Playing God

Playing God

“………..hello? This is Dr. Robert Matthews.”

“………..c’mon Smith, you know me! I’m the man who called yesterday!”

“………..yes, that was me! Who do you think I—”

We’re sorry, but the connection has disconnected. Please call again.

Sigh. Two large gray hands replaced the receiver back onto the telephone box, re-dialed the number, and picked up the receiver.

“………..hello, me again. The number disconnected and I had to call again. 

“………..yes, I hear that you’ve got a new patient.”

“………..I see.” Click. The gray hands again placed the receiver back onto the telephone box. There was a rustle of coat and the door to the telephone booth slid open as a tall figure in a dark trench coat stepped out into the light rain. It sniffed and turned up its collar before abruptly turning onto Stone Street and striding briskly along it.

It was a street of the ages. As the figure walked, the masses of people slowly unfolded into individual persons. There was a chimney sweep, fuliginous from head to toe, scrubbing his face viciously with a rag damp from the rain. There was a taxicab driver, sheltering himself under an awning with a damp coffee container in his hand. Here and there along the lane walked small groups of women, dainty cats with long, colored fingernails and same-colored dresses, all frilly about the shoulders, walking with little dainty umbrellas slung over their little dainty shoulders and clasped in their little dainty hands. There, there, and oh! there was the lone bachelor, plodding morosely along the cobbles, no umbrella, no hat, no nothing. Dressed black suits with damp, sad, red roses in their left breast pockets. Thunder rolled in the distance.

The figure that was Dr. Robert Matthews plunged his gray hands into his pockets, bent his head down, and strode on.

At the end of the lane, Matthews turned a sharp left and huddled under a ledge. A taxicab drove by, and Matthews waved at it. It slowed, and eventually pulled over. The black face of the driver looked scornfully up at Matthews but said nothing. Matthews swung himself into the cab and shut the door. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed. The driver slowly nodded and the cab lurched forward as he pressed on the accelerator. The people melted back into a shapeless mass as the car jumped and squealed and skidded past them.

It pulled up outside of a small but tall house. The house had once been a garish yellow, but the years had taken their toll and now the paint was peeling, revealing vast swathes of raw plaster, and the limp meager garden was perpetually covered in flakes of yellow. Matthews opened the door and clambered out of the cab. The driver opened his window and wordlessly extended an ashen hand. Matthews hunched his shoulder to raise his collar higher and fumbled about in his pockets, eventually produced a limp, soggy ten-dollar-bill. The driver snatched it from Matthews’s hand, closed the window, and drove on, slipping and sliding in the deluge. Matthews turned and walked up the door. He looked for a moment at the brass knob, ornately carved so long ago with the face of Queen Victoria at his own request, and grasped it in his hand, and turned it. The heavy oaken door reluctantly opened to reveal a humorless house. Long gone were the days of bright golden sunshine, filtering in through windows colored pink. Matthews closed the door soundlessly behind him and trudged up the age-worn stairs, past dust-covered windows, past old pictures of a time long gone. He reached the landing and stepped into his study. 

Towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old, rotting books. He took one out at random, its title faded beyond legibility, and flipped through it. The first fifty pages were an inseparable lump of paper, and the first words on the following page was ‘—we live, together—’. Matthews stared at them for a while before closing the book with a puff of dust and placing it back on the shelf. He then removed his trench coat and hung it on a hook by the door. He ran a hand over his patchy gray hair, turned, and slumped down in the chair which stood behind the desk. The chair sagged as he leaned back and put his rain-soaked boots on the desk in front of him. 

His gaze fell on a small, round, yellow-framed photograph of a woman in her late fifties, with her hair falling in tight grey ringlets framing her face. He gently picked it up in his grey hand and gazed at it. The photograph was faded and the colors had all sunk to shades of sepia, so the eyes that had once glittered roguishly from beneath golden hair were now devoid of any light. In a delicate handwriting a name was engraved into the frame. It read:

‘Molly Matthews’.

