The Mariner

Patient Number 0020644

Name: John Doe

I awoke this morning with the image of a wasp. I don’t know how it lodged so firmly in my mind, to my knowledge there are no wasps in Sighisoara, though it is entirely possible a nest could be aboard any one of the many ships that dock here. Still, something tells me that this wasp didn’t fly into my mind through sight, but through recall. A memory, something on the tip of my brain’s tongue, only just out of reach.

It is hardly surprising that I should be thinking so much about memories, given the peculiar nature of our ‘John Doe’. His addictions have turned out to be deeply entwined with his personality, and problematic to treat. Though tragic, it is imperative that the conflict inside be resolved. Only then will we begin answering the larger questions.

This evening I attended a sermon by the Reverend McConnell. I am not a religious man (though like many I have been sorely tempted by the madness that has grasped our world), but I wanted to speak to the reverend about his interactions with my latest patient.

When I arrived, however, he was preaching to the ignorant masses about ‘The Shattering’. His notion is that our predicament is a punishment from God, a time in the wilderness before the return of Jesus Christ (who will sew reality together — what utter tosh); rather fanciful, but the name is apt. Shattering.

Our world has splintered and fallen apart; if only we could grasp what it once resembled, might we piece it together?

But that image is lost to us now. We’ve forgotten. Too far down the path, and we’ve lost the route back.

And yet I awoke this morning with a buzzing in my head. Something about a wasp. Something I’ve forgotten. I reached out to grasp it, and for a moment felt its wings brush against my fingertips, but then it escaped, flying out of my mind and away into the forgetful mist.

T.

21. NOT A WAGON IN SIGHT

THE GRASS FELT COOL AGAINST the Mariner’s face. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fresh scent. Dirt went up his nose, but he didn’t mind. The pain in his left arm was a more pressing concern. He didn’t begrudge it though, it was a pain he deserved.

Bloody and distraught, he’d staggered away from Beth’s quarters and made his way up to Tetrazzini’s rehab centre. There, shy of the building by around ten foot, he’d collapsed, exhausted.

He’d failed.

Completely.

He clenched his fists in frustration, grass and soil scrunched between digits, and he let out a muffled groan into the ground, but the trembling earth gave no reply, instead it came from above.

“Did you do it?” Grace’s voice surprised him, making him look up with a jolt, green strands sticking to his cheek.

“Do what?”

“What he suggested you do.” Grace stood in the dim, partly illuminated by lamplight coming out of the many rehab windows.

The Mariner pulled himself into sitting position. “You listened?” He was too weary to be angry. Too ashamed for any further revelation to sink him further. There was nothing lower than him. “You spied on my therapy session?”