MOAB � Mother Of All Boxsets

by George Saoulidis

  I smash his head with a rock. No, that’s not right, I’m confused. Excuse me. I smash the rock with his head. The girls scream at the top of their lungs and the driver considers stepping on it and running away, leaving his buddy at my mercy. “Do something! He’s gonna kill him,” one of the girls screams and the driver comes and grabs my arm. I punch him once and I lay him flat on the dirt. I turn to the girls inside the car and I foam at the mouth.

  They scream in terror and lock the doors. One calls somebody on her phone, the other simply stares at me, completely frozen. I step around the car and smash the driver’s window. The girls unlock the car and run outside, they go to the boy and try to bring him around, to pull him away.

  I sit inside, place my hands on the steering wheel. They shake, I can’t control them. I grab the wheel tight and step on the gas pedal.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t drive at my condition. Perhaps I’d let someone else drive, a hostage from the group of young ones.

  I squeeze on my temples. “No,” I say.

  I’m in no condition to drive. The place is scarce with people and there’s no traffic. I manage a few hundred metres straight with no accident. It’s okay, but I’m lucky. Further down the road there’s an avenue and I won’t be able to drive it right. Perhaps I should stop, calm down for a bit.

  “No!” I moan. “I have to get away.”

  I can’t control my hands, my movements. I drive the car straight into oncoming traffic. Metal rends, squeals. I feel pain, lots of it.

  I crawl outside the smashed car by my arms. Glass in tiny little cubes break under my body weight. I can hear a woman’s voice, “Are you okay?” and I look up. She’s bright and she’s blinding, like the sun.

  I grab her by the throat and drag her along. “Which one is yours?” I demand through clenched teeth, pointing at the car pile behind the accident. She points at one, and I drag her there. I push her in front of the steering wheel and sit beside her, holding her arm tight. Perhaps this was a better choice than one of the earlier girls. She’d be young, she’d run away. This one is a woman, about fifty, with tired eyes.

  “Drive,” I say and she gulps and nods.

  Epileptic threshold 42.30 ± 11 millicoulomb (mc)

  “Wh-where do I go?” she asks after a few minutes, her voice trembling.

  I look at the road, the traffic, the people. I’m not clenching her arm tight any more, but my hand over her shoulder is still keeping her captive as if was a chain. “Do you live nearby?”

  She hesitates. “Yes,” she tells me. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  I squeeze her shoulder in reply and she weeps.

  I can’t let her go. She’ll go straight to the police. Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to kill her.

  “No!” I suddenly say and rub my forehead. I feel so tired.

  The woman is shaken, doesn’t even dare look at me, she’s simply driving.

  Epileptic threshold 52.10 ± 18 millicoulomb (mc)

  We go inside her condo, I’m holding her tight by the arm. I look at the rooms, it’s a small and ordinary home, but looked after by a proper housewife. I grab her keys and lock from inside. I point towards one of the rooms, it looks like a teenager lives there, with posters and various boy toys. “Who else is here?” I yell.

  “Nobody! My son… He’s no longer here,” she says, bowing her head. “Do you want something to eat? You’ll feel better,” she says to me and waits.

  I look down at myself, my bloody feet, my dirty patient’s robe. My stomach is growling at the thought of food alone. I nod and sit on the couch. It’s old an uncomfortable, but in my condition I’d swear it was made of silk and puffy clouds.

  Hours pass, I’ve eaten and am finally rested, but I don’t feel much better. Something… Something is emptying in my head. In my mind. The woman sits across the room from me with her head down, doesn’t resist, doesn’t even do anything that would make me suspect her. She sneaks in glances at the machine on my arm and the black cable that dips into my neck. I feel uncomfortable having her attention on me all the time and I turn on the television. Not for me, but for her.

  I can’t see well, even at a distance of three metres. It’s not that I require glasses, it’s as if I can’t focus that far away. As if the effort of conceiving something at that vast distance tires me. My fingers rub my neck with the catheter, I tug on it gently. I feel as if the implanted stentrode reaches up to my brain. The semitransparent medical tape is still holding, dirty of dirt and sweat.

