Spiraling Inward

I shouldn’t have told them about the grey men.

The smoky apparitions haunt me during my waking hours, searing eyes glaring down at me from the edges of the ceiling. Although I can only see them through the corner of my eye—they disappear into the mist when I look straight at them—I know they are there. They are always there, taunting me, criticizing and belittling me.

“Tell me more about the voices.” My neuropsychiatrist leans back in his chair.

“Well, what do you want to know?”

“Have there been any other episodes lately?”

“Kind of.” He raises his eyebrows at me. I mumble, correcting myself. “Yes.”

“Tell me about them.” He leans forward, listening intently to what I have to say.

“I—I hear them when the microwave is turned on.” I stumble over my words to clarify. “Like, when it’s cooking something. I hear their voices talking, as though it was a radio.”

He steeples his fingertips together. “What do they say to you?”

“They just talk about their plans to take over the world.” His expression remains neutral. As a result, I laugh uncomfortably. “Don’t worry, I know it’s not real.” A half-truth.

He can see right through me. “How can you be so sure?”

“Firstly, I don’t believe in aliens taking over the world.” I make a shallow-sounding laugh, but my neuropsychiatrist’s face remains masked. “Secondly, I think it’s similar to seeing shapes in clouds. My mind is identifying familiar patterns I’m hearing, making noise sound like words. I’m not mentally ill. I can tell the difference between fiction and reality.”

“I see.” My neuropsychiatrist makes some notes in my file and scribbles something on a notepad. He tears off a small piece of paper, and hands it to me, across his desk.

“What’s this?” I see scribbles on a prescription slip and am confused.

“Something to help with the symptoms you’re experiencing. It’s important that you get it filled right away, and follow the directions from the pharmacist. Go straight to the hospital if your symptoms rapidly worsen.

“In the meantime, I see you’ve been scheduled for an MRI, and are just waiting on your appointment.” I nod at him. “Good.”

I feel a great deal of anxiety as I walk down the corridor of the Sussex building. The symptoms may worsen? They are already troubling as they are, despite my habit of going into denial over anything related to mental illness. I don’t want to be judged by others, so I usually keep things to myself and pretend my symptoms don’t exist.

Maybe I should have just ignored my symptoms—I’m sure my doctors are judging me. I imagine what they must be thinking. She’s crazy. Needs to be locked up.

As I walk down the hall towards the elevator, the first shockwave hits me. I’m thrown to the floor, the world tips sideways, and I start sliding. The building—it’s collapsing! I scream and try to grab onto the door handle closest to me, anything to stop myself from slipping. I smell acrid burning.

One of the doors further down the slope opens, and a man comes rushing out.

“No!” I scream. “Hold on to something!” I think the words, but they come out in an unintelligible mess. I can hear a banging noise that’s becoming deafening. The sound of an electrical current in my ears heightens until it pierces through the racing thumping. Together they become a roar.

However, what worries me most is that I’m sliding toward the end of the hallway that contains a glass picture window. At this rate, my feet will hit the glass, and I’ll crash through the side of the building, which is now angled below me. Then I’ll free-fall to my death. The circumstances of 9/11 flash through my mind. Oh my God! Is it a terrorist attack?

I fear for my life as I slide down the ever-warping hallway. A strong, warm hand grasps my flailing one, and somehow holds me solidly. I still feel like I’m sliding and I must be dragging him down with me. I try to fight him off, to prevent him from falling with me.

My legs are kicking in a reaction of self-preservation, swinging my body rapidly to avoid falling debris. My body twists convulsively of its own accord, making itself a moving target. I feel the building jerking, then stopping, repeating this nauseating rhythm as it continues to tip over. The noise is deafening.

I become aware of more people, as everything spins on a slant. It’s utter chaos. My head feels like it’s about to explode, and I’m about to vomit due to the violent torque. I panic as the large glass window grows bigger, closer. Finally, I crash through the side of the building, into oblivion.

What feels like a lifetime later, I’m pulled from the wreckage, barely registering I’m alive. I hear garbled voices—they sound inhuman, like the grey men from my hallucinations. They are moving me. I float along between the two aliens, as they take me somewhere.

I’m in some type of transport. They shine bright lights in my eyes. The pain! They are torturing me, interrogating me with questions I don’t understand. Their language is foreign to me, but I can tell they are asking me questions by their vocal inflections.

