A cold, thick bolt is slid into a locking position on a large, heavy steel door, its echo reverberating down a long, anonymous corridor, modestly lit by the moonlight struggling to emerge through a single, barred-up and frosted window.  With an urgent twist of a key, the door to Room 10 is secured.

“Satisfied, Officer?” an orderly asks, with a hint of frustration over not originally being taken at his word.

“Yes.  Satisfied,” a plain but smartly dressed man answers, before turning to walk away.  With his shadow leading him down the corridor, he enters an elevator, leaving the floor.

Inside Room 10, a child lies motionless in the foetal position on white, padded flooring, staring listlessly in the direction of one of the similarly padded walls.  The child’s eyes glisten with a cocktail of tears and medicinal eye drops, and appear glazed over as a consequence of an acutely powerful injection of Diazepam.  Aside from the gentle murmuring of its sole occupant, the only sound filling the diminutive room is the intermittent buzz of the fluorescent lighting, recessed into the high ceiling.  

The desolation of the room is a singular entity, devoid of a tether to the remainder of the building, and far removed from the beating heart of the society thriving outside its barren walls.

The rhythmic drone of the lights is momentarily broken by a soft, lone voice.  From their position on the floor, the child begins to perforate their catatonic calm via the gasping repetition of one sentence:

“I’m…awake.”  


E I G H T E E N    H O U R S    E A R L I E R


07.30. The district of Stamos slowly judders to life with the ascendance of the sun.  Market stalls begin their final preparations for the day’s trading; the few café’s in the area open their doors to the sparse commuter crowd and the final throes of the night subside to make way for the kinetic reign of daytime.  Inside a small box-room within an equally undersized apartment lies a young boy of ten years.  He stares at the ceiling with no definitive focus, once again deprived of a night’s sleep by his unfettered mind.  His gaze is transferred towards the bedroom door after a gentle tapping upon it.

“Billy, are you awake?” asks a yawning middle-aged woman softly, whilst entering the room.  

“Time for breakfast,” she continues with a smile, upon noticing Billy’s state.

Five minutes later, and a freshly dressed Billy exits his bedroom, and walks the short distance to the kitchen, sitting to a table.  The woman places a bowl of cornflakes in front of him, brushing the back of his jet black hair down with her fingers simultaneously.  

“Eat up, Billy.  Mum knows best,” she says, with another encouraging smile.  Billy stares at the cereal for a moment as if confused by his role, and then glances towards his Mother.

Placing the spoon in Billy’s hand, she guides it into the bowl, and towards his mouth.

“Come on, you must eat to gain your strength.  Big day today, it’s Sports day.”  

Billy accepts the spoon’s offering, and chews slowly and uniformly.  His Mother watches him for a moment, with a beaming smile and slightly saddened eyes.

“Your Father would be so proud to see how well you’re doing, Billy,” she says whilst stroking his hair once more.  “I know he would’ve wanted to be there to see you run today, too.  He was always so proud of you,” she adds, before turning to fix her own breakfast.

Billy, having been reminded of the momentarily forgotten morning ritual, finishes the bowl, takes his school bag hanging from his chair, and proceeds out of the kitchen towards the front door.

“Billy?” his mother shouts out to him, whilst running out to meet him.  “Have a good day.  I love you,” she says as she embraces her only son closely, whilst fighting back tears as Billy stands loosely, his arms hanging lifelessly by his side.

Billy leaves the apartment, enters the nearby elevator, and exits the apartment building to the bus stop right outside.


A F T E R N O O N    R E C E S S


“Ok, kids.  Back here in fifteen minutes for Art,” Billy’s teacher bellows above the clanging recess bell.  Just as the bell abates, and the class runs out to the playground outside, the classroom telephone rings.  She answers immediately.

“Hello?”

“Susannah, it’s Helen.  Billy’s Mother is on line two for you again.”  

Susannah sighs with weary resignation.  The daily communication had begun to take its toll, though the reasoning behind it had not escaped her.  Billy and his parents had been involved in a car accident nine months ago.  Billy had spent 10 days in a coma from impact, and had only returned to school a month previously.  He had lost his Father to an instant death due to air-bag failure, his Mother escaping with minor injuries.  As a result of his coma, Billy had been slow to regain basic motor functions, and was adjudged to be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, the major symptoms of which being his constant, almost somnambulant state, and unwillingness to speak a single word.  Susanne had taken calls from his Mother everyday since his return to school, the constant worry of a caring, still grieving woman of similar age forcing her to frequently confront her own mortality.