  I feel sleepy. It hasn’t been long since I got away from the doctor but I don’t know if I’m rested. I don’t even know if they allowed me any sleep. I feel as if I’ve been awake for days.

  The woman changes the channel with hesitation and keeps it at a low volume. I don’t look that way, on the contrary, I look towards the ceiling, that changes colours along with the images on the television. It’s getting dark and the apartment is dark. She hasn’t dared get up and turn on the lights. I turn around to get comfortable and the keys dig into my skin, I place them between my body and the couch.

  The television lights up the room. I hear a commercial jingle and it flickers, red and white.

  My jaw clenches, my breath catches. I see colours swirling. Thoughts, memories, knowledge flooding my brain.

  And then nothing.

  I wake up and I’m on the floor. I proper recovery position, covered with a blanket.

  I jerk up and look around. The woman is sitting at the same place. I look back on the couch, the keys are right there. “You didn’t run away? You didn’t call for help?” I ask her.

  “No,” she replies calmly. Her gaze is different now.

  “Why not?” I ask her. “You could have, you had all the time in the world.”

  “You had an epileptic seizure, I couldn’t just leave you here,” she replies. Yes, that’s what’s wrong with me, now I remember. From the ancient Greek for ‘seize,’ that means, grab, possess.

  I gulp and rub my head. “How did you know what to do?”

  The woman stares down at the floor. “My son, he was epileptic. From a brain tumour.”

  “Had?” I ask her.

  She turns towards the teenager’s room. “He’s gone now. He was a little younger than you.” She points at a pile of fresh clothes beside me. “Try them on if you like, they should fit.”

  I study her expression. She kept everything after her son’s death. Perhaps she also has anti-epileptic medication. I remember the doctor giving me those. Pills. “Do you have any drugs from him?” I ask her and take off my robe.

  She hesitates. “Yes, but they’ll be expired now…”

  I put on the clothes she gave me. It doesn’t matter if the drugs are expired, it’s only their efficiency that would be reduced. If she has any phenytoin or fluoxitin I’ll be alright for a while. But I have to get back to the medical room. I should have taken my pills with me. I was in a state of amok, I wasn’t thinking clearly.

  I go to the drawer she points out, look around for the pills. Endless drugs for cancer patients. Useless for my case. I find one with fluoxitin, I down the whole bottle.

  She raised a hand at me, “But… It’s not good for you, they might cause a seizure.”

  The woman doesn’t know that only thing keeping me upright is the fact that I’m at the precise threshold of an epileptic seizure discharge. That I wobble between two states of unconsciousness, that the device stimulates my motor cortex by lighting up my brain like a Christmas tree and that the anti-epileptic pills pull me down, infinitesimally. Barely enough so I can function.

  I rub my head. “I got out of a medical room. It was hidden somewhere in an abandoned building. They put this inside me,” I say, pointing at my arm, “and there was somebody else there. An old guy, on the bed next to me. In the same condition as me.”

  The woman listens closely. I just felt like telling someone.

  I rub my head harder. “They’ve done something to me, can’t remember what. They’ve helped me somehow,
but since they’re doing it hidden isn’t it illegal?”

  The woman agrees.

  That old man. In the same condition as me. I abandoned him at their mercy. I have to go back and help him.

  I have to go back and help me.

  “Aaah!” I scream and crash the closet on the floor with a swipe. The pills bottles rattle and roll all over the place. The woman shakes up and covers her head. “My brain! It won’t stop!” I scream at her.

  I sit on the floor and clench my head. I pull my hair and wobble forwards and backwards.

  The woman sits beside me, softly caresses my head. “Tell me,” she says in a motherly tone.

  My face is a grimace. “It’s like, words. Not my own. I don’t know these words, but I think about them,” I tell her and collapse into her arms.