Dr. Robert Matthews still remembered when, out of jest, he had suggested that they paint the house yellow, what, only one year ago? She had laughed with him, but before he could even realize it the house was painted a bright sunny yellow, and the roof shingles an equally dazzling pink. He had laughed with her, then. And then she was gone. It was a car accident on the highway. He was away in Philadelphia on business so he had heard of it the week after. Suddenly firm and resolute, he set down the photograph back into its wreath of dust. Before he could get any further the telephone rang.

The man’s name was Peter Warren. He sat opposite Matthews, and in between them was a round, metal table, and light shone in through the large, square diner windows. The day was bright and gay, the antithesis of the day before. 

Peter Warren could be summed up with a single word: rabbit. His brown hair was pressed into thick rattail strands, his nose was flat, his forehead was elongated and tilted back, and his fingernails were very short. But not dirty, Matthews noticed. In fact, there was not a speck of grime upon the man. From the blue sparkles of his tie to the soles of his brown leather shoes, he was as sterile as a hospital ward. He also moved like a rabbit too, in quick, jerky, hurried motions. He was currently sawing apart a yellow omelet, which split and from within tumbled out a pile of potatoes. He licked his lips and began stabbing at them. Matthews sat back in his seat, half-engulfed in the shadow formed around the corner where the seat met the wall. He cleared his throat.

“You called me yesterday about a new patient.” Warren, mouth full, nodded.

“I’m intrigued,” continued Matthews. “From what I gather, he is not a troublesome patient?” Warren shook his head before shoveling more omelet into his mouth.

“What is he like?” 

Warren looked puzzled, and then swallowed before saying, “I haven’t met him yet, Doctor.”

Matthews said, “But aren’t you the warden in charge of his block?”

“That I am, Doctor, but he came in only last week, and I’ve only seen him, Doctor, never talked to him. Seems all right from the get-go, but I’ve only seen him from a distance, when he was walked from the car, with his hands behind his back and all tied up in a strait-jacket.” Warren took a swig of his coffee. Matthews leaned forward, and put his elbows on the table, steepling his long, thick, gray fingers. The light illuminated half of his face, leaving the other half in shadow.

“I understand that you have all intentions for me to meet him, and him me.”

“You are a good psychologist, Doctor, the best I’ve seen.”

“True,” Matthews mused. “Definitely true.”

Suddenly seized by a fresh idea, he stood up, now fully illuminated.. “I’d very much like to see the patient. When is he available?” Warren looked up from his plate.

“Whenever you’d like, sir. I’ve told the watchman to have him be ready.” Matthews glanced offhandedly down at Warren.

“When’ll you be ready?” he asked, in a voice slightly more forceful than was fully friendly. Warren glanced at his watch.

“Give me about five minutes and I’ll go get a taxi.” Matthews nodded and strode off to the bathroom-hallway, where the arched doorway cast a curtain of darkness across the tiled wall. In that shadow he stood, tall and grim, with his large gray hands clasped behind his back, and his dark blue trench coat turning him from man into a marble pillar. Several moments passed, and he checked his watch. He moved out from behind the corner and saw Warren negotiating with the waiter, who was nodding fervently before abruptly leaving and then returning with the check. Warren locked eyes with Matthews and Matthews nodded, almost imperceptibly. Matthews walked past Warren and stepped out into the glorious sunlight of the day. The sky was a quail’s egg, blue with white specks strewn across it. The building opposite stood like a granite obelisk in front of the sun, bisecting it with a pillar of black. Matthews shaded his eyes and fumbled around in his pockets for a pair of sunglasses. He found a pair of pince-nez and held them up in front of his nose. The sound of the bell rang behind him and he turned to see Warren, wiping his hands on his shirt-front.

Suddenly, a taxi pulled up. The window rolled down.

“Where to, mister?” came a surly voice from within. Warren scuttled over to the window and muttered some incoherent words. There was a blur of color; the yellow of the taxi, the brown of the city, and the blue of the sky all swirled together to form a twisted rainbow of light before it was all replaced by a steady white pulsation, repeating white, white, white, white, white. Matthews opened the door to the taxi and stepped out. Behind him, he could hear Warren’s voice babbling away. Then he heard the gruff voice of the taxi-driver, and then the voice of Warren again. There was a squeal and the sudden smell of burnt rubber as the taxi shot off down the road, slaloming from side to side.

