Restoria VIII

“I gotta apologize to all the new listeners of this station, but there has been a new update on something we have been following along on in our city. There’s been a report of another missing persons from that shopping area downtown. The person’s name this time is Levy Johnson, am I right?”

     “Yes. Aged forty-two. Just shy of six feet.    Graying around the tips. Father of two.      Buying milk of all things.”

“Jesus— I don’t even have it in me to make the obvious joke this time. It’s sad. Its gotta be the sixth one this week— and we’re only on Thursday, folks!”

“Not exactly, Ruphus. Seven. We’re on the     seventh out of four days.”

“Heck! You could count Sunday, too. It would still be ridiculous! This isn’t new either, listeners. How many has it been so far?”

                                                   “Oh my god…”

“Woah! Are you serious there?”

                                           “Four months, t—“

A door opens to the therapy room.

“Dr. Tarsh,” a disgruntled Liz busts through with an immediate slew of words, “my sister had to just had to be sent to the hospital the two days ago after collapsing at her school. The medication you gave her for the headaches last time aren’t working.”

“Sis,” Lutèce embarrassingly enters after Liz, “I’m feeling kinda better now. My head isn’t hurting as much now. We should be okay doing this.”

The doctor lowers the volume of the miniature boombox radio. He closes a book he’s reading and places it beside the boombox on the table it sits upon. Hairy hands move up to the height of his torso as he tries to calm down the situation. The thoughts of repercussions that a patient’s hospitalization can cause for his practice swirl within his mind. Pupils bolt back towards his wall of accolades. Stress envelopes the brain.

A mental battle rages while his physical listens to Liz’s pleas of concern. A desire for this unimaginable knowledge is strong, but at what cost? Risk of his proudest achievement? Loss of his legality to practice? Is this a reason to gamble it all?

Idea of a single word passes through Dr. Tarsh’s brain. A chance at a legacy. Potentially, an idea of a new path forward for humanity could introduce itself into a similar train of thought at some point. The options are nigh endless, but at what cost to the soul? To one’s own moral compass?

“Dr. Tarsh,” Liz breaks through his detached contemplation, “I won’t put my sister at risk like him. Unless you can guarantee a way to help my sister with the migraines, too, then we’ll have to end things here.”

“Liz,” Lutèce argues, “no. You can’t. I need to know what happened, and so do you. There’s ways to deal with headaches like this anyway.”

The doctor interjects, “Yes, the younger Sinclair is right. There are stronger medicines that can assist in quelling such ailments as these. I apologize for not taking more of a note of this before.”

Bottoms of dress shoes scuff the therapy room’s floor. The two scuttle there and back between the armchair and the velvet patient couch. Dr. Tarsh moves to grab his prescription pad amidst the worried ramblings from the sister with the blond highlights. Each concern raised by Liz is another that Dr. Tarsh squashes with supposed knowledge. All while Lutèce goes to lay down on the couch itself, and close her eyes.

“Here,” the doctor scribbles something on his medical pad, “I’m writing the medication down now. That way it will be ready for you on the way out. We’ll have this taken care of. I promise.”

Liz and Dr. Tarsh’s argument settle into an apprehensive peace. Relief might not be at hand, but a stopgap quells the situation for the time being. Both take their seats in their respective spots. Armchair and end of the velvet couch.

“I see you have chosen different clothes on your visit today, Miss Sinclair?” The doctor catches the attention of Lutèce. Enough to open her eyes.

“Yeah,” she looks down at her turquoise-maroon hoodie and flared blue jeans. “Feels better wearing something more substantial again. After being stuck in a hospital gown. Y’know?”

He simply nods. Neither a confirmation or a disagreement. A solemn look is all that shows after his eyes close. Nonetheless, his words move onward.

“Are you ready,” his hand rises towards the radio’s knob, “Miss Sinclair?”

“—zzzrtSABAzzzrt—“

Ocean breezes wash from out of the boombox speakers. Soft seagull calls in the distance. Waves smoothly flow up closes, and— then— recede once more.

Bliss.

“Yep,” Lutèce calmly exhales, “I’m good to go, doc.”

“Ok, Miss Sinclair.” Dr. Tarsh let’s out one last warning, “I’m beginning the process.”

—•—

Lutèce’s mind sinks. Further and further down a familiar depth. It’s becoming a comfortable sensation the more she does this. Quicker in accepting its antics. The faster the descent into her memories becomes.

Wrenley, Mrs. Seres.

Still, thoughts of the most recent interactions come to the forefront.

Bea…

Her most recent regrets, too.

A room?

Imagery of a memory comes into mental view. One that’s foreign to the Lutèce going in. A place with a single sleeping girl in it.

The back of the jacket dad gifted me. Dad…

Another place different from where her current self left her memories. A place of many sounds.

*Snap*