  “What kind of words? You know they might be delusions, right? You understand that, don’t you?” she says hesitantly and combs my hair with her soft fingers.

  “I know, but it’s different. I knew I was looking for fluoxitin, I head it in my mind. But I don’t know what that is. Do you see?” I stare at her and wait for understanding. For some reason, it’s important to be for someone to understand me.

  “Yes, I understand,” she tells me. “You can’t remember knowing a couple of things. Medical stuff.”

  “Not just that. It’s like…” I say and scratch my head hard. “It’s like someone else is talking to me. Someone smarter. But it’s still me. Do you see?” I ask her. At that moment I understand the confusion. I grab around for the device on my arm, press for the readout. The old man had the same device. We’re connected somehow. Somehow… they’ve connected us.

  Epileptic threshold 63.10 ± 22 millicoulomb (mc)

  I know the reading is bad. I need my medicine. A cocktail of anti-epileptics to bring me back on the limit. Despite being called anti-epileptics, they can actually cause a seizure. “Can you get pills for me?” I ask her.

  She hesitates and lets me go. I can see her tensing up in case I get violent again.

  “I won’t hurt you, I swear. I need help.”

  She smiles a painful smile. “Yes.”

  I wait around the corner, at a clear line of sight to the pharmacy. I sent her out to get me methylephenynate and phenytoin. It would be nice to throw in a little LSD in the mix but the woman went pale at the mere mention. It’s one thing lying to a pharmacist about needed drugs for a deceased son, and another doing transactions with the illegal kind of drug dealers. Of course, the difference is merely one of legality between the two. We live in a strange world. I look inside the pharmacy, she’s talking. She shows an old prescription and pretends it’s an emergency for her son.

  Why is she helping me?

  I wear clean clothes. I’m passably presentable. If someone were to take a second look, he’d notice my condition. But at least I’m not acting crazy. What had that young man called me? Zombie.

  The woman comes to me. She walks past me and we meet further down the street, just like I instructed her. “Did you get them?”

  “Yes, everything you’ve asked,” she says and gives me the bag.

  I pop open the pillboxes and down about half of them straightaway. I lift my sleeve and press for the reading.

  Epileptic threshold 53.10 ± 19 millicoulomb (mc)

  “As if I know what it means?” I say to myself with a grimace. I think about it once more. But it’s simple, the device electrically stimulates my brain with the stentrode and causes an epileptic seizure to me. The drugs are keeping me from going off. Ironically, they also keep me from completely avoiding the seizure. It’s about balance, like the hormonal glands on the body.

  I open my eyes wide. “I think…” I say to the woman, “that the old man I left behind is inside my mind.”

  Yes, that had some sort of logic. That doctor had done something to us. I have to get back for the old man. And I have to go now, because when the doctor recovers he’ll be sure to move the illegal medical facility. I have to get there before it’s dark. No one else can help him. Only me.

  The woman brought me back to the abandoned buildings. I go outside and look around. I can’t remember where I came from, how much I walked.

  “Which one is it?” she asks.

  “I can’t remember, it’s fuzzy. That way maybe,” I point and walk to see closer.

  I hear revving and car tires digging on dirt. I turn around and the woman drives away.

  She left me.

  I can’t blame her. She found the right opportunity, cooperated with me fully to get my guard down. Perhaps she’s on her way to report me, perhaps she’ll show up with police.

  It’s okay. I have to find the old man.

  I swallow my pills but they’re not enough. Their effect is wearing out. I turn to the general direction of the medical facility and I walk. Lost.

  I’m not like before, barefoot, tired, hungry. Bloodied. But still I’m lost.

  It’s been some time since I thought of those weird thoughts.

  I search around in the deserted buildings, look for something to jog my memory about the place I crawled out from. I look at my arm.

  Epileptic threshold 65.20 ± 25 millicoulomb (mc)

  It’s been so long since I’ve thought of medical stuff. It’s been so long since I’ve heard of the old man’s thoughts. Perhaps our connection is gone? Perhaps it’s too late? Perhaps the doctor moved him, removed his device?

