statements. Instead, the search engine pulled up hundreds of links. Hugh tapped on the first one on the list and up popped a new window.

The banner of the website read the organization's name in big bold letters ‘Office M’ and displayed a tagline that they offered one-to-one consultation in the “mystical, magical, metaphysical and mysterious.”

Impressed by Office M's use of alliteration, Hugh continued to read through the website and came to a list of questions that would determine whether Office M's services were a right fit for him.

Do you have otherworldly experiences? The first question posed to Hugh.

“No, I don't. All my experiences are innerworldly.” Hugh said to himself and scrolled onto the next question.

Do you seek answers to what resides beyond the veil of life? The second question read.

“Also no. I'm too busy and stressed out by what resides on my side of the veil.” Hugh replied.

Do you fear that voodoo, witchcraft, or sorcery is inhibiting your life? The third question read.

Hugh rolled his eyes and didn't answer.

Each question was more ridiculous than the last. They mentioned ghouls, ghosts, vampires, trolls and even elves. Even though High was starting to think that these questions must be a joke, he couldn't bring himself to close out the site. There appeared to be a teether anchoring him to the site and hauling him down the page through the sea of questions all the way to the final one – the one which seemed tailored just for Hugh.

Does the media, news, or television push you towards hallucinations of the peculiar, fantastical, and strange? The final question asked.

Hugh didn't even bother to answer. He swiped down to the bottom of the page, tapped the phone number, and pressed the phone to his ear.

Someone picked up after the first ring. A burly voice, which Hugh thought more fitting for a lumberjack than an office worker, answered the phone.

“What do you want?” The gruff voice demanded.

“Hello. I've visited your website and I would like to make an appointment.” Hugh said.

“Look fella, no need to play games.” The lumberjack said. “We don't have time for that. I don't, Office M doesn't, and neither do you. So, let me ask you once more, what do you want?”

“Maybe you didn't hear me,” Hugh replied, quite sure that he had just answered that very question, “I said that I would like to make app –”

“Or maybe you didn't hear me?” The lumberjack interjected with a quick cut, making Hugh feel like a branch chopped in two. “I'm in no mood to waste time. Tell me plain and simple – what do you want?”

“What I really want is to talk to someone about my hallucinations related to the news.” Hugh said, not believing that the second person to know about his hallucinations was to be a lumberjack over the phone. “Your website said—”

The lumberjack sliced right through Hugh's words once again.

“Say no more Sir. I understand completely and I'm here to help. Let us schedule an appointment with Masha.”

“Pardon me, but who is Masha? Won't I be coming in to speak with you?” Hugh asked.

“Buddy, you're not the brightest, are you?” The lumberjack asked and emitted a laugh that was a combination of growl, grunt, and giggle. “I'm the receptionist.”

“How was I supposed to know that you are…” Hugh trailed off, not wanting to argue the question of how he could have possibly known the lumberjack's position at Office M. “Who is Masha then?”

“Masha is the mystic, the guru, the magi, or whatever other word that may like to use.”

“I see…Magis. Gurus. Mystics. Interesting.”

“No, no, no! That's all wrong!” The lumberjack screeched like a cat whose tail had been pulled. “You are using the plural! There is only one mystic here, and that is Masha!”

“Alright. I'm sorry. There is only one magi, and that is Masha.” Hugh tried to sound apologetic. “When can I come in for an appointment with her?”

“Hold on for a minute and I'll check her schedule, she's very busy.” The receptionist let out a few more grunts and growls and then put Hugh on hold.

Hugh expected to hear some fanciful annoying music that those on hold are typically treated to. Instead, he heard the receptionist clunk the phone down on the table and pound away on the cardboard with what sounded like mallet sized fingers.

“So, I checked the schedule,” the lumberjack said after a minute more of pulverizing the keyboard, “tell me which time is good for you.”

“Well, you've just checked Masha's schedule.” Hugh said. “Maybe you can tell me which times she has free?”

“Did you not hear what I have just said?” The lumberjack asked. “Tell me when you are free.”

Hugh was becoming flustered. The lumberjack had made it clear that he was busy, but he seemed quite proficient at wasting time. Hugh took a deep breath and bottled up his brewing irritation.

“I can do tomorrow at two in the afternoon.” Hugh said.

“No. She's not available then.” The lumberjack responded curtly.

“I see… How about at a quarter past twelve?” Hugh asked.

“No. Also not free.” The lumberjack's response curter than his last.

“Look, you asked me when I am free.” Hugh said, no longer restraining his ire with a growl that rivaled the lumberjack's own. “If your Masha is so busy, and doesn't have a free appointment, why did you ask me about my preference? I feel like you asked me about my preference just so you could reject it. Please tell me when she is free, that will make everyone's life easier.”

“No need to be aggressive. Let me see…” The lumberjack said in a relaxed tone and smacked his lips together in thought. “Masha is free tomorrow at… twelve thirty and two thirty. Do either of these times work for you?”

Hugh was dumbstruck at the receptionist's response.

“Are you serious?” Hugh asked. “You could have just told me that before, when I told you that I'm free at around twelve and —"

“Sir, please calm down.” The receptionist said, proving to be not only a master of wasting time but also a master of cutting people off. “Just answer the question. Do either of these times work for you?”

“Let's make this easy.” Hugh said and let out a sigh of relief that he was inching closer to making an appointment. “I can come in at twelve thirty tomorrow. Is that good?” Hugh was expecting the receptionist to tell him that this time had already been booked within the last fifteen seconds.

“Excellent. I'll let Masha know that you are coming. Please find our address on the website. Can you also provide me with your name and phone number, just in case any changes happen between now and tomorrow?”

Hugh gave his full name and number.

“Thank you Hugh.” The lumberjack said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hold on one second,” It had occurred that Hugh that he hadn't gotten the receptionist's name. “I'm sorry, but what's your name?”

The grunts and growls reverberated through the phone. “The name's Timmy.”

“Well, nice to meet you Timmy.” Hugh tried to sound cordial to make up for his earlier testiness. “I look forward to meeting—”

“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.”

That was it. Timmy hung up the phone and left Hugh alone on the other end of the line.

Hugh tossed his phone to the side and rubbed his hands over his temples and eyes. He pulled himself from the sofa and moved to the balcony, the fresh air would help clear the tension behind his eyes that had built during the conversation with Timmy. Hugh hoped that the lumberjack was a bit more straightforward in person, if not, then Hugh wasn't sure he would have the tolerance to make it past Office M’s reception desk.

Hugh rested his elbows on the balcony's railing and inspected the courtyard below. People were hurrying back from work with shopping bags of food, couples were rushing out for an evening meal, pet owners walked their dogs, and other were just out for a stroll. The playground had been vacated, and its surrounding fence had been locked.

All of this was normal for life within the fortress, but Hugh saw an odd sight that caused him to pause and ponder.

The black-haired girl was still at work in the flowerbed.

She was still digging and cleaning, digging and cleaning, digging and cleaning.