Archetype (2 page)

I
wake up panting and clawing at my sweat-soaked tank top. For a long moment, I believe I cannot breathe, that I float in water. But as my ragged breaths grow harsh against my raw throat, I remember where I am and tell myself for the millionth time that the nightmare was not real.

“Lights,” I say, and the word is a croak.

Square panels on the lower halves of the walls flicker on with a soft hum and glow, illuminating my small room. Even the low setting makes my eyes water. I squint until they adjust.

I stand on shaky legs and clumsily run into the table with my pitcher of water and empty glass. The room-temperature water soothes my dry throat.

“Everything okay?” a male voice asks.

The abrupt sound startles me and I turn narrowed eyes up to the speaker protruding at an angle from the tan wall. The speaker is the only thing in my room that stands out and forces me to remember how I am never truly alone. The camera from which they watch me, I cannot find.

“Fine,” I say.

Perched on the edge of my bed, I lean into the bouquet of indigo flowers delivered earlier in the evening. I had admitted my love for them to Declan on our walk and he had them arranged. The petals add color to my otherwise lifeless room, where even the green leafy plant in the corner is fake.

I spend the next few minutes searching the one large photograph in my room for something new. A dip in the sand I may have never noticed before or a new color in the sunset I may have just learned about. Are there more seagulls today? There never are, of course, but I still look. It calms me to look.

“Will you need a sedative?” the voice asks.

The time I take to consider this offer is short. I am too frightened to sleep on my own and need to sleep so I can be rested for Declan’s visit tomorrow.

“Yes, please,” I tell the speaker.

A
whoosh
of air precedes the arrival of a tube in the narrow air lock by the door. A tiny door opens and I reach inside for the slim aluminum cylinder. The top rolls aside and I tilt the end over my palm. One tiny, round white pill falls into it, wrapped in a clear plastic square.

A knock on the door startles me, a sign my nerves are still raw. I press a button by the door and Dr. Travista’s face appears on the screen: spectacled gray eyes and pale skin scarred from some pocked ailment in his youth. He is much older than Declan, though Declan acts as if they were childhood friends.

“Yes?” I say into the tiny microphone under the screen.

“May I come in?”

His voice grates and I am too unnerved to listen to him and answer his many questions, but I cannot tell him no. I press another button and the door slides open with a barely audible
shiff.

“Are you working late?” I ask amiably.

He nods, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, and tucks his hands into the white lab coat he wears over a teal button-down shirt. I do not like this color teal. “You had another nightmare.”

This is not a question, so I do not respond.

He motions for me to sit in a nearby chair. He kneels before me and begins taking my pulse with cool fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”

No!
a voice yells inside my head.
Don’t you dare!

I listen to the voice because the voice belongs to me and why would I not listen to myself? I must have a reason to hide the truth, but I cannot think it is anything more than my uneasiness with this doctor, who is my husband’s closest friend.

“I cannot recall,” I say, if for no other reason than to calm the voice. She is always nervous I will tell Dr. Travista too much.

Gray eyes glance up at me over the rim of wire-framed glasses. “Hm.” This is always his response. I dislike this, too. “Odd.”

I tilt my head. “What is odd?”

“After all these months, you never recall the details of this nightmare you experience nearly every night. It’s odd.”

I shrug a single shoulder. “I suppose it is.”

Dr. Travista continues checking my vitals without another word but watches me carefully. I cannot begin to guess what he looks for in my expression, which I keep carefully neutral. Experience has taught me that the calmer I act, the quicker he leaves.

Finally, he slaps his knees and stands. “You have your sedative and water. Is there anything else you need?”

I affect a pleasant expression. “No. I do not believe so. I will take it right now and go back to sleep.”

“Good. Call if you need anything more.”

I walk him to the door I am not allowed to pass through and lean into it when it slides closed behind him. The metal is cool against my warm skin and I roll my forehead over the flat surface.

“Stars,” I whisper a moment later. “I should have asked to see the stars.”

 • • • 

The stars shone bright tonight, but they always did this far from the city. These trips were always about taking the good with the bad. I hated them, but they were necessary.

“Time?” I asked.

“One hour.”

“Good.”

I lay down on the grassy knoll, ignoring the uncomfortable attachments to my black uniform. Or I tried to. I didn’t dare remove anything.

Foster laughed. “What are you doing, Wade?”

Tucking my hands under my head, I settled in with a sigh. “I’m looking at the stars. Don’t you miss the stars? They tell stories, you know.”

He dropped to a knee beside me, a grin spreading over his face. His black curls peeked out from under a black cap and night-vision goggles, and his warm chocolate complexion looked darker under the night sky. Only the pale gray-blue hue of his eyes remained true in the dark of night, reflecting the moonlight.

