Gone

eyelids finally cooperated. The ceiling swooped down, changed its mind, soared miles above, a white plaster sky.

Blue sky. No, the blue was off to the left.

A smudge of black on top.

Pale blue, same exact color as the burned cork smell in my throat.

The black, Allison’s hair.

The pale blue, one of her suits. Memories flooded my head. Fitted jacket, skirt short enough to show a nice bit of knee. Braiding around the lapels, covered buttons.

Lots of buttons; it could take a long, sweet time to free them.

The pain in my skull took over. My back and my right side-

Someone moved. Above Allison. To the right.

“Can’t you see he needs help- ”

“Shut up!”

My eyelids sank. I blinked some more. Turned it into an aerobic activity and finally achieved some focus.

There she was. In one of the soft white chairs where she hadn’t been before…how long ago?

I tried to look at my watch. The face was a silver disk.

My vision cleared a bit. I’d been right: She was wearing the exact suit I’d pictured, give the boy an A for…

Movement from the right.

Standing over her was Dr. Patrick Hauser. One of his hands had vanished in her hair. The other held a knife pressed to her smooth white throat.

Red handle. Swiss Army knife, one of the larger versions. For some reason, I found that ludicrously amateurish.

Hauser’s clothes clinched it. White golf shirt, baggy brown pants, brown wingtips.

Hard-toed wingtips, way too dressy for the outfit. White was the wrong color if you wanted to avoid those stubborn bloodstains.

Hauser’s shirt was sweat-splotched but free of red. Beginner’s luck. No sense rubbing it in. I smiled at him.

“Something funny?”

I had so many snappy comebacks. Forgot all of them. Gong. Gong.

Allison’s eyes shifted to the right. Past Hauser, toward her desk?

Nothing else there but a wall and a closet.

Closet blocked by the door when you opened it.

Deep blue irises moved again. Definitely the desk. The far end, where her purse sat.

Hauser said, “Sit up and get that pen.”

I was already sitting. Silly man.

I spread my arms to show him, hit an arm of the wooden desk chair.

Not sitting at all. Slumped, nearly prone, head tilted back, spine in an odd position.

Maybe that’s why everything hurt so bad.

I tried to straighten, nearly passed out.

“C’mon, up, up, up,” barked Hauser.

Every inch of movement heated the toaster coils that had replaced my spinal nerves. It took years to reach a sitting position and the ordeal robbed me of breath. Inhaling was hellish, breathing out, worse.

A few more centuries and my eyes got clearer. I gained a sense of context: Allison and Hauser fifteen feet away. My chair pushed up to Allison’s desk. The side where a new patient might sit, seeking consultation.

Therapy charts and Allison’s desktop doodads on the pale oak surface. She’d been doing paperwork when he’d-

Hauser said, “Get the pen and start writing.”

What pen? Ah, there it was, hiding among the noise and the color. Next to a clean, white sheet of paper.

Some comical guy’s voice said, “Wri-whuh?”

I cleared my throat. Licked my lips. The rephrase came out: “Wri…tuh whuh?”

Hauser said, “Cut the theatrics, you’re fine.”

Allison moved her left shoe. Mouthed something that looked like “Sorry.” She winced as the knife blade pressed into her skin. Hauser didn’t seem to be aware of his own movement or her reaction.

“Write, you sonofabitch.”

“Sure,” I said. “Bun cun you crew- cue me in?”

“You’re going to retract everything you told that bitch lawyer, label the other bitches for the malingering bitches they are, sign and date.”

“Ah theh?”

“Then what?”

“Whah happahs aftah I chew thah?”

“Then we’ll see, you unethical asshole.”

“Alethical.”

“Once you’re exposed,” said Hauser, “life will be cream and sugar.”

“For who?”

His glasses slid down his nose and he flicked his head to right them. The movement distanced the blade from Allison’s neck.

Then it was back.

A low sound fluttered his lips. “Shut up and write or I’ll cut her and set it up like you did it.”

“You’re serious.”

“Do I look as if I’m kidding?” His eyes watered. His lower lip vibrated. “I was doing just fine until everyone started lying. All my life I’ve done for others. Now it’s time to take care of number one.”

I managed to pick up the pen, nearly dropped it. Heavy little sucker- were they making them of lead nowadays? Wasn’t lead bad for kids? No, that was pencils. No, that was graphite…

I flexed my right arm and its mate. No more numbness. The pain hadn’t abated but I was starting to feel human.

I said, “For this to be cruda- credulab- cred-i-ble shouldn’t it be notary publicked?”

Hauser licked his lips. His glasses had slid down again but he didn’t try to adjust them. “Stop faking. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But the question is still…revelant…”

“You write, I’ll worry about what’s relevant.”

The pen had stopped trying to escape my hand, settled awkwardly between ring finger and pinky. I managed to roll it into writing position.

Allison watched me.

I was scaring her.

A pen made of lead; what would the EPA think of that?

I said, “So I write. Now. How?”

Hauser said, “What do you mean, how?”

“What words do I tell?”

“Start by acknowledging that you’re a pathological liar unfit to practice.”

“Should I use first person?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Hauser’s jowls shook with rage. His arm did, too, and once more the knife danced away from Allison’s skin.

Not a good multitasker.

His right hand dug in and twisted Allison’s hair. She gasped, closed her eyes, and bit her lip.

I said, “Please stop hurting her.”

“I’m not hurting her- ”

“You’re pulling her hair,” I said.

Hauser looked down at his hand. Stopped twisting. “This isn’t about her.”

“My point.”