  Perhaps he killed him?

  A doctor wouldn’t do such a thing, would he?

  I search around faster, backtrack in case I missed something, but I can’t find it. My mind was so blurry when I came outside that I don’t know if I’ll ever find the place again.

  What does it matter? If I stay here, at some point the drugs in my system will run out. I’ll be put out. Is that so bad?”

  I sit down on the dirt.

  The shadows grow longer.

  If the woman had called the police, they’d be here by now. I feel better having someone’s support, even though we hit it off at a bad start. I stand up and rub the dirt off my clothes.

  I walk around looking for the building. I let myself wander, without thinking.

  I arrive at some place, which reminds me of something. I find a way in. Perhaps it’s that one, perhaps not. I’m not sure. I go in, it’s dark. I should have brought a flashlight, I didn’t expect this to take so many hours into the night. Nevermind, I go inside and step on broken trash lying around the corridor.

  The building is big. I find stairs leading down and I take them into the dark, feeling my way along the wall.

  For some reason I can remember the way around. I see a faint light and I find the whole I made on the wall, the fallen bricks. One brick was holding on at the edge and as I touch it falls down and makes a noise. It echoes in the dark.

  I put my back on the wall and wait for someone to respond. There’s no way the doctor didn’t hear that, if he’s actually here. I listen, my breath wheezing too loudly.

  A couple of minutes pass. No reaction. I fumble along the wall and find the door. I try to open it softly but it creaks. I look inside.

  The medical room is illuminated only by the soft readings of the machinery. The old man is at the exact same position, unconscious. Wired. The doctors is nowhere to be found.

  I go in.

  I notice there’s some stuff missing. Medical notes, the tools have been cleaned. So he’s okay. Perhaps he planned to come back for the old man.

  I walk next to him. I see the injections next to the beds. Yes, I remember those. They are the ones I need, what did he call them? Cocktails.

  I hear some noise coming from the corridor. I grab a fallen brick and step outside with stealth.

  Someone is coming. He lights up the way with his phone. He’s walking down the stairs. I wait around the corner, ready to pounce.

  Steps come nearer and…

  The woman screams as she sees me.

  “What are you doing here?” I tell her and g
rab her by the shoulders. “Didn’t you run away?”

  “Yes! I was about to go to the police, but… Then I turned around and saw you from afar while you searched. I saw you coming here,” she says.

  “Come on, I needed help anyway.” I lead her into the medical room and she covers her mouth when she sees it.

  I look back. Yes, it does seem kind of scary, in a way.

  “Is that him? Is he alright?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I say and lie down on my bed, tie the straps on my legs. “Before… he was lost from my mind he was saying about coming back here, giving myself a shot from one of those. That’s the way to get better.”

  The woman swallows hard, picks up the syringe. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes. I think that this experiment is indeed illegal, but they were only trying to cure me,” I tell her and point at the leather straps around my wrists.

  “What are those?” Her eyes are fixed on the dried blood.

  “To keep me from hurting myself. That’s what the old man told me to do. Lock them tight,” I say and lie back.

  She hesitates with the syringe.

  I tell her it’s okay.

  Epileptic threshold 52.10 ± 22 millicoulomb (mc)

  I foam at the mouth and wrestle on the bed. The straps hold me down. I tense my body, contort it in uncomfortable arches and I scream. The bed hits the wall with force, I knock down the table next to me, the woman crawls into the corner and covers her face.

  The straps hold.

  This time, I got the dosage just right. Fluoxetine, atropine, ketamine. It was that simple. I smile at the woman. “I’m fine, the bad part is over. You can untie me now.”

  She comes close, but hesitates.

  “I’m alright. It worked,” I comfort her.

  She unties me and I rub my wrists.

  I stand up and walk to the old man. The machine next to him is beeping with an annoying alarm. It shows no brain activity. “Hm,” I say to him and I slap his cheek. No response.