Warren and Matthews walked in silence. The building that was the Kerrington Mental Institute loomed up in front of them as they marched down the long driveway, soldiers to their death, martyrs led to the stake. Through the double doors they passed, which were opened by a pair of guards. Down the long, white, unfriendly, and sterile corridor to the elevator, a steel coffin that ascended to the heavens. And out onto the 34th floor. Immediately after exiting the elevator Warren made an abrupt right and strode purposefully for a good five minutes before arriving at a door.

It was made of steel, and thus opened reluctantly before them, and then shut with a belligerent bang. The room was much at odds with the rest of the building that Matthews had so far seen. Large french windows dominated the far wall, allowing the golden light of day to stream into the room. A large oaken desk stood in the middle of the room, and Warren seemed dwarfed by it as he sat in the chair behind it. He ducked down and reemerged with a large orange binder. He opened it and flipped through for several seconds before arriving at a green paper, which he pulled out. He snapped the binder shut and placed it upon his desk. Matthews leaned against the doorframe so as to be half obscured by the shadow that the lintel cast over him.

Warren beckoned to him, and he complied. Matthews strode into the room as unstoppable as a train. He halted by the indicated chair and sat down. Warren snapped open a pair of spectacles and looked up at Matthews.

“You see,” said Warren. “Personally, I have no idea what is wrong with the patient. He seems just as ordinary as you and me.”

“Well then,” said Mathews. “What led you to determining him mad? At least, mad enough to be placed into this institution?” Warren twirled his pencil between his thin fingers.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t been down to see him yet, and only the boss, Mr. Smith really knows anything, but he’s on vacation right about now. He left right after signing the papers for the patient.”

“Where is the patient?”

“He should be up by now—in the east wing, cell block 5. Incidentally, it’s on this very floor, and isn’t too far away. I can take you to see him right now, if you so desire.” Warren reached down to presumably press a button on the underside of his desk when all of a sudden a terrible wail began to echo throughout the room and the corridor outside. This was followed by the violent smashing of fists onto iron bars, after which came a long string of curses and swears in a language which Matthews could not understand. Warren looked crestfallen.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. It seems he does not want to see you right now, though it’s beyond me how he could know of our plans to see him. See you tomorrow.” Abruptly Warren scuttled out of the office, clutching the binder under one arm.

Matthews waited for approximately five minutes more before checking his watch. He sighed. With one large gray hand he slowly pushed open the doors and stepped outside into the hall. He trudged his way to the elevator, his collar raised and hands deep in his pockets. There was one other person in the elevator. It was a young man with his greasy, black hair parted in the middle, and he wouldn’t stop talking. Be it to the wall, to Matthews, to the wall, or to Matthews, the stream of speech was incessant. Matthews regarded him with a cold stare. The man, upon meeting Matthews’ eyes, abruptly quieted down. The elevator dinged as it reached ground level. Matthews strode out, down the hall, through the doors, and out onto the street.

The rain had started again not long after Matthews left the Kerrington Mental Institution, and continued throughout his journey home. He walked slowly and solemnly through the lashing of the water, and his blue trench coat and large gray hands merged him with the scenery as the cloud that was the painter’s brush swept overhead. He stopped outside his house and stared up at it, up at the peeling paint. The rain ran in rivulets between the shingles and poured down onto the street. For a brief moment, the clouds opened and a single ray of light shone through, illuminating the house with a knife-edge of white. Matthews placed his hand on the doorknob, and the clouds closed once more. He opened the door and strode into what was once a cheerful living room, bedecked with large, pink furniture and yellow-rimmed photographs of them two together. He sat down heavily, not bothering to remove his shoes or coat, and stared long at a pink-framed photograph of a woman in her late fifties, with her hair falling in tight grey ringlets framing her face. 

Below the picture a small plaque read, ‘Molly Matthews’. Matthews sighed and leaned back. The grate in front of what was once a joyful fireplace was now dark and covered in dust, which billowed when Matthews blew on it. Matthews lifted it up and looked down morosely at the engraved owl flying in front of a small silver moon.