“Ok, thanks, Helen.  Put her through.”

“Hello, Mrs Kendrick.  How are you today?” she asks, after a short pause.

“Oh, I’m…I’m fine, thank you.  How is he?” Billy’s Mother asks anxiously.

Susannah offers an oft-used response.  “He’s fine, Mrs Kendrick.  He’s outside with the others now.  I can see him out through the window, right now.”  

“Good, good.  Is he playing with the other children at all?”

“I’m afraid not.  I’m sure he’ll bounce back soon enough,” Susannah tries to say, reassuringly, struggling to invoke the requisite comforting tone.  Billy’s Mother had been through so much that Susannah didn’t know how to successfully placate her invariable concern.

Mrs Kendrick, with silent disappointment, resigns to remain resolute for yet another day, hangs up with an abruptness derived from an aching bitterness, and a desire to quickly distract herself from the day’s anti-climactic phone call.  

“I’m sorry,” Susannah says softly to herself upon hearing the newly emergent dial-tone.  She cannot help but be saddened by her daily call, her sense of duty and compassion heightened by the weight of the caller’s distress.

The playground is a vast, swollen mass of children innocently blowing off steam.  Scattered laughter, playful screams and frenetic energy permeate the cold, winter’s air.  Billy leans against the chain-link fence beyond the playground alone, staring outside the school’s boundary with no specific focus.  His mind floats around a thousand thoughts,  dancing around many but settling on none.  

The children’s laughter turns to piercing screams as a man sprints through the crowd, rapidly influencing its dispersion, and stopping momentarily to pinpoint his next move.  He continues on towards the fence, and with a cursory glance back over his shoulder he slams into the unseen Billy, knocking him to the floor with a violent thud.  Almost immediately getting to his feet again, and seemingly unfazed, Billy looks up to see the man scaling the ten foot high fence, dropping to the floor the other side.  He breaks into another sprint, causing the sickening collision of bumpers and tailgates in the busy road which he haphazardly traverses.  

The synapse of a long since suppressed memory jolts to life within Billy’s brain, as the recollection of his parent’s crash flooding mercilessly back into his consciousness.  Screams, pain, the grind of metal on metal, sirens, blood and tears all smash their way into Billy’s immediate thoughts.  He suddenly stiffens up with a flash of severe pain, which swiftly spreads throughout his body.  He directs a silent scream to the sky as his head begins to jerk violently from side to side, his consciousness failing to hold its grip.  Code bleeds from his every pore and orifice, finding new shape and form as one last spasm into rigidity brings the pain to an abrupt end.  

An agent occupying the space where Billy once stood, leaps over the fence, and gives chase to the anonymous fleeing man.


W H E R E    D A Y    S U B M I T S


“Nurse…NURSE, he’s awake,” exclaims Mrs Kendrick loudly, from her seating position beside Billy as he slowly opens in eyes in a bed within Stamos First General Hospital.  He is flanked by an attached Intravenous drip and steadily beeping heart monitor, a mesh of wires and electrodes lead from his forehead and chest.  Upon hearing Mrs Kendrick’s cries, a nurse enters the room with a male doctor in tow.  The doctor checks Billy’s pupils with a small pocket torch, and proceeds to check all of his motor functions, including a failed attempt to visualise his throat due to Billy’s continued silence.

“Mrs Kendrick, may we speak in the hall, please?” asks the doctor, opening the door behind them as they both leave the room.

“I’ll be right outside, Billy,” Mrs Kendrick reassuringly tells her son, whilst joining the doctor just outside the room.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” she asks anxiously, instantly interpreting the look of concern on the doctor’s face as something about which to be equally as concerned.

“Billy was found unconscious on the floor of an alley, around a mile from his school, is this correct?”

“Yes, the police said he looked as though he had fallen from the fire escape steps on the first floor of a building, which knocked him unconscious.  I have no idea how he got there, or why he left school,” she responds whilst tiredly pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And there’s nothing else they told you about the incident that you can tell me?”

