𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚘 - 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝟹𝟸𝙱
𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚘 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚊, 𝚄𝚂𝙰

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It's a myth that Los Angeles doesn't get snow.

Maybe it's because most people think of sunny California and can't imagine a palm tree with a dusting of fresh powder, but it does happen.

It's the same with isolated high-altitude psychosis. Now, this is just a fancy word for when someone climbs three thousand meters above sea level and meets a man named John.

John is a swell guy. He has a bad haircut, shows you pictures of his family, offers words of encouragement, and then he vanishes without a trace. Because John was never actually there to begin with. Most people mistakenly misdiagnose this "mountain madness" as mere altitude sickness or write it off as a myth altogether, but it does happen.

Sure, they're both rare and in high elevations, but the point is there are always ways to explain why things happen; even if people think they're impossible.

Like how in 1949 San Pedro had six inches of snow that lasted for 3 days, how some people hear voices while scaling Everest, and how I saw a man in my dreams who happened to be real.

I know I seem crazy, and that's because I am.

Crazy and currently being strapped to a bed with medical restraints by nurses who look at my chart with soft eyes. I don't know if they realize the restraints are unnecessary or if it's only protocol, but then again what even is protocol in this situation. As the cushioned leather pinches my skin, I wonder what kind of damage they really think I could do. Because as much as I'd love to fight my way through a six-bodied nursing staff, some security guards, and run screaming through the hospital in a paper gown, realistically I can barely lift a finger.

In fact, my body's been nothing more than a breathing medical dummy for the past three days. The only things I can really control now are my senses and my mind, and by the end of the day I won't even have those. After today, I'll officially lose everything that makes me, well me.

As they finish securing me to the hospital bed I get a glimpse of the clipboard and my final diagnosis. It's written out in blotchy thick letters and I find some comfort in knowing that they finally settled on schizophrenia as the resting cause for my restless insanity. At least with the misdiagnosis I'll keep him safe. Like a natural instinct or a defense mechanism, images of him invade my mind. For an instance I see his crooked nose, the funny way his ears stick out from his side cap, and the frown lines that form when he's cooking.

Dimitri.

I guess in this scenario he is my "John"; only with a much better haircut and a Slavic accent.

But sadly, as the lights start to dim, he is also my distraction and I need a clear head for what's about to happen. So I push the thoughts of him from my mind and focus on the room instead.

One by one, the sterile lights shut off until all that's left is the heat of a small tangerine bulb. Judging by the cigar smoke in the air and the scrapping of metal chairs on linoleum, I guess there's about fifteen other bodies—not including staff—that are here to witness the procedure.

There's an unease in the air, as suited women cross their ankles and gruff men grumble amongst themselves, a nervousness that stinks of wasted grant money and medical essays as the onlookers grow impatient. They can't see him, and neither can I, but I've known Dr. Desmond McLeod long enough to know that he's been standing behind the thick metal doors for ten minutes waiting to make a grand entrance.

Building the suspense. The intrigue.

That should have been the first tip that set off the alarms in my head; the realization that the 'good doctor' was and would always be a showman first and a scientist second.

With both hands he throws open the doors and strides into the room, his chin up and his eyes set on the stage in front of him. I can hear the whirl of his white coat as he slides through the aisles, patting shoulders and shaking hands as he moves with a smug smile and a stench of English Leather.

My little army of nurses and assistants step back, leaving the single light on me and the doctor. He turns his back, interlocks his fingers and waits for the crowd to settle.

You'd never guess he was a doctor. Some people just have a look about them, a compassion in their eyes and a demeanour that says 'I'm here to help you'. But Desmond radiates a con man or an airboat captain sailing around the armpit of Florida.

He's the only doctor I've ever seen wear leather sandals with a lab coat and even in this low light I can tell he's spent the past week working on his tan, rather than helping his patients.

Compared to him I must be a ghost.

Eight weeks? Maybe nine since I've seen the sun. Hell, it's only been three weeks since I've been awake long enough to know what day it is. Maybe I've been in this prison of hallways and two-way-mirrors for years at this point, meanwhile he's been lounging on the beach.

"Ladies and Gentlemen." He says, his cultured tone floating across this once-familiar-room, "Esteemed colleagues, fellow men of science, and Members of the Board. Today we make history."

I can't see his face, but I know there's a glimmer in his eyes that reflects what he's thinking. Daydreaming that soon he'll be swimming in a pool full of dirty money, this surgery the birth of his career, all while being the end to my life.

"We are pioneers here today. Victors in a molecular and biological battle of wits and will, and while we've always known we are champions, today we will prove it. While all our tests have yielded groundbreaking results, what will happen here today will allow us to control the human mind and to reach the full potential of our humble species."

"Today we will reset the brain. We will perfect the practice of remaking and re-correcting a subject's natural wiring, and we will reconnect the parts of the mind back to their proper state. The state of a pure, honourable and patriotic American woman. Our volunteer, Miss. Edwards, was a young lady who once lived by those values. A young woman I had the pleasure to train and nurture, will be giving up a part of herself today, and for that I think we should take a moment of silence. To honour her."