To the room, Matthews said, “Maybe I’ll feel joy in this house again, someday.” Then he replaced the grate back into its stand and plunged his large gray hands deep into his pockets and stared at nothing.

The day was foggy, and not much was visible beyond a limited range in front of the viewer’s eyes. The large double doors slowly opened before Warren as he flashed a small card. The tiles looked unusually glossy, and their footsteps unusually loud in Matthews’ ears as they walked together down the middle of the main hallway. Guards on either side of the corridor tilted their heads as Matthews passed them, his large gray hands in his pockets, his head down. The elevator seemed to rise more slowly than the day before, and the doors opened all the more ponderously. This time, Warren took a sharp left and led Matthews down an unfamiliar corridor, lined with floor-to-ceiling black squares, some closed off with bars, and others with armored doors. Warren stopped in front of one that seemed particularly open, with the key in the lock to the bars, and a small padded bed in the corner.

“So this is him,” said Warren. Matthews looked down into the cell at the man who was reclining on the bed within. Warren rapped sharply on the bars to the cell and the man started, and looked up.

“Hallo?” he asked.

“He’s Dutch,” explained Warren.

“His name?” Matthews asked, keeping one eye on the patient. 

Warren opened his mouth to speak when the patient said, “You call me Mike Dromer.”

Matthews glanced at Mike, and then back to Warren. Warren nodded.

“That is his name.” Mike at this point had stood up, and revealed himself to be uncharacteristically skinny and tall. His legs were thin, almost to the point of being nothing more than skin on bones, and the top of his head almost brushed the ceiling. With one long stride he was at the bars. As if seeing it for the first time, his gaze alighted on the key. He languidly reached out his arm and took it from the lock, not even bothering to try and open the bars. He held the key to his face, tilted his head back, and dropped it into his mouth. Immediately his face turned blue and he started to choke. The key flew from his mouth and clattered to the floor in front of the bars, where Warren stooped down and picked it up. Mike retreated to the bed, his face a ghastly pale, and lay down with his eyes closed, at peace, as though nothing had just happened. Matthews looked on in horror.

“How often does he do this?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Almost five times now, Doctor. I don’t know why he does it. Every time he chokes on it and spits it out.”

“And you have been doing…what about this?”

“That was the first time it was so drastic, Doctor.”

“Alright then, let’s see what I can get from him.” Warren stepped to the side and Matthews squatted down cross-legged before the bars. Mike opened one eye and gazed down at him.

“Stand, you may,” Mike said, in a strange, faraway voice. Matthews stood.

“If it tires you, you may sit. But remember. I gave legs for a reason.” Matthews, determined to be compliant, sat down again.

“Mike Dromer, eh?” he asked, in a voice that he hoped was friendly. He clasped his large gray hands over his lap. Mike waved a hand to signal his agreement.

“Do you know why you are here?” Mike opened his other eye.

“Must I say?”

“Yes, you must. It is very important.”

“I was manhandled. Thrown here, and bound.”

“I see. How was your morning?” Mike waved a hand dismissively and yawned.

“Are these people here treating you well?” Again, a lofty, dismissive hand wave, and then Mike sat up, folding his long hands together.

“If I have created you, then I created you to be quiet. Why are you so loud?” Matthews stood up and turned to Warren, when suddenly he was interrupted by Mike.

“Do you have a syringe?” asked Mike from the bed, looking at Matthews keenly.

“No.”

“Ah.”

“Why?”

“It would help me wake up.”

“From what?” Suddenly, Mike retreated into the far corner of his cell and glared at Matthews. Matthews returned the glare, and eventually Mike lowered his head. Again, Matthews turned to Warren.

“Aside from his little outbursts,” he said. “He seems pretty normal. I’ll have a look at his case tonight, if I can spare the time.” Warren nodded, slightly.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Do you know what led to him being detained?” asked Matthews as Warren led him back to his office. Warren said nothing.

“Do you know when he was brought in?”