“Mrs Kendrick straightens up and looks at the doctor with alarm, repeating her earlier question with increased tension “Why.  What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wish to give you cause for alarm, Mrs Kendrick, I’m just attempting to identify the root cause of Billy’s symptoms.”

“He didn’t just knock his head?” she asks quizzically.

“Upon conducting a standard neurological examination, we found abnormalities in the hippocampus and amigdyla, which can’t have been caused by a fall, or the resulting concussion.  They both appear to be functioning erratically, and quite frankly we’re at a loss to explain the reasons why.”

“What does all that mean; does he have a tumour in his brain, or cancer?  My grandmother died of cancer a few years ago.”

“No, it’s nothing of that nature, Mrs Kendrick,” the doctor returns with a well-practiced soothing tone.  He lowers the volume of his voice to grant some semblance of privacy in the hallway.  “What Billy’s experiencing is an apparent systemic fragmentation of his brain’s emotional centre, which we cannot correlate with his other physical ailments which, in turn can only be described as random, at this point.  I have to inform you that his disintegration can sometimes be found in patients suffering from a personality disorder.  However, our neurologist found no evidence of it being retroactive, meaning that it’s relatively new.  So far we’ve been monitoring him closely, and will continue to do so for as long as it takes to run some more tests, reach a solid diagnosis, and treat the problem.”     

“So you’re saying he has a personality disorder?  That he’s emotionally stunted?  I don’t understand what you’re saying, is he going to die?” Mrs Kendrick enquires tearfully, the strain of Billy’s new ailment just too heavy a load to carry.  She quickly loses the battle to resist, and breaks into a howl, unleashing months of torment in one agonising release.

“Mrs Kendrick, we’re just trying to diagnose, at this point.  There’s really no cause for…”

The blaring alarm of both Billy’s brain and cardiac monitor, and his subsequent violent shuddering demands both party’s attention, causing them both to run back into the room, along with a nearby nurse.

“Billy?  Billy can you hear me?” the doctor asks, whilst repeating a check of Billy’s eyes, which both roll up involuntarily.  “He’s seizing, push haloperidol IV.”

“Billy…Billy no…Billy…” his Mother screams in desperate defiance of his altered state.  

The nurse complies with the doctor’s order, and Billy’s trembles slow as he comes to a rest once again.  

The frenzied sound of the room echoes and fades as Billy’s mind receives uninvited flashes of sporadic images and voices, interspersed with nightmarish visions of a dystopian abyss, lined with infinite walls adorned with transparent shells.  The air is thick with a vengeful abandon, the sky long since suffering a terrible death.

“Proceed to execution of program #611189DX5…”

The disembodied voice trails off as Billy’s medication takes effect, and he falls into a deep sleep.

Random flashes and voices bombard Billy late into the evening, as lucidity and coherence dance around each other akin to similarly charged magnets attempting to reconcile.  Images come in pairs, and with increasing frequency.  He sees his Mother screaming, battling the doctors in both a verbal and physical struggle.  The image dissolves into pieces of green code, morphing and cascading.  Traditional time comes loose from its linear shackles,  and is replaced by the oscillating churn of audio and visual input.


T H E    B L A C K


“Program’s code disseminated.  Code leak characterised by cerebral transference.  Mutual code actualised.  Program termination results in elimination of both hosts.  Elimination is not…is not…viable.  Proceeding with task…not viable…proceeding with task...”

Billy lies in the Psychiatric ward of the hospital, awake but heavily sedated and strapped down to his bed.  His doting Mother, also sedated following her collapse earlier that evening, lays in a bed a few floors down.  His chart hangs from a hook at the foot of the bed, detailing the doctor’s findings.  They had had no choice but to commit Billy to psychiatric care after his rapid deterioration into what medically presented as a ‘state of rare but extreme catatonia, brought on by causes unknown.’   The doctor’s notes suggested that Billy was a danger to himself and others, displaying ‘unprecedented strength and vigour’ when attempts to physically restrain him were made for his own safety.  

