Spilling Guts

Part 74 - The Cause

"Whoa," eased Louis. A slow slide, the kind Will wanted to curl around, went down one of his inner walls. "Easy there, fanboy. We're okay. We're okay. Deep breath. No need to panic. We're fine."

The last part seemed aimed at Louis himself as well as Will.

Rachel adjusted the headset partially hidden by her messy hair. "That's why a private talk with just you and Balcuwitz will take some time."

"I thought he would have been out by now," said Will.

"We tried while you were unconscious," said Louis. "It didn't go well. You weren't in any condition to have a tube down your throat. I told her no."

The sound didn't just come from the SkySprecht, realized Will. It also came from the bedside tablet, the Sprecht app open for all to hear.

Will didn't want to imagine what had happened to prevent Rachel from getting Louis out of him.

Rachel leaned in closer to the bed. "Will, do you think you can stand us getting Louis out right now?"

The automatic "yes" stalled at the idea of anything being rammed down or pulled out of his throat. Even the concept of food made him queasy.

Will swallowed hard, the back of his mouth raw and dry. "No. Not now at least."

"Then let's get you hooked up to an IV. You haven't eaten or drunk anything for a while."

While Rachel brought in an IV bag and punched a needle through the skin of Will's inner elbow, Balcuwitz opened the bedside file. Silence hung in the room, awkward and stubborn.

"What are you reading?" asked Will.

"The product of Louis' procrastination from doing his inbox," said Balcuwitz.

"Hey," ground out Louis.

Rachel smirked.

Balcuwitz smiled. "It is an informative break down on the Grovic Device, also called the Devil's Neckbrace. You are familiar with it?"

Will nodded. "I had to wear it once."

The reminder send a thread of unease coiling down Will's spine, and wiped the smirk off Rachel's face as she secured tape around the needle in Will's arm.

"Louis' report includes a review of the Neckbrace's long term cumulative effects on certain victims." Balcuwitz's eyes softened and hardened at the same time, like flocked steel ball bearings.

Will put two and two together, but didn't believe the sum. "Louis thinks my one time wearing that thing cause my panic attacks?"

"It's not just that," said Louis.

"Louis, he hasn't been able to read it; let us explain," said Balcuwitz.

And Will felt the smallest of pouty, indignant shifts inside him.

Balcuwitz continued. "As much as I would agree with the assessment of an anxiety or panic attack, Rachel and I don't think that was wholly the case this time. You mentioned having nightmares and waking up feeling out of breath, yes?"

Will thought for a moment, and then looked at the open doorway, expecting Cetz or an orderly to pop in. Or Reese hauling a confetti cannon.

Balcuwitz got up, closed the door, and sat back down. Privacy, as promised.

"Yes," confirmed Will.

"And you can't remember your nightmares?" prompted Balcuwitz.

"I can remember short snippets; being buried, or under water, or held down." Will shivered as Louis shifting inside shifted another memory loose. Of hands pressing where they shouldn't. "Or something being pushed in or pulled out of me."

Rachel, trying hard to stay invisible and unobtrusive by the beeping machines, grimaced. "Do you have trouble moving when you wake up from a nightmare?"

"Sort of?" Hard for Will to climb out of a warm bed when he hadn't gotten the proper amount of sleep the night before. He imagined it was the same for anyone else tired enough.

Rachel motioned over to Balcuwitz. "I think a sleep study is required before we assume anything, but we have a theory."

"We think you are suffering from sleep paralysis," said Balcuwitz.

Will's mind spun, trying to grasp the rough diagnosis. "What?"

"Being unable to move, trouble breathing, and experiencing something frightening," Balcuwitz counted off on his fingers. "It's a common thread of symptoms for sleep paralysis that have been around for centuries. Hundreds of years ago people would claim demons or witches were coming into their bedrooms to sit on their chests and terrorized their victims. They would be paralyzed on their beds, unable to breathe properly, and be terrified. More recently people claimed aliens have broken into their houses, drugged them, and then carried them off into space where there was no air."

Rachel picked up the thread of diagnosis. "During the test in the BT, you looked like you couldn't move properly, you had trouble breathing, and suffered a sort of hallucination. And I had to go through video footage and BT data to get that far," Rachel admitted.

Mention of video evidence of Will's break down made the blanket of shame heavier and a sickly flutter in his gut.

"Our belief is that the paralysis is causing the anxiety, not the other way around," soothed Balcuwitz.

"But I was awake during the test," said Will. He had no idea why he was fighting against a diagnosis; perhaps he had wanted something different. Something less scary. "I didn't dream if I wasn't asleep."

"Not specifically a dream, but it felt real to you," said Balcuwitz. "You saw something in your paralysis that caused your attack. Can you remember what."

"I-I don't..."

"It had to have been severe because it made you sick enough to vomit," said Rachel. "You nearly vomited Louis out."

"I...I can't..." I don't want to answer these questions. I didn't know what I was doing. I can't even remember what I had for breakfast today.

You didn't have breakfast today.

See! I can't even remember that.

"Doctor Sampson," Balcuwitz chided gently. "This is not an interrogation."

"I'm not trying to-" Rachel rubbed at her eyes and then pushed back the wisps of hair around her face. "Sorry, hard to stay on target."

Target. The bulls eye stuck to the pressure plate, begging to be punched properly.

"Imagine the bulls eye is Martin Zachs."

Cold gunmetal caressing his stomach. "Does it feel good?"

"Zachs," Will choked out, curling up from the bed and white-knuckle gripping the blanket. "I saw Martin Zachs."

"Oh fuck." Louis' voice rolled in like a truck running on its last drop of gasoline. "That was me."