“You can be such a girl sometimes,” he said.

I reached up and smacked his uniformed shoulder. “I am a girl.”

“No, you aren’t,” he said and shrugged. “Well, not always.”

“My husband would tell you I am all the time.”

“Your husband gets to go places no man has gone before.” With a grunt, he dropped to his butt next to me. His heavy gear rustled and shifted while he settled.

I rolled my eyes. “Jealous?”

“Absolutely.” Foster leaned back on his elbows and dropped his head back to look up at the sky. He released a deep sigh. “Wow. That is nice.”

The tiny pinpricks of clustered light must have reached past a billion, more than I would ever count. In the city, I never saw this many.

“It’s hard to believe men used to guide themselves using them,” I said. “I would get lost.”

Foster swiveled his head toward me and shot me a lopsided grin. “Not you. You’ll always know your true north.”

 • • • 

I wake with a start but remain perfectly calm. This was no nightmare. I liked this dream. It had been so real I could almost feel the items on my belt pressing into my hip and back. But it is the stars I want to remember, so I close my eyes and attempt to bring the image back. It is not the same but is good enough for now. It is more than I could have asked for.

A knock on the door brings me out of my dreamy half sleep. “Yes?”

“Breakfast.”

I slide out of bed and am surprised to find the floor cooler than normal. I hiss and pick up the pace on tiptoes to press the
UNLOCK
and
OPEN
buttons. Randall, expression as impassive as ever, strolls right past me and sets my tray down. Like all of Dr. Travista’s nurses, he wears gray scrubs over his skeletal frame. Thankfully, the orderlies wear yellow scrubs, or I would never know the difference between the two groups of his all-male staff.

I eye the plate of fruit and whole wheat toast and stifle a groan. Randall hates when I complain, and it does me no good anyway. He is simply doing what he is told despite the fact that he considers it below his job description to serve me breakfast in bed, as he so curtly muttered under his breath a time or two.

Randall lifts the tiny cup of pills and holds them out with a glass of water. The routine never changes. Swallow the pills in silence, open mouth and lift tongue to prove they are really washed down. Then he takes my blood pressure and shines a light in my eyes. He asks me questions about my hearing: better or worse? Does my sense of touch feel any different? More sensitive? Less? Any aches or pains? He checks my reflexes.

I do not understand the expectations. Nothing ever changes and I say so every morning.

I follow through these steps without question, ignoring his bored expression, trying not to take it personally. He simply hates his job and it has nothing to do with me.

Randall leaves me within heartbeats of finishing his notations on a computer tablet, and I cross the hall to the mirrorless bathroom. The space has many stalls and a shower area around a corner. It is meant to be shared, but I am the only patient on this floor.

I wash up and return to my cold, bland breakfast. The fruit is tasteless, probably not in season, and I long for something sweet.

I remind myself that it will not always be like this. My life is in a house in the mountains away from all this. I am much better now and they will let me go home soon.

Until then, things will continue as they always have. One new day at a time.

N
oah sits and stares at me in my tube, his face a mask of impassivity. My arms float lazily around me, my legs weightless. Like always, my eyes are unblinking. I cannot stand it.

He stands abruptly and spins around the room, his hands pushing the waves of hair back so tight, the force pulls his skin taut. A flush rises into his face and veins erupt on his forehead and around his eyes. He does not speak or yell but instead sweeps his arms over the tabletops. He knocks over boxes, scattering their contents, which I believe are medical supplies.

Computers and monitors clatter to the tiled floor. Sparks fly and disappear with a sizzle of electricity. The steady beeps of what I have come to believe are heartbeats go eerily silent. There are only the sounds of crashing.

Lastly, Noah turns to a large panel on the wall and throws open the door. The metal clangs against the wall and bounces. It hits his arm and he forces the door away with a touch more control. He then begins flipping switches.

I do not know what they are for until my air is gone. The icy sensation flowing into my veins ceases, though I had not realized this chill until it disappears. A pump hisses and slows to a standstill. A dark haze clouds my mind and fills my vision. My lungs burn. My heart drums like timpani in my ears.

The door swings open and Sonya runs into the room, glancing around in surprise. She finally sets her sights on Noah and gasps.

“What are you doing?” she yells.

“What does it look like?” His tone is harsh and dangerous.

She grips his broad shoulders and forces him aside. He stumbles away and something flashes in his eyes. His lips purse.

“You’re killing her,” she says through gritted teeth.

Sonya studies the switches, flipping them with quick snaps as she undoes his work. Nothing about his heaving stance frightens her. She moves as if he does not exceed her in height and weight. As if those clenched fists consist of stuffing rather than bone.

