Triggered Memories

A great cry, a mournful wail, an ear-piercing scream—an altogether heart-wrenching picture of a young woman crying out for her life, eyes shot forward in sheer panic. It was a blurry picture and a fainting frame. There she was in her car, seemingly cornered in her driveway. It was a long driveway going downhill, away from a lofty home that stood before it. Her screams were so frightened. It was like seeing a child alone in a dark room. So scared, so isolated; pending certain doom. She just kept screaming, waving her hands so as to frighten away something, or someone.

It was dark, possibly midnight, as the moonlight shone brightly above the tree line. Yes, there were trees. There were trees everywhere. They were evergreen trees. This place, then, was in the middle of some forest out in North America, perhaps some state in the New England region. It was a vast rural area with few occupants. Maybe one or two other houses stood in close proximity, if a few acres of land were to be considered close. The roads in between were of gravel and extended for a couple of miles in both directions perpendicular to the driveway. Any immediate help would not be so immediate, though her shrieks would warrant immediate attention.

There was glass everywhere, and the car was so loud for a small Toyota. That car alarm could have been compared to a rooster, a rooster with no regard for healthy hearing. Anyone within a few feet would have suffered throbbing headaches from the repeating sounds of alarm. There must have been witnesses who saw or at least heard the commotion. Surely any neighbor from within five miles would have heard the pounding waves emanating from the driveway.

What terrible thing was happening that night? The image was too distorted to extract a clear view of the scene. It happened so fast. There was a rush of adrenaline and impulse. Details began to mesh together and what could have been certain was left uncertain. In summary, there was this young, frightened woman, no older than 25, and with blonde hair. Her eyes stood out as ocean blue from what could be made of her glance of horror. She was wearing pajamas; perhaps she came running from the house. Her driver’s side window was smashed, glass scattered. Her car, definitely a Toyota, was a baby blue color. It could have been baby blue, or maybe that was just the color of her eyes. Maybe the color of her eyes was the same as the coating of her car. Maybe none of that was true.

Now, there was also a man present at the scene. He was standing by the driver’s side of the car. While the young woman was screaming, he stood there in deep thought, observing the scene from a distant, yet slightly disturbed disposition. He felt as though he was the one scaring the young woman and breaking her window. He felt as though he was the one putting her life in danger. The headache from the car alarm was his headache. The shattered glass window was smashed by his right hand. But something about all of this just didn’t sit right with him. Something about this whole occurrence didn’t seem clear, or real.

Nolan? Nolan?

Suddenly, a strange voice came from above in the night sky. It was like an echo reaching out into the deepest parts of the surrounding neighborhood. It seemed to be a human voice, a female voice.

Nolan? Nolan, can you hear me?

This voice was hard to explain or describe. The man began to wonder if the picture of the young woman screaming, and the honking car, and the great horror that engulfed that space, was but a nightmare, a dark fantasy.

Nolan…I need you to come back to me.

Everything began to fade, no, flush, into warped blackness, like a flash of pictures and memories coming together and pulling apart at once.

Nolan!

Nolan, a troubled man, with cuffs around his hands and feet, suddenly awoke and entered back into reality, the present day. The cold, steel handcuffs around his wrists were like cold rings that kept his hands clutched together. He could also feel the cold table under his clenched fists as the table was also made of steel. Cold room, cold clothes, cold air—Nolan found himself assured in what he knew to be a moment in reality. Yet though he was assured in one sense, he was unsettled in another. Fear, anxiety, concern, and other emotions associated with panic and distress, began to crawl up his spine and over his head.

There stood a female before him, across the table, a woman in professional attire. He recognized her voice as the voice calling out to him.

“Nolan, you went back into your mind again.” She said, like a mother to a son.

A great headache came before his eyes in response to her words. He did not recall going back anywhere. There was, in fact, a failure to account for the time he spent between his waking up that morning and his sitting down with her at the current moment.

How did I get here?

The woman, whose nametag read “Dr. Lesedi Jenkins,” closed a file held between her hands and laid it aside on the table. There then followed a disappointed sigh from the doctor, evidently a psychiatrist. There was no police badge or anything identifying her as an official of law enforcement. She had a black scarf around her neck, a navy-colored blouse, and a black skirt, so far as Nolan could see in front of him. She looked at him with her dark, piercing eyes. It was as if she could see right through him. She stared intently, right at his eyes. Definitely a psychiatrist. Nolan was uncomfortable and yet comforted at the same time. Although he did not know exactly what was going on or why he was there, in cuffs, he saw that she was giving him her full attention.

Dr. Jenkins cleared her throat before continuing, “Nolan, if we are going to get a better understanding of what you did and why you did it, you need to start talking to me. We cannot afford to have you fall back into your mind again. Not now, not in these circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Nolan asked, like a child anticipating bad news.