“I saw him first last week, so I’d assume that that’d be about when he’d be brought in.” By this point they had reached Warren’s office and Warren pushed open the door. He scampered over to his desk and carefully placed his small round spectacles on the end of his nose. Matthews stayed standing, and walked across the room, behind the desk, behind Warren, and leaned against the window so that the sunlight had the effect of silhouetting his bulk.

“He seems normal, like I said, Warren. Surely there must be some reason why he is here besides his outbursts, which, although worrying, aren’t enough to justify insanity.” Warren turned around to face Matthews and sighed.

“When he was brought in, we weren’t told much. All the cops who brought him in would say is that he is, quoting directly, ‘somewhat suicidally delusional’.”

“And?”

“They wouldn’t say more.” Matthews crossed his arms and looked out of the window onto the street outside. A single droplet of rain fell from the sky and splattered against the glass, creating small streams which ran down the transparent surface. Then he turned and walked out of the office, his large gray hands in his pockets, and his head bowed.

The rain began again as Matthews slowly walked down the street towards his house. It was falling harder now, transitioning from small pellets to vast sheets of water, canvases of transparent liquid being tipped over onto the drenched street. Matthews stepped into his house and placed his boots by the door. Then, he climbed the teetering staircase to his study, where he ran a finger down his bookcase, dislodging a single stripe of dust. He came to a decision, slowly took one volume out of many, cracked it open with a large poof! of dust, and began to read.

He fell asleep at midnight, still in his chair with his reading glasses on, and with six thick volumes of works on psychology scattered about the room.

The first thing Warren felt was the sensation of being violently shaken. He opened one eye and saw Matthews leaning over him, shaking him vigorously by the shoulders.

“Wake up!” he was repeating insistently. Warren’s mind slowly surfaced from the deep ocean of sleep and he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Wha…?” he said, yawning.

“I said wake up! I think I have found it.”

“Found wha…” Warren’s eyes started to close again and Matthews shook him awake. 

“I think I’ve found our patient’s problem!”

“Wha…? Patien…?”

“Mike Dromer, do you remember?” The name seemed to ring a bell in Warren’s mind, and now he was attentive and focused.

“You think you’ve found his problem…?” he ventured cautiously. Matthews nodded, and heaved a large tome onto Warren’s bed. Matthews then proceeded to leaf through its yellow, moth-eaten pages until he came to the desired one, and stopped.

“Here. Page six hundred and sixty six. ‘Hidden Cases’. I think you’ll find this chapter most intriguing.”

“Oh?” Warren leaned forward as Matthews, with difficulty, turned the book around. Then, Matthews steepled his large gray fingers as Warren read.

“‘There are certain cases where the problem will not be immediately apparent. These cases are…’ here it’s smudged out ‘…and difficult to treat. Oftentimes, the…will feel normal but will exhibit…outbursts.’ After that it’s quite illegible for the next few paragraphs.” Warren looked back up at Matthews.

“So?” asked Matthews, expectantly, leaning back against the bed’s backboard.

“I can see the connection, but what can you be suggesting by this?”

“You saw his outbursts?”

“Yes.”

“But how did his behavior, aside from the outbursts, strike you?” Warren thought about this.

“Well,” he said, “aside from his outbursts…he appears quite sane.”

“What if, and bear with me, the man’s so insane that he, like you said, appears sane?” Warren crossed his arms.

“How? If you fill a cup too much it doesn’t become empty.” Matthews suddenly gripped Warren’s arms and pinned them down.

“That’s the point!” he exclaimed. “The patient is bonkers— completely and utterly. Look here–” releasing Warren’s arms, Matthews flipped through several more pages before triumphantly pointing at a passage. “–Section 13. I don’t require you to read it, but the gist follows what I say!”

“But that’s just preposterous…”

“But look at it from a different perspective. He is so insane, and the cup is so full, and he has completely convinced himself of his sanity, ergo the cup cannot take more water, so it overflows!”

“But it overflows!”

“Exactly! The cup overflows, so it cannot take more water. You can interpret this as the cup not having any walls, or the cup being closed. As it cannot take any more water, it is as good as empty, should one not desire to drink! Do you see?”

