She looked different to him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. There was something about her face, the contours and lines, the jutting of her cheekbones; even her eyes seemed off a bit, as if someone had painted over her with a very fine brush.

  Quentin squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. When he did he was relieved to find that his mind wasn’t analytical with what he perceived. A stress-induced hallucination would have been his guess had he known about such things; instead, he passed it off as his brain ‘playing tricks on him’.

  It was just his mom…his mom and his dad, looking the same if a little worse for the wear. Whatever had happened had changed them in small ways. It must have been an accident but surprisingly he couldn’t remember the specifics.

  “Dad…what’s going on?” he asked, his voice starting to gain strength. “Why can’t I move? Why can’t I…remember anything?”

  “You’ve had an accident; that’s all,” his father replied. “A bad accident. We thought we’d lost you.”

  His father’s voice caught. He had to clear his throat before continuing.

  “It might be difficult to remember certain things and it’s going to take a while for you to get up and moving again, but you are going to be okay.”

  Knowing it gave Quentin more relief than he could have expressed. He laughed a boy’s laugh, tinny and light, before it collapsed into a whine. His mother held him then, and though he couldn’t feel the warmth of her body pressed close, arms cradling his head, he smelled the perfume of her hair, a fresh and crisp scent like an ocean breeze, conjuring up the image of a sailboat shimmering in the haze of the setting sun like a mirage.

  The slap was hard enough to shock him into silence. Whatever sound was coming out of his mouth was cut short. He wasn’t sure what was happening but he thought he might have been screaming. In the stillness there was still the faint echo of it, though that could have been his subconscious registering it.

  His mother-

  Rose…her name is Rose…

  -was bent down to his height, fingers dug into his collarbone, her face half a foot from his. There was a strange expression on her face, as if something had frightened her terribly.

  “Mom?”

  She nodded then pulled him in for a hug before he could see more than a tear or two come out. When she finally let him go it was to hold him at arm’s length.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Quentin thought about it. He couldn’t remember what had happened but there was a trace feeling of fear, desperation, and maybe pain. Holding up his arms, he expected to see dozens of pinpricks oozing blood.

  “Stinging,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What?”

  “They were stinging me,” the words tumbled out unchecked.

  His mouth tasted salty.

  She picked him up and Quentin noticed that there was grass beneath their feet. He was looking at the back porch of the house. Within a second the door was flung open and his father, wide-eyed and panic stricken, came stumbling out.

  He ran to Quentin and placed his hands on his cheeks, holding up his eyelids and turning his face this way and that.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Quentin said, his lower lip quivering. “I think I scared Mom.”

  Immediately, his father looked to his mother. An unspoken exchange passed between them, and then the arms of both his parents were wrapped around him, except this time he felt little comfort.

  The clinic again. It’s the second time-

  -third fourth fifth-

  - and he is tired, so tired.

  Quentin remembers the first time he was here. It was right after the accident at the beach. His father had explained to him that he’d suffered severe brain trauma, and while he was fine, his body and brain would take some time before they were in sync.

  It took him two months to learn how to walk again, another month before he could run. The fine motor skills took a bit longer but by the end of half a year he had felt like a real boy again and not like some puppet that was pretending.

  Except something was still wrong, or they wouldn’t be here. It had something to do with what his mother called his fugue states.

  The room they occupied this time was different, hexagonal like the inside of a beehive, walls a beige color with some sort of light built into the walls that simulated the flow of water. At the elongated end of the room was a machine like a giant pill, hollowed out on the inside with a bed and some sort of frame and straps, purportedly to hold a person still.

  They assured him that it didn’t hurt.

  Quentin laid on it as per instruction and was fed into the machine. A deep resonating hum began, and above him a panel slid aside to reveal a blue pale glass orb. The orb pulsed, sending out a wave of light that enveloped his body. It almost tickled.

  The pulse quickened until it was firing almost in tune with his heart, each successive wave passing over him just as the next began. A minute later and the hum of the machine ceased and the bed slowly began to eject him out.

  His parents were standing by the view screen, adorned with gloves and interactive goggles. The projection that hovered in front of them at shoulder height was a replica of Quentin. His father tapped the image near the head and it zoomed in, diving down past the tissue, muscle, bone, and finally the brain.

  What Quentin saw then didn’t make sense. They were like roads made of lightening, but spread out in every direction with little star hubs in the middle. Tiny spheres of light, millions of them, zapped along these highways at incredible speeds.

  “Right there,” his mother said, pointing to a particularly erratic looking hub.

  “It looks like an anomaly in the hippocampal synapse,” his father responded.

  “There’s a problem with the amyloid beta-proteins,” she said, stretching out her hands and blowing up the image. “The insoluble fibers are degrading.”

  “That…that’s not possible,” his father replied, shaking his head.

  “We can start with synthesizing the amino acids. After that, the best bet is to-“

  “Mom? Dad?” Quentin interrupted from the edge of the bed.

  They turned to him in unison.

  “What’s wrong with me?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  They looked to each other first, as was often the case, and then turned equally sympathetic expressions towards his person.