Two orderlies pull Billy’s bed out from the room, wheeling it down a long, anonymous corridor, and stopping to unlock Room 10 at the end.  They hesitate for a few seconds in  momentary fear of the boy.  Neither of them seeing anything like his level of ostensibly unprovoked, and random ferociousness before.  The elder of the two orderlies secretly believed the child to be possessed by a demon, and felt fearful of it transferring upon touch.  The other had only started working in this ward recently, inspired by the ease of the night-shift.  He had never imagined he would witness such a thing.  Let alone in a child.  Putting their fears aside, the orderlies carry Billy into Room 10, lying him down on his side as per the instructions of the doctors, anxious about vomiting.  They quickly back out of the room, still unnerved at the silent aggressor.

                                                         *  *  *

The younger of the two orderlies sits at the nurse’s station with his feet up on the counter.  A reality show plays on his portable television, viewed sparingly through his tired eyes.  A plain, but smartly dressed man approaches.  He strikes a bell on the counter which jolts the orderly awake.

“Oh…hey…yeah how can I help ya?”  The orderly asks whilst rubbing his eyes and quickly removing his feet from their resting place.

“There’s a patient I wish to speak to, a young boy.  I require a room number,” the man replies, flashing a police officer’s badge.

The orderly pushes himself on his chair over to a set of wall-mounted pigeon-holes, and gathers some files, pushing his chair back to the counter with them.  “Oh, sure, lemme check.  We just wheeled in a kid a couple hours ago, freaky little guy.  Don’t you need a warrant or something to see a patient this late?”

“That won’t be viable…necessary,” the man returns, fumbling his words uncharacteristically.

Accessing the situation for a further few seconds, and deciding not to create any unnecessary aggravation for himself, the orderly scans the file a final time.

“Oh yeah, room 10.  Good luck getting’ him to speak, though.  I think he’s all ‘mute’, or whatever.”   

“Program has lost capability to vocalise...I’m so sorry, Billy…Proceeding with task…Not viable…Threat low…Target secure.”

“His room is a secure room, yes?” The man asks immediately after the orderly.

“Yeah, man.  It’s solid.  No one’s getting in or out without coming through me first, ya know?” The orderly responds, with conscious bravado.

“It’s not your fault…Threat neutralised…Proceeding with task…Not viable…Target secure.”

The man says nothing for several moments, before the orderly interrupts the awkward silence.

“Hey, man.  You ok?”  He asks, waving a hand in front of the man’s face.

“Open it,” the man says declaratively, upon turning and walking towards the room.

The orderly quickly runs round to the front of the counter in response to the man’s haste.

“Hey.  Hey!.  I told you it’s solid, man.  I can’t let you in there without a court order.  Hey!”  He calls down the corridor before running down it.

Reaching the man who had stopped outside Room 10, the orderly takes a few seconds to catch his breath, and find the relevant key.

“Ok, ok.  I can just let ya take a peak as long as it stays between us, right?” He says, whilst sliding across a bolt, and twisting the lock open.  

“There he is, safe as houses.  Now I gotta shut this up before someone sees,” he offers, urgently.

“Program location secure…Proceeding with task…Not viable…We’ll get through this, I promise…Location secure…Location secure…”

“Satisfied, Officer?” the orderly asks, with a hint of frustration over not originally being taken at this word.

“Yes.  Satisfied,” the plain but smartly dressed man answers, before turning to walk away.  With his shadow leading him down the corridor, he enters an elevator, leaving the floor.

Exiting the elevator, crossing the foyer, and pausing outside the hospital’s main doors, the man raises his hand to an earpiece in his left ear.

“Task complete,” he declares into it, before walking down a side-alley, disappearing into the night.

Inside Room 10, a child lies motionless in the foetal position on white, padded flooring, staring listlessly in the direction of one of the similarly padded walls.  The child’s eyes glisten with a cocktail of tears and medicinal eye drops, and appear glazed over as a consequence of an acutely powerful injection of Diazepam.  Aside from the gentle murmuring of its sole occupant, the only sound filling the diminutive room is the intermittent buzz of the fluorescent lighting, recessed into the high ceiling.  

The desolation of the room is a singular entity, devoid of a tether to the remainder of the building, and far removed from the beating heart of the society thriving outside its barren walls.

The rhythmic drone of the lights is momentarily broken by a soft, lone voice.  From their position on the floor, the child begins to perforate their catatonic calm via the gasping repetition of one sentence:

“I’m…awake.”