“Nolan,” she replied, with more emphasis, “how you’re going to spend the rest of your life rests entirely on how we go about this conversation.”

Nolan shuttered at the realization that something he might have caused happened.

“What details—what case? I do not know what you are talking about?”

Dr. Jenkins closed her eyes and took another deep sigh, “Nolan, please.”

“What?” retorted Nolan, with each word having sharper breaths, “I do not know what is going on or why I am in cuffs. I don’t know why I am in this room with you! I don’t know!”

Dr. Jenkins pulled out a photo from the case file laid to the side, sliding the photo face-down across the table. She brought the photo to Nolan’s attention, that he may look at its content.

Nolan’s heart began to pace faster the closer the photo came to his hands, the closer his hands came to flipping the card face-up. Thoughts began to race as to what could possibly be taken in the photo that he was about to see. His hands became heavy and his joints weak. Once the photo was face-up, a trembling gasp shot out of his chest.

“No.” he said, trembling, “No, no, no, I didn’t do this!”

Yet another sigh, that of pity, proceeded forth from Dr. Jenkin’s heart.

“Nolan, it is going to be very difficult for me to continue if you are not forthcoming.”

“No!” he shouted, “I did not do this—there is no way I did this!”

Seeing that Nolan was beginning to lose control of his emotions, Dr. Jenkins refocused herself on appeasing his ever-growing despair. She stretched out her hands so as to signal him to relax, speaking calmly but firmly as Nolan began to tremble uncontrollably. She perceived his mind as completely unstable.

“Nolan, please, you need to calm down.”

It was pointless to speak any further. His mind began to wax worse and worse as his eyes rolled back and his breathing stuttered with quick gasps and choked grunts. Nolan’s body began to stiffen as his head leaned toward his right side. His body shook his hands and feet, and his hands and feet shook his chains, and his shaking chains shook the table, and the table began to shake against the ground. The convulsions were mild on their own, but collectively, it was quite the commotion. The entire room revolved around Nolan’s failure to control his own body. Words could no longer come to his aid—only a physical intervention could do that.

At this point in the interrogation, several officers entered the room to aid Dr. Jenkins attempt at restoring Nolan’s mind. Seeing that Dr. Jenkins was already holding his head, the officers went straight for the legs and feet. Voices and commands shot back and forth as Nolan choked in his own spit. It took all of their strength to hold him down.

“He’s experiencing some kind of seizure!” said Dr. Jenkins. She spoke through her teeth as she strenuously held onto Nolan’s head between her hands. Her priority was to determine what was causing his seizures. She used her index fingers from both hands to hold back his eyes, checking to see if his eyes were moving in rapid succession. It is one thing for a patient to experience seizures by means of neurological deficiencies. Yet to succumb to bodily malfunction due to highly induced stress alone suggests an instability typical of a mind prone to seizures in the past. “Perhaps he has epilepsy, or some other mental condition susceptible to these episodes.” she thought. A sharp ticking suddenly caught her attention from the wall in front of her. There hung a clock turning in time, the secondhand ticking from second to second. Dr. Jenkins then remembered to keep track of the time to measure Nolan’s episode. The length of an episodic seizure, after all, could indicate the underlying causes.

There followed a brawny voice from out the hallway, saying, “He’s done it again.”

The attending officers nodded to themselves in agreement, leaving Dr. Jenkins confused.

“What has he done again?” she asked.

An officer of higher rank stepped into the room with a composed step and a cynical brow.

“Lieutenant Lorde,” said he, introducing himself, “the guy who apprehended the suspect.” Approaching the table, Lieutenant Lorde observed the scene with a scoff and leaned over to look closer at Nolan’s predicament. “He will be alright,” he concluded, “his body is relaxing again.”

Dr. Jenkins commanded the lieutenant’s attention by her sharp gaze. Her eyes, after all, were quite demanding in nature. She demanded of him, saying, “What did he do again?”

“The seizures, of course.” he replied. “Soon after we apprehended this Nolan, we were traveling back to this precinct, when he suffered a seizure right in my car. Red light turned green, and—boom—seizure.”

The lieutenant’s report gave no answers to Dr. Jenkins, but it did give clarity to another person in the room, one who was hardly conscious. Nolan, in a frozen state of mind, heard the lieutenant recount his arrest, upon which he recalled a trigger. A green light. No, not the green light as in the traffic light. No. It was a green, flickering light, with a stick going side to side across it. Tick, tick, tick. All Nolan could recall was this little device in front of him, shining forth a green light that would flash each time the stick passed from left to right. He felt fixated on it…like he was being hypnotized.