  Together, they shed the goofy goggles and the gloves and crouched in front of him. His mother reached out and gently pushed away a strand of hair from his forehead, cupping his cheek in her palm.

  “Sweetheart, there is something in your brain that is not working properly. It is causing these…episodes.”

  “The fugue states?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, giving him that soft and sad smile. “But we don’t want you to worry because-“

  “Because we have everything completely under control, Quentin,” his dad interjected almost jovially, obviously forced, though it was laced with some sincerity.

  “That’s right,” his mother nodded, her smile changing to a comforting one. “You might have to take it easy for awhile; no running around, no major exertion…just for a bit.”

  “And no studies,” his dad said with a grin that was just enough on this side of the tracks of genuine that Quentin half-smiled in return.

  “Your mom,” his dad continued. “She’s the best at this sort of stuff. And I’m not that bad at it either.”

  He said the last with a wink.

  “Everything will be okay, Sweetheart,” his mother reassured him, planting a kiss on his nose.

  This always tickled and made him squirm and laugh.

  Everything will be okay.

  A couple of weeks and he was wishing for his studies, even though he knew he’d be bored watching those lectures on the viewscreen. When his parents said no exertion, they were not just singling out physical activity but any mental exercises such as his computer puzzles or brain teaser games. Even books were suddenly taboo. The only artistic endeavor they allowed was drawing.

  At first, he was terrible at it. Having never shown a proclivity towards art, he found himself doodling out of sheer boredom after the second day of being home. Before long, he was wandering around sketching random objects, then learning the art of shading with different natural light sources. By the second week he realized, as did his parents, that he was quite gifted at it. And not just with realism; he began to dabble in expressionism without even knowing it, turning drawings of doors into prison cells, windows into a surreal world of no restraints or gravity, objects floating around like bubbles drifting in space.

  But even he tired of this after awhile. By the end of the month he was mad with boredom. He began to trudge about from room to room, shuffling his feet and stopping in doorways, staring into corners and finding nothing but shadows, not certain what he was expecting. At times he would come to with his forehead pressed against a wall, staring down at his feet, wondering if he had been just standing there or banging his head against the plaster. Other times, and this was disturbing enough that he kept it quiet from his parents; he would find himself on the floor curled up in a ball with his fingers frozen into claws that would take minutes to loosen up.

  Quentin never knew how much time had passed during these ‘episodes’. He never thought to look at the clock or his watch. It was enough to stumble up the stairs to his room where he would collapse exhausted onto his bed.

  His parents took shifts at home to be around, but when one or the other was at the lab, the other tended to be in the basement, which was a miniature lab in of itself, full of screens and equipment that always seemed to be computing or measuring something. There his mother or father would be, hovering over some piece of data, hands gesturing along the holographic displays, speaking jargon that made Quentin’s head hurt.

  He could take it for about an hour and then he’d wander upstairs to draw or get something to eat. Maybe he’d have an episode, maybe he wouldn’t.

  It was a miserable existence, one full of boredom and anxiety, fear and hope, desperation and frustration. Something, anything, had to happen soon or he’d lose his mind.

  And then something did.

  .

  He’s staring up at the sky. It’s a strange color. His father said it was because the world outside of Akropolis was full of dust and dirt and it would take a while to settle. There’s a sound in his ears, a drone like the buzzing of a thousand bees. It’s blocking out all other sounds. Suddenly the artificial light above is so bright it’s near blinding.

  “I don’t feel right,” he says to no one in particular.

  There’s more he wants to say, even though he’s alone, but at that moment his body goes rigid as if an electric current is running through him. His teeth clench so hard he feels one of them crack. There isn’t pain; just a pop he feels in his lower jaw, and then he is on the ground staring up at the too bright sky, his feet drumming against the earth hard enough to kick up dirt.

  The buzzing in his head intensifies and then becomes a whine that goes to decibels his brain can’t handle. A sound builds up inside of his gut and finds release through his clenched teeth. He feels it more than hears it.

  A shadow falls over him and he sees his mother but he can’t hear her. She’s a blur to him, or maybe it’s because his head is jerking back and forth so fast.

  Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. When the blackness finally embraces him, he goes with relief.

  There is movement. Something beneath him is rattling as he is moved along; squeaking sounds, most likely wheels. He opens his eyes, or at least he thinks he does, but he doesn’t see anything. He tries again, and this time he feels his eyelids blinking…except there is only darkness.

  “Mom? Dad?” he whispers.

  “We’re here, sweetheart,” she says.

  “Right here,” his father adds.

  The squeaking sounds are almost maddeningly loud.

  “Are my eyes open?” Quentin asks.

  There is an uncomfortable pause.

  “Yes,” his father says. “Can you see anything?”

  “Only black,” Quentin replies.

  “It’s alright.” His Mom’s voice this time, sounding shaky. “We’re going to help you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The lab,” his father responds. “There’s something there that can help you.”

  Not the clinic then. He thinks how strange this is.

