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“You will thank me one day, Blakely.”
Then he flips the switch.
16
DEFUNCT
ALEX
Journal entry:
Subject 6 has become lethargic over the course of the first week.
I admit, I was impulsive and rash with the first round of electroconvulsive therapy. I hadn’t yet finished the subject’s emotional map. I hadn’t yet formed a complete hypothesis for her treatment. I allowed the subject to affect me, and years of disappointment coupled with her inability to feel that severe disappointment with my failure…
I halt writing, pen hovering over the journal page, as I stare at the streaming river. Dense pine trees block any wind, the basin a void of sound and life. The forest is muted by my thoughts as I search for the right word. There is no way to varnish or excuse my behavior. Blakely wounded me, and I wanted to wound her back. I wanted her to feel so desperately, it became a demand that had to be answered.
For a brief moment, I cracked, revealing the delicate fractures that have splintered me during the course of this experiment. I was irresponsible, childish. I won’t allow that to happen again with this subject. From the first moment I saw her, I knew she’d be a challenge, but she’s perfect in that challenge—a test I must succeed at. I simply have to reevaluate my reactions to her. Fortify my defenses. Be stronger.
I whisper a curse into the crisp air, my breath fogging the evening. Blakely, Blakely…
She’s the spark to my fuse.
A fire lit down deep in the bowels of my torment and self-degradation.
Her soulless, penetrating eyes strip me of every pretentious façade; she sees down to my stained marrow. And there’s a part of me that yearns for it, to be cleansed by her fire.
I force the torturous thought from my head and try again to form a cohesive thought.
The subject’s response to the initial treatment exceeded expectations:
No anesthesia was administered before 200 volts was delivered for approximately 40 seconds. Admittedly, again, requiring the subject to undergo the treatment without anesthesia was a callous oversight on my part, and most likely the result of the subject’s side effects which include:
Immediate confusion. Temporary memory loss of the event. Migraine-induced nausea.
Four days after the treatment, subject has resumed normal brain function and no longer suffers headaches or sickness, but remains lethargic.
During the 40 seconds of treatment, the subject’s seizure lit up all areas of the brain, denoting this subject is highly susceptible to the procedure. It gives me hope that, in time, the dormant pathways of the subject’s amygdala will function as a non-psychopathic brain.
Hope… Such a nonscientific word. But, nothing is ruined yet. Blakely is resilient. Now I must start again. Analyze the data. Draw conclusions. Accept or reject my hypothesis. Modify if needed. Replicate the experiment until there are no discrepancies between my observations and theory.
Reproducibility.
That is the crux of the scientific method.
I find my feet wandering back toward the cabin, my steps quickening to match the eager beat of my heart. There’s so much that needs to be done. But first, I need to revive my subject.
The cabin appears just over the hill, and I remember the day Mary and I found the little weathered house. We’d been hiking the woods on one of our annual retreats. A way to get away from the city and the noise and her patients. To recharge.
We stumbled on the cottage and Mary instantly fell in love. She wondered why she’d never thought about owning a property outside of the city before, and she decided she had to have it.
I stop at the wrought iron gate and glance at my pewter watch, the memory so fresh my chest burns like I’ve swallowed acid. She willed me the cabin with the condition that I had to continue to visit our place once a year.
I push the gate open. I did more than just respect her memory by vacationing here to recharge—I built a whole damn experiment to make sure her tattered and denounced reputation would one day be restored.
On the day that I publish my results, with the data and proof to back my findings, the name of the treatment will be logged as Jenkins’ Trial.
A large part of me detests that it will be Mary’s ex-husband’s name on the trial but, as she was the one to make that name remarkable, it belongs more to her than it ever did him.