Noah glances around and his focus lands on the folding chair. In two large strides, he takes it into his hands and swings at my tube. The metal bounces off the surface, sloshing the water around me.

Sonya darts forward with outstretched arms, showing no concern for his weapon of choice. “Noah! Stop!”

He lifts the chair over his shoulder, preparing for another strike. “Why? She’s already dead. This charade ends now.”

 • • • 

“The nightmares are getting worse?” Declan asks.

I avoid his eyes and focus on the skeleton of a leafless tree through the lounge window. Bright yellow lights illuminate the otherwise dark parking lot and hide the night sky. My breath fogs the glass in circles, each of which race to disappear before the next one swallows it whole.

I wrap my indigo sweater tight around me for warmth. Declan’s visit is later than usual—past my curfew time—and the room is cooler than I am accustomed to. He has explained that his late visit is authorized because he owns the hospital, and all the employees I believed were Dr. Travista’s are in fact his. My husband is more powerful than I believed.

“Emma?”

He is getting braver because he touches me with ease now. His hands rest on my shoulders, then slide down my arms to fold me into his embrace. I sink into him. Cocooned the way I am, I allow myself to relax and attempt to forget.

“They are not that bad,” I say, but I can still see Noah’s enraged eyes in the last moments of my most recent nightmare. I do not know how it ended, whether he succeeded. It feels so real, which is the worst part. The not knowing is agony.

Am I dead?

I shiver. Of course not. I am here, am I not?

Declan’s arms tighten. “You’re cold.”

“Yes. I miss the fall already.” I hate the winter. With winter comes snow. I hate the snow even more. One day I will remember why.

“I don’t understand your dislike for cold weather.”

“I can think of no reason to love it the way you do,” I say with a smile tugging the corners of my lips.

“Oh no? Lying by the fire, wrapped in nothing but each other?”

This statement is bold for him. He usually speaks of skiing and the love of extra blanket layers in bed. He does not venture to images of us making love. Now I can only imagine how wonderful it must be after he speaks of holding each other with such reverence.

“Something to look forward to, then,” I say and twist around.

Long fingers gently trail over my cheek and along my jaw. His sea-colored gaze follows the languid movement, then rests on my lips. We have not kissed since my accident, and I have dreamed of this closeness. The way he looks at me tells me he wishes for nothing more.

“Will you ever kiss me?” I ask.

A light pink tongue darts out to wet full lips that quirk into a wavering smile. “Would you like me to?”

A nervous flutter warms in my belly and I bite down on my lip. We are married, but it is almost as if we are about to kiss for the first time. I do not know why I am nervous and wish I could remember every kiss we have ever shared.

“Yes,” I say and am as breathless as if I had run down a long hall to get to him.

The time it takes his lips to meet mine is agonizingly long. And when they do, his kiss is gentle and hesitant. He is giving me time to pull away, I realize. But I do not want to pull away, so I part my lips to allow for his warm tongue to caress mine.

His arms wrap around tight and hold me as if I would run away and he could not bear it. But I will not. Not ever. I want to be with him always.

 • • • 

“I hate that he’s not here,” I said, my gaze glued to the cluster of stars.

Foster rolled his head toward me. “I take back the girl comment. You’re definitely going chick on me.”

“He’s better at these situations than I am.”

He sat up and wrapped his arms around upturned knees. “Yeah, he’s probably super-pissed he can’t be here. We’ve been planning this one for ages. But you’re wrong. He isn’t any better than you. You talk a good game, but when it comes down to it, you’re doing what you were meant to do. You were born for this.”

I wanted to deny his words with everything I had. I wasn’t born for this. I was born for him.

Only him.

 • • • 

Dr. Travista pastes the last electrodes to my forehead. “Lie still, Emma. This will take a while. It is imperative you don’t move.”

We are in a bare white exam room with bright lights blinding me to most of the background. I usually come here only when I am not feeling well and Dr. Travista wants to run what he calls “extensive tests.” I am also usually asleep for those. Today he asked me to come with no reason given.

I swallow and nod. “Of course. Can I ask what you are doing?”

He leans straight-armed on the stainless table, gripping the rounded steel side, and considers me a moment. “I’m concerned about your nightmares. They’re causing stress to your body.”

I finger and pinch my loose white scrub pants. “They are not that bad.”

He shakes his head and pats my hand in a fatherly way. His skin is cool from the steel and sends a shiver over me. “Last I checked, I was the doctor. Do you want to get better?”

“I thought I
was
better.”

“Almost. Not yet.”

“I wish to go home, Dr. Travista.” Despite owning the hospital and wishing me home, Declan defers to Dr. Travista when it comes to my recovery.

