Loving London

Two

Loïc“I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I’ve been living in déjà vu hell for the past week.

I wake. I remember Cooper. I freak out. I’m drugged. I sleep.

And repeat.

In the few lucid moments before said freak-outs occur, I remember everything. All my memories, for good or bad, have returned.

The shitty thing is, most of my memories f*****g suck. I’ve had a miserable life. I lose everything that I love. Everything. A constant nightmare reel is playing in my mind—to torment me, I suppose. I’ve been lying in this bed, unable to escape, and forced to relive all my horrific experiences…over and over and over again.

Fleeting visions of London try to break through all the ugly, but I don’t let her. In fact, thinking about her just pisses me off because I know I can never have her. I will lose her, just like everyone else. I’m not going to wait around for that torturous experience to happen. It all ends now.

I was wrong to let Cooper in. I should have known.

But I won’t take London down with me.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve been in contact with London. Who knows? She might have already moved on. It’s for the best if she has.

Another week has passed. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Each moment passes by like a gray fog, enveloping me in its nothingness.

And that’s what I feel—absolutely nothing. I’m a hollow waste of space.

I no longer jolt awake from my nightmares to find myself screaming in agony until a nurse rushes in with sedatives to calm my cries. Then again, I’ve been finding it difficult to experience any feelings at all. The medical staff has thrown around terms like depression and post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I’ve been taking more pills daily than is probably healthy, but I can’t find it in me to care about that either.

The truth of it is, I’ve lost all my desire—to live, to feel, to love, to care. It’s just gone. Whether from a high dose of medications or as a result of my circumstances and mental state, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t want to feel, care, or love. Why would I? It causes nothing but heartbreak. I’ve had enough hurt for multiple lifetimes.

I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.

I couldn’t physically sustain any more. I’d crumble. Another blow that causes me emotional pain would end me. It’d be over. I know it. I’ve lost all my fight. Simply existing is enough of a struggle. It’s all I can manage.

Blinking, I escape from my thoughts and focus again on what the doctor sitting beside my bed is saying. All right, so I don’t focus on her words per se. I watch as her lips move, noticing the wrinkles beside her mouth shift and bend with each word. She must be at least fifty, maybe even sixty. Her face wears the wrinkles of life well. They’re not deep and weathered, like someone who’s suffered. They’re fine and delicate, like someone who’s lived and aged gracefully. I would bet that she’s had a good life. Her eyes are dark brown, and they shine with happiness. They remind me of another’s eyes, of a beautiful girl I used to love, but I push that thought down deep, where I won’t have to confront it.

What’s her name again?

Dr. W-something. Maybe Wayne? Washington? White?

I can’t remember even though she’s come to see me every day for the past week. My gaze drops to the badge she wears. Squinting, I read, Dr. Olivia Warner.

That’s it.

Dr. Warner has been more than patient with me. Frankly, I’m not sure why she keeps coming. It has to be clear that I’m not really listening to her. I barely speak in our sessions. I don’t want to participate in this psychoanalytical s**t that she’s attempting. I have no desire to break down my walls, face my fears, or anything of the sort. I certainly don’t want to talk about any of it. I’m content to remain in my state of empty existence.

“Loïc?” Her voice is louder than normal with a persistent tone.

It startles me enough to break my stare that was analyzing her pink silk blouse. I snap my eyes up to meet her expectant gaze.

“I said, have you contacted any of your loved ones, like we spoke about?”

I simply gape at her.

“Loïc, it’s important for your recovery. You need to feel that connection with people who care about you. There’s a life waiting for you back home. It’s crucial that you remind yourself of that. Can you please try to contact someone from home? A call would be best, but you can start with an email if that makes you more comfortable. Would you like me to help you?”

I shake my head. “I can do it.”

Dr. Warner lets out a breath of relief. It isn’t often that I respond to one of her questions. I suppose it’s only fair that I give her this small victory.

“That’s great, Loïc. I promise you, it will help you heal. It’s so important for you to realize that you have so much to live for.” She smiles, and a warm kindness exudes from her. I know she means well. “As you know, this is our last session. My colleague, Dr. Benjamin, will be continuing your therapy while you’re at Walter Reed. He’s a wonderful man.”

I nod even though I couldn’t care less who’ll be taking her place.

Dr. Warner talks for a while longer, little of which I actually hear, before she smiles at me one last time and exits my room.

Tomorrow, I will be flying back to the States. I’ll be getting a prosthetic leg, several new doctors, and a new regimen of therapies, both physical and psychological. I don’t know how to feel about it all, so I suppose I’ll continue feeling nothing.