The soft beeps of machinery quicken to a cry for help as my pulse races. I've spent months in a constant state of stillness, waiting for something to happen. And now that it's about to, I don't know if I'm nervous for it to start or ready for it to be over.

This moment of silence is an unspoken cue for the staff to emerge from the shadows and prep me as the audience bows their heads. Some even stamp out their smokes. They strap the cold band of the electroshock machine to my head and with a turn of a knob fluid rushes through my IV. My already hazy vision gets dragged behind reality as the browns and beiges of the room start to bleed into each other,

My eyes trace over the faces that surround me, and one of the scrub nurses catches my eye. I know her, or knew her at least. Sandra. Or Susie. She gave me her orange juice in the cafeteria line up once, but now she's looking at me with a pitiful smile as I try to smile back. In my mind I offer her a turn of my lips that says, 'it's okay, this isn't your fault' but from the outside world I'm sure it looks like a twitch followed by a current of drool.

Their minute is almost over, so I shut my eyes and I try to imagine I'm somewhere else. The heat of the burnt orange light against my oily skin feels like the sun behind closed eyes, the whirling of machines could be the waves at Coyote Point, and the whispers of the nurses could be Toni and Barry bickering over the song on the radio.

Between the mood stabilizers and the barbiturates my body is nothing more than a gumball machine of vitamins and drugs, and with this last quarter and turn I think my body's finally hit its limit.

California Dreamin' by The Mamas and The Papas plays. To my left is Toni in the driver's seat, a carefree smile on her face and daisies woven in her hair that flutter in the wind as the jeep cruises down the beach. To my right is Barry, wearing a pair of too-tight short shorts and making up the words to the song as it goes.

We pull up to our favourite spot, lay down our towels and soak in the summer rays. Only soon my skin starts to melt from the sun, my bones sink into the sandy beach, and my blood foams like the seaside. I'm becoming the waves that beat against the rocky cliffs and the endless waters that drown surfers beneath their wake. Even behind closed eyes, the reds and pinks and oranges become so overwhelming that I feel myself dissolving into the sun while my friends watch me sizzle and crisp in the atmosphere as I let out a painful cry.

I'm trapped in a nightmare of fire and the smell of burnt hair until someone grabs my hand and my body weaves itself back together. The harsh light above makes it impossible to open my eyes, but as I grab hold of him, I'm snapped back to reality.

The feeling of his cool and calloused touch grounds me. The angry beeping mellows as I focus on the details of him. There are small blisters and burns on his fingertips, and I know exactly what he's been doing lately.

"You've been cooking again, haven't you?" I say in my mind as my eyes open and Dimitri stares back at me, resting on his knees as his lips brush against my swollen hand.

"I'm not as good as you yet, but I've gotten better." I hear him echo into the void between dream and waking as he squeezes my hand tightly.

Tight enough that I know he's real.

Nurses walk through him like a mirage and Dr. McLeod turns on his heels, away from his stage, and begins to scrub in for the procedure.

In this moment the world is a series of blurs and shadows, and whether it's the drugs or a dream, all that matters is that Dimitri's face is crystal clear. His eyes are closed and I know it's because there's a tear behind his perfect blonde lashes; full and golden with a thickness some women would kill for.

He opens his lips a few times, like he's trying to speak but doesn't know what to say. He doesn't have to say anything for me to hear him, it's one of the gifts the dreams gave us, but I love hearing him speak. His voice is softer than you'd imagine, and although I only know a few words of his language, the dialect is like a ballet.

Under his breath he starts some kind of prayer.

I catch a few odd words here and there. Rest. Peace. Sleep. And love.

We never actually said that last one to each other.

I nod as he prays, my head stiff and unmoving, but he understands. America's propaganda on the Soviets spread like wildfire when I was a kid and I believed so many lies, but the most unbelievable one of all was that they told us 'they lacked compassion'.

If anything good comes out of this, aside from the making of history thing, it's that I got to meet him.

A tray gets wheeled up to my bedside, and although Dimitri shifts his body and tries to block my view, I know exactly what it is: a hammer and an ice pick.

I close my eyes and ask him the only question that matters right now.

"Did we do it?"

At the snap of a medical glove and the halo of a looming shadow, Dimitri nods his head and suddenly I hear the soothing sound of the waves again.

The doctor turns one more time to address the crowd.

"Today we make history."

I say it to myself too, but it doesn't seem real. It's not to add to his glorifying testimonial, but to us instead.

To honour what we have accomplished.

Because today, Dimitri and I change history, and for better or for worse, no one will know it was us.

I hear the hollow flip of the switch and my body seizes as the electric current uses my bones as their freeway. The room goes dark and Dimitri's hand is ripped away.

After all this, it's almost funny to think this started with a dream about snow in California.

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https://youtu.be/tNlwimUxUME