He runs a hand over my hair. “I know, I know, and believe me, I look forward to the day when I can say you are finally perfect. Unfortunately, that day has not arrived. Now”—he looks down and adjusts his head to peer through the lenses perched at the end of his nose—“I’m going to lower the incline of your bed.” He must have found the button, because the upper part of my bed lowers me until I lie flat. “Remember, don’t move.”

He walks away, and for the first time I feel nervous. My limbs are jittery and I try in vain to hold perfectly still, but I think I only make it worse. I do not want Dr. Travista to scold me, so I try to relax by taking deep breaths and concentrating on the web-thin cracks in the white paint overhead. I like to imagine they form an elaborate message I have yet to discern.

A speaker clicks on and his voice sounds above my head. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, Emma, all right?”

“Yes,” I say so quietly I am sure he cannot hear me, so I clear my throat and repeat myself. “Yes.”

“You may find some discomfort, but I need you to try very hard to be brave,” he says in a soothing tone. “Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

But I am not brave. I am frightened. What does he mean to do? Can he force me back into the nightmare? Would he? I cannot go back there. Noah will kill me. I know he will.

It is not real,
I tell myself, and I do not realize I have spoken aloud until Dr. Travista says, “Did you say something?”

“I will be brave,” I tell him.

Silence fills the room before the speaker clicks once and he says, “Let’s start with your favorite memory. Do you have one?”

This will be easier than I thought. “Yes.”

“I want you to focus on remembering it for a moment. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

I do as he asks and recall the first kiss with Declan, which happened several days ago but is still fresh in my mind. I want to feel his arms around me like that always. Feel his lips on mine and so much more. I want to go home if for no other reason than to do more.

Dr. Travista chuckles. “You must be thinking of your husband.”

My cheeks warm. “Yes,” I whisper.

He chuckles again. “I won’t ask you to elaborate. I only need it for a baseline reading. Let’s compare it to something else, though. I understand you like walking through my gardens.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “Very much.”

“All right, let’s picture a nice stroll, shall we? Let’s see how this looks.”

I imagine the garden, my fingertips brushing over indigo buds. I recall the cloying scent as I walk into the area for the first time and how the sweet smell overwhelms me.

Too late, I realize my fingers are making small circling motions over my thighs and pull them into tight fists at my sides.

“Very nice,” he says. “Let’s do one more. How about something you dislike.”

This is easy. I imagine his teal shirt. His pockmarked skin. My daily breakfast of dry toast and tasteless fruit. No way to see the stars after months of isolation.

“Well, it seems you have a few things to complain about.” He says this in good humor, so I have clearly not insulted him.

“Let’s begin,” he says after some time. “Tell me something about your nightmare.”

I swallow nervously, wondering if these wires attached will catch my lie. “There is nothing to tell,” I say and am happy there is no obvious tell to my tone. I sound perfectly at ease.

“Come now, Emma. We both know that’s not true. You must remember something. No matter how small. How about the setting? Where are you? Outside? Inside?”

Surely there is no harm in telling him this much. I open my mouth to answer but it is difficult to find my voice. It is a simple answer and I should have no trouble with it.

“Picture it in your mind,” he says. “Remember, you’re safe, Emma.”

But I cannot picture it. There is a wall around my nightmare I cannot penetrate. And my voice feels locked behind a lump in my throat. After some struggle, I strain to say, “Inside.”

“Inside? Okay, excellent, Emma. What else? What do you see inside?”

Don’t you tell him,
that voice sounding very much like mine tells me.
Lie. Lie your goddamn ass off.

I startle and suck in a deep breath. “I—I do not know.”

“Emma, I asked you not to move.”

“I have not moved, just as you asked.” My voice pitches surprisingly high, and my heart, already pounding, stutters. Each breath hitches in my chest.

“Hm.”

Holding my head as still as I can, I allow only my gaze to dart around the room. “Is something the matter?”

“What were you just thinking about? After you told me where the dream takes place?”

I bite into my lip and taste the metal of blood.

Lie,
She tells me again, but I do not want to lie anymore and I do not understand why I should. Telling the truth will only make me better, and I want to go home.

My tongue rests behind my top front teeth, preparing to say something—anything—but the muscle locks and the air in my lungs refuses to support the sound. I strain to a point that my face feels hot.

“Emma?”

I shake my head, trying to force any word free. I cannot breathe now, and the harder I try to speak, the worse the pressure becomes.

Men in white lab coats and gray scrubs drive into the room the second I start to convulse. And yet, I continue to try. I have to overcome this. I want to go home.

I told you to lie,
She says coolly.
You don’t understand yet, but you will.

I only understand that I am at war with myself, and I do not know why. One way or another, I will win.