I’m hooked up to a machine. They continue to inflict pain on me. I know they’re probing my brain, due to the sheer agony I feel. I fade in and out as they extract the information they’re looking for from my mind.

Suddenly things become chaotic around me, and I hear noises piercing my skull. There are flurried feet, banging, and loud voices, human mixed with alien. There is some type of struggle. I’m being crushed. I’m being beaten to death.

I come to, and make out some words.

“Come on, hang in there.” Everything fades again.

“…a miracle she’s alive after she crashed like that.”

I can hear voices again, this time just human. I would breathe a sigh of relief, but the weight on my chest is crippling. Something heavy must have fallen on me during my rescue. I’m sure my ribs are broken. I try to form words, to beg my rescuers to remove the crushing boulder incapacitating me, but the syllables get stuck in my throat.

Time ticks by to the sound of a metronome, and my mind floats in and out of awareness, stuck inside this limbo. How much time has passed? One minute, two? An hour, a week—a year?

Although my ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with sponges, I hear beeping and whirring, and start to panic again. The grey men. They must have overpowered my rescuers. Their words are far away and unintelligible. I feign I’m still completely unconscious, with the hope I’ll gain some insight into what’s happened since I’ve been in my purgatory. However, the voices still sound like murmurs. Not that I’d understand their language.

The hard sponges are pulled gently from my ears and I feel a slight bit less pressure in my head. However, what I hear makes my blood run cold. Human voices are now speaking. Humans must be working with the grey men. I feel terribly vulnerable, and now there’s no way I can ask for help. How can I tell which humans are allies? I’d have to assume they’re all working together with the grey men. I don’t dare trust anyone. Anyone could be on their side.

I can tell I’m being moved again. “Let’s get her prepped. Need to shave her head.”

Oh my God. They’re planning on messing with my mind again. I try to struggle, but only succeed in contracting my muscles slightly. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I move? Then I realize. They must have drugged me.

I feel helpless lying there. Almost terrified. Then I feel a warm sensation, and my mind shuts down.

It’s a struggle to open my eyes, and I find myself fading in and out for what feels like a small eternity.

***

A doctor pulls up a seat beside my hospital bed. “Hi, Sarah, I’m the neurosurgeon who operated on you. How are you feeling?”

“What did you do to my brain?” I’m not exactly hostile, but I’m feeling panicky. He must be on their side.

“We did a craniotomy to extract—“

“Oh, God!” I interrupt him with a mournful cry.

He stands up, alarmed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He seems to be genuinely concerned. I can see it in his eyes.

Maybe I’ve misjudged him. Maybe he could help me. I keep my voice to a loud whisper. “Please—help me. Get me out of here…” …before they do something worse to me, I finish off in my mind.

He slowly sits down again. “That’s what we plan to do. We’ll be monitoring you closely over the next few days, which is standard after removing a tumor.”

Confusion hits me. “Tumor?” What the hell is he talking about?

“After your seizure, your emergency MRI showed you had a brain tumor. We did a craniotomy and removed it. It’s been sent to the lab for biopsy. Results should come back from the neuropathologist in several days.”

He could be telling the truth. However, it could be a plot to keep me compliant. I look at him skeptically.

“Seizure? I don’t understand. The building collapsed.” I begin to get agitated. “What about casualties?”

The doctor gives me a confused look, clearly not understanding what I’m asking. “If you’re referring to the reason for the rib pain, that was from CPR, when the team revived you.”

I ignore his comment and ask him more pointedly. “How many casualties from the attack?”

“I think you should get some rest now. It will help with the disorientation.” He stands up to leave.

I’m worried he’s trying to gaslight me. Trust flits outside of my reach.

“No, please…”

“It was a six hour surgery, and your body needs to recover. Give it some time.” He smiles gently at me before he leaves the room.

I feel fatigued. Part of me wants to believe him, whereas the other part rejects what he has to say. It may just all be a manipulation, to keep me from finding out what’s really going on. I really don’t know what to think. My eyes close.

As I drift, halfway between sleep and awake, I dream of the grey men. I’ve never had an experience with them at this level of consciousness. I hear them laughing, not with the usual spite, but with mirth. They are celebrating.