“I think so, but–”

“And the thing is, you see–” Matthews stabbed his finger in Warren’s face, “–is that he is so insane, that he doesn’t believe that anything exists! Did you hear how he talked? Did it remind you of anybody?” Warren considered this.

“I always thought he sounded a touch too close to what God sounded like. You know, with all the ‘I created you’ and stuff. But I could never nail it down.”

“Are you a religious man?”

“No, but I am familiar with the story.”

“Then what did God do?”

“He made the world, but I don’t see–” Matthews stood up and spread his arms wide.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed again. “God made the world. Before God, there was nothing. Same here! The patient believes that he is God, or rather, playing God, and as a result, he believes that he has created everything! When you make something, does it exist before you make it?”

“No, but–”

“Same here, again! The poor, poor man believes, so hard that it is impossible to work it out of him, that he has created this world! And as a result, for him, nothing exists because he has created it!”

Matthews sat down on a small wooden chair which was leaning against the wall. Warren’s eyes were wide and his mouth slightly ajar. He was panting, heaving for breath. His heart was racing.

Surely not…Impossible….The doctor doesn’t know what he is saying…

But a small, nagging voice spoke.

What if…?

And it was that thought that chilled Warren most deeply. He looked over at Matthews, who was sitting with his eyes closed, and decided to say nothing.

Instead he said, checking his watch which lay on the bedside table, “It’s nine in the morning, Doctor. Give me ten minutes and shall we go have lunch? Take our minds off of this business?”

Matthews, his eyes still closed and his head leaning against the wall, grunted.

Warren ducked into a small closet and, true to his word, reemerged ten minutes later dressed in a white suit jacket, a red tie, and black leather shoes. Again, immaculate.

Matthews opened his eyes, regarded Warren coldly and calculatingly for a moment, and then stood up, stretching his arms out wide. 

“I know a place down Left Mirror Lane, but last time I passed that street, the pavement was all broken up and the sign said unsafe. I think I know another way around.”

The sun was bright as the taxi drove them to the restaurant, affectionately named The Four Leaf Clover, and painted a bright green.

Within seconds they were seated. The waiter rambled over and Warren quickly sent him away with our orders blurted out in one continuous stream. Matthews looked outside— they had a window seat— in time to see a cloud extend one long fluffy tendril across the sun disk as it hung in the sky. The silence was impenetrable, and shattered only on the noisy arrival of the waiter, carrying plates, which were laid out before Matthews and Warren. Matthews again sent the waiter away with a request for coffee. Warren looked down at his plate and began to eat. Matthews did likewise, though more guarded in his approach. 

Warren suddenly spoke.

“You know, this place reminds me of your wife. Molly, am I right? I knew her from college. Lovely woman. Where is she now? I haven’t seen her in a while.” 

Suddenly Matthews was made of stone. He stood up, his great legs like tree trunks and his head held loftily and his large gray hands deep in his pockets. He bowed stiffly to Warren, slammed a sum of money as equivalent to his half-eaten meal, and left without a word. 

The clouds were basins this time, and dumped torrential bucketfuls of water down mercilessly onto the street below as Matthews walked, resolute and unwavering, back home.

The phone rang. Matthews picked it up and listened in astonishment. The voice on the other side was shrill and loud.

“Mike Dromer, a patient of the Kerrington Mental Institution, is due to be released at 1 p.m. today. He is…” Matthews did not listen to the rest. He slammed down the receiver, threw on his trench coat, and bolted out into the street. 

It was a terrible storm. Lightning slashed violently across the sky and thunder crashed. The rain was vicious, biting and clawing at the passersby. The sky was black with dark angry clouds. Strike! Boom! The rain washed away the carnage and replaced it with a plain of death. Again the lightning struck and thunder broke the sky in two overhead. 

The Kerrington Mental Facility stood like a lighthouse on the hill, its white block of a body reflecting the jagged light of the lightning. Matthews ran up the steps and threw open the main doors. He didn’t bother with the elevator and instead ran up the stairs to the 34th floor, where he flung open the door to the office and was greeted by—

—Warren’s wan, apologetic smile from across the desk. Thunder rumbled again as the door slowly swung shut behind Matthews as he glared down at Warren, who shuffled his feet.