  “I can’t move again, Dad.”

  The last comes out as a whine. He hates how it sounds. He’s supposed to be a big boy and big boys don’t whine, but he’s so afraid.

  “I know, Son,” his father replies.

  There is a loud banging sound that would make him flinch if he could move and suddenly the squeaking stops, as does the movement.

  He can hear the hoarse breathing of his parents as they rush about. There’s a clatter as objects hit the floor.

  “Mom…Dad?”

  “We’re here,” his mother says again.

  They are close now, hovering just above him. He knows it, just as he knows that the fear in their voices is as potent as his own.

  “Am I going to die?”

  “Of course not,” she says, but she doesn’t sound so certain.

  His father’s feet rush off for a second and then come back.

  “Listen to me, Quentin. You are not going to die.”

  There is a conviction in his voice that had been lacking before. His father’s tone is firm and certain, no hidden lies this time, no deceit for the sake of assuaging dread. It calms Quentin enough to swallow down the panic that had been bubbling forth.

  “We are at the lab now. You are going to go to sleep for a little bit, just a short time. While you are sleeping we are going to help you.”

  “Can you fix what’s wrong with me?” Quentin asks.

  “Yes,” his father replies, again without pause or deception.

  “Okay,” Quentin says.

  “Everything will be okay,” his mother says. “Say it with me, Sweetheart.”

  “Everything will be okay,” Quentin says with her.

  “Say it again, Quentin.”

  He does, but he isn’t certain he gets the chance to finish.

  voices…loud voices…arguing maybe?

  shouting now…crashing sounds, glass breaking…crying…

  the crying hurts…it hurts so bad…

  mom?…dad? please…I can’t see…I can’t move…

  I think…I think I’m dead...

  He’s sitting at the kitchen table staring down at a piece of paper and a pencil. There’s a bunch of scribbles that nowhere near resemble words or letters or numbers. His mother and father are sitting to either side of him with worried expressions.

  Did I draw that?

  Quentin looks at the dozens of squiggly lines again, but this time he starts to see some cohesion. There is a pattern, a flow to them that triggers some memory he can’t quite bring into the light of day.

  He picks up the pencil and begins to draw, but his hand doesn’t follow his directions; it doesn’t capture the image he wants to portray.

  “Gerflickle,” he grunts in frustration after a minute of scribbling.

  “What did you say, Sweetheart?” his mother asks, but he only feels rage, pure and unfiltered rage.

  “GARFA!” Quentin screams and starts to slam his fists on the top of the table.

  His father tries to grab his clenched fists but Quentin stabs him in the forearm with the broken pencil. There is a shout of surprise and in a second his parents are both standing up and stepping back from the table.

  Quentin laughs, a high-pitched cackle that feels like glass breaking, and then everything goes dark again.

  “That’s it…one step at a time…don’t rush.”

  Quentin is using forearm crutches that wobble beneath his weight. His legs feel like tree trunks. The best he can do is shuffle a few inches with each foot. It’s slow and agonizingly frustrating but he’s done this before…hasn’t he?

  Six inches further, then a foot; he is panting from the exertion. Another foot and his arms are shaking from the strain. He starts to teeter, the crutches rattling.

  His father catches him as he falls and Quentin can’t help it; he starts to cry. It’s immature, he knows, and there is a bit of shame for it, but when his mother and father both embrace him and tell him that everything is going to be okay, the dam breaks and the sobs come harder and harder so that he is unable to even catch his breath.

  He doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but the next thing he knows he is standing solemnly at the kitchen window in the back of the house, staring out into the darkness.

  Is it night outside?

  It doesn’t feel like night, and yet he cannot see anything past the pane of glass. There is only his reflection, but he doesn’t recognize himself.

  Gentle hands grip his shoulders and turn him slowly around. His mother is kneeling down in front of him, smiling that sad smile he has come to know so well.

  “Come on, sweetheart. I want to show you something.”

  He takes her hand and together they walk through the kitchen and into the living room. It’s different. All the furniture is gone, all the pictures on the wall vanished. The floor is covered in swaths of cream-colored canvas, stretched out and taped so that there are no rumples and just a few wrinkles scattered about. The walls are covered too, giving him the illusion of floating in space.

  A blank wall…a blank canvas.

  In the center of the room there is a dozen different colored paint buckets with brushes of various sizes protruding from all. A singular ladder, tall enough for him to reach the tops of the walls is already opened and set up.

  “Paint me a picture, Quentin,” she urges him.

  He laughs, a normal laugh, a genuine one, and runs to the center of the room. There is no consideration or hesitation. He knows what to create. Grabbing a brush in each hand he sets off for one of the walls.

  His hands are feathers, his arms wings. He isn’t painting so much as taking flight. The brush strokes are long and gentle but firm where the edges touch a jagged horizon, sharp outlines that crest and fall, crest and fall; blue that starts off light and darkens as it reaches the ceiling, overlaid with white hazy streaks that start to take on the colors of orange, yellow, and red that stem from a singular, almost white orb that hangs untethered.

 

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