Although they speak no words, an impression falls upon me. They have succeeded in their goal to invade the minds of the people on earth. One person at a time has succumbed to their manipulations. Because I’m aware of what’s really going on, I may be the only one left who can save my planet.

***

As I recover, my belief that something ulterior is occurring grows stronger. My IV is disconnected and I begin physiotherapy. I keep my thoughts to myself. Somewhat.

I notice the strange glances the nurses give me throughout the week, as I try to casually get information from them about the attack on downtown. I know by now they’re all in on the conspiracy, since none of them will divulge any information about it. Most tell me there was no attack at all!

"Hi, Sarah."

I look up at the nurse who's just entered my room.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'm okay." I'm not in the mood for talking, and being judged for what I say.

It's as if she can read my mind. She speaks softly. "You know, you're not being 'judged'. We see this type of thing during patient recoveries. You've had major surgery."

I look down at my hands.

"You know, neurological and mental illnesses aren't something to be ashamed about. Many people suffer from them. The sad thing is that those people often suffer in silence. It helps to talk about things, instead of bottling them inside." She smiles at me.

I force a small smile on my lips. People not judging others with mental illness? In 'my world' people are judged all the time. I don't know how to respond.

However, it gives me something to think about. If people didn't judge others, then their recoveries would be smoother. But part of that responsibility lies with me--accepting that I'm not being judged by others. And to be honest, my automatic response is to reject any notion that people are non-judgmental.

I think about the grey men. If, by chance, they weren't real, they would represent my own harsh judgment of myself--all the mocking, criticism, and belittling. I wouldn't want to believe I judge myself like that. More food for thought.

As time goes on, my hospital stay keeps being extended. They say it’s because I’m not ready to be discharged yet. I’m beginning to doubt they’ll ever let me leave. I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands, if I’m not released soon.

I request access to my purse, which was stowed with my belongings when I first arrived at the hospital. I sign off on receiving my items, and one of the nurses lets me use her phone charger. I tell my nurse I’m planning a trip to the gift shop for a change of scenery.

“You’ll need someone to accompany you, of course.” She looks doubtful.

“A friend will be coming to take me soon.” Yeah, like I’d trust anyone, now the grey men have taken over everyone's minds. I’m essentially on my own.

My nurse eyes my phone and the charger. She must have put two-and-two together that I haven’t contacted anyone yet to accompany me.

“They will need to sign you out before you go with them.” Her tone sounds skeptical.

“Okay. That’s fine. I’ll get ready.”

I shower, change into my clothes, and gather my belongings together. Purposely picking a time when the ward is busy and the nurses are distracted, I sneak out and make my way to the first floor alone. The exertion takes a toll on me. By the time I’ve made it downstairs, I feel “flu-ish”, weak and feverish. I order an Uber on the way to the hospital entrance.

I manage to make it outside, hearing an announcement over the hospital speakers as the doors slide shut.

“Code yellow. Code yellow.”

The Uber arrives as soon as I make it to the curb. Thank God. I slip into my seat and manage to get my seatbelt on.

Just as we turn the corner, I see security running out the hospital entrance, scouring the grounds. Likely looking for me. I shrink down in my seat, hoping they don’t realize I’m inside and take down the license plate. I’m not headed home, since they know where I live.

Instead, we head to the busy city core, my opportunity to lose myself in the cacophony of the bustling crowds. Transportation options are endless downtown. Once I’m hidden in plain sight, I’ll plan my next move.

It’s my first time downtown since the attack, and I wonder if it is still a war-torn mess. Oddly enough, there is no construction, as we drive deeper into the city. I had expected there to be all sorts of roadwork and building construction, due to what I anticipated would be happening downtown to repair the damage. Then again, I’ve been out of it for a while.

I hear sirens, and can only hope they aren’t because of me. What if they placed a tracking implant inside my skull? I hadn’t thought about that possibility at the hospital. The sirens grow closer, but soon become irrelevant. That’s because what I see from my window shocks me.

I startle the driver. “Stop!”

The driver slams on the brakes, in urgency. I push open my door, and stumble onto the pavement. Police cars with flashing lights pull up to the curb. I stand there on the sidewalk in disbelief. In front of me, stands an exact replica of the Sussex building--in perfect condition.

My entire world has been flipped upside down again. I’m gently taken into custody to be returned to the hospital. As the police carefully guide me to their car, I realize the grey men, just like grey matter, are all in my head.