Page 118 of A Stop in Time
The man is dressed in an expensive-looking tailored pants beneath his white lab coat. Fancy script is embroidered below his lapel, designating his name. Dr. Pinney.
The man’s expression turns from placid to volatile fury in the blink of an eye. “Why is she not sedated?” he yells at the intern behind him.
“Oh, I, uh—” the young man stutters, eyes wide with panic. “I’m not sure—”
The doctor ignores the other man and holds up his hands as if surrendering to me. His words are spoken with care, each syllable precisely enunciated. “Mackenzie, you need to take your medicine.”
He snaps his fingers twice and hums, and my body jolts as if it’s just received an electrical shock. “Why don’t you get back up there and lie down for us?”
My body moves against my wishes, and I try to protest, pushing with all my might to get the words out and say, “No!” but it doesn’t work.
My muscles obey, and within a moment’s time, I’m lying back on the cushioned chaise, watching the intern prepare the syringe.
I cry out inside my mind, begging myself to move, to fight against this crazy control, but it’s no use.
Swamped with drowsiness barely a second after the syringe is depressed, the edges of my vision go dark. My entire skull feels like two tons of weight are perched atop my neck.
Before I fade into oblivion, I hear his words, “Your next victim will be…”
I drift above the scene before I’m plummeted back into another memory.
My hands cradle my head while I huddle on the closet floor. The pain grows more intense, leeching all oxygen from my lungs as I attempt to will it away.
“Look under the far-left corner floorboard of your closet,” I whisper to myself, while fear pulses through me. “Don’t let him make you into a monster.”
“And that is the conclusion to your self-guided hypnosis meditation.”
I blink rapidly against the library’s florescent lighting. My fingers frantically click the mouse to close out all windows before I yank off the headphones. Tremors wrack my body, and it takes a few attempts to hang the headphones on their little hook.
A sheen of sweat dampens my hairline, and my chest rises and falls with labored breaths. A sudden awareness edges in, alerting me to dampness on my face. With shaky hands, I reach up, and my fingertips encounter tracks of tears that cut a path down my cheeks.
“Holyshitholyshitholyshit,” I whisper-hiss. Hands dropping to my lap, my fingers clench and unclench, my mind bombarded by what I’ve just revealed.
What the hell does that all mean? Holyfuckingshit, it can’t be true. It could be that what I’m remembering aren’t even real memories. What if they’ve been put in my head by that doctor?
One final task nags at me, and the way my body quakes has my fingertips practically rattling against the keys. Using the encrypted search engine again, I frantically type:
Jacksonville, Florida, military bases+forests
Going on memory alone from that “ambulance” ride likely won’t be too reliable, but at least it’s something to go on. I know I was close to a base.
I scan the results, but it takes scouring a handful of maps before I find it.
On the closest military base, their outer boundary is separated by what is classified as a national protected forest.
On the map, I have to click the zoom in option multiple times to find the tiny square of a building that sits on a small section of land not included on the official military base. It sits apart in a vacant area all its own.
That’s it. Every molecule in my body instinctively recognizes it.
With my heart ricocheting against my rib cage, I let out a shaky breath and hastily exit out of everything. Pressing my finger and thumb together, I let time resume and scramble out of my chair, hellbent on hightailing it out of here.
Don’t let him make you into a monster. That’s what I’d said to myself. But it’s the fear I felt in that moment that still lingers with me, like a thick blanket enveloping my body.
I shove open the library’s heavy oak door and suck in a lungful of air. Hands still trembling, my knees weak at what I just remembered, I force myself to remain upright as I trek down the road toward home.
Is my whole life a lie? If my mind’s been manipulated, how am I supposed to know what’s real and what I’ve been made to believe is real?
When it said “carries out assassinations willingly,” does that mean I’m a murderer? And what the hell does it mean when it said I “adopted” the identity of Mackenzie Ford?