Through gritted teeth, Matthews panted out, “On whose statement did you get the verdict that the patient was sane enough to be released?”

“I’m sorry…”

“I don’t want your apologies, what’s done is done. On whose statement did you get the verdict that Mike Dromer was sane?”

“Thomas McGonnand.”

“Who’s he?” asked Matthews, his ruffled feathers beginning to lie flat again.

“Another doctor.”

“Why, in the name of everything you and I hold dear, did you get another doctor when I was already on the case?”

“To tell you the truth, I was worried by what you said, about all the ‘Playing God’ stuff.”

“So you went and got another doctor— why have I never heard of him?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. When he came in, the first thing he asked was if I had already gotten a doctor onto Mike’s case.”

“And?”

“I told him I had gotten you.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘that idiot who doesn’t know what he is doing and spends more time in his head than in the world? He knows nothing’.” Matthews walked over and placed his large gray hands on Warren’s thin shoulders. Lightning struck again.

“Peter,” he said earnestly, “listen to me. Anyone who says that should be locked up.” Warren twisted his green tie between his fingers.

“I’m sorry, Doctor…”

“It doesn’t matter now. Where is the patient? It is still three hours till he is released.”

“I think he’s in his cell—” Warren was interrupted by the smashing of the door as it hit the wall so hard it left a dent in the metal. Thunder crashed so hard that it left Matthews’ ears ringing. Mike Dromer ran in, his bone-thin legs a blur beneath him. He grabbed the orange binder from Warren’s desk and began to smash himself over the head with it. Lightning struck again, illuminating the room for a split-second in a ghostly color palette. Suddenly there were footsteps as two guards, armed with tasers, ran into the room. Warren jumped at the window, yelling repeatedly, “Wakker Worden, Wakker Worden, Wakker Worden!” He hit the glass and fell back. He turned and, pursued by the guards, lunged at Matthews, hands out and fingers extended into vicious claws. Matthews raised the chair beside him and Strike! Boom! Crash! 

Lightning split the world in two. 

Suddenly Mike was laying on the ground, his scalp turning red from the impact. Matthews held the chair in his hands. One of the legs was missing, broken in its collision with Mike’s head. Mike looked up at Matthews, his boniness more visible than ever.

“Thank you,” he said, in a small voice. “Maybe now I’ll see the morning—” he suddenly slumped back. Somebody– probably one of the guards– yelled for a doctor. Somehow a doctor was found and within moments a bearded man in a white surgical robe dashed into the room and assessed the patient’s status.

“He’s dead,” said the doctor. “Died from head trauma. How did it happen?”

Matthews looked at Warren, and Warren looked at Matthews. They both said nothing, and only shuddered to themselves. Outside, the storm clouds began to separate in the pale light of day.

The moon was bright in the dark night sky. Two men walked down a quay-side street. The waters lapped at the old stones, and the stars shone in the reflections.

The men were old friends. Mike Dromer a car mechanic turned clerk, and Thomas McGonnand a psychologist slowly but surely earning a reputation for himself.

The pair had been friends since Thomas had met Mike in a sandwich shop, whereupon they had fallen into deep conversation and so had forged their friendship.

Suddenly, Mike spoke.

“Y’know, Tom?”

‘Hm?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Hm.”

“All my life, I’ve had this idea.”

“Hm?”

“D’you ever wonder how it is from somebody else’s perspective?”

“Sometimes, but rarely.”

“Do you ever wonder why it is so hard to picture yourself doing what they are doing?”

“No, why— why yes. I know what you mean.”

“Well, I have a theory for why.”

“Oh?” Mike stopped walking.

“What if there is only one person in this world, but he belongs to a different species of animal?”

“What do you mean?” asked Thomas, cautiously.

“Just visualize it. What if there is a species of creatures who, when they go to sleep, dream up an entire existence. Everything. Every little detail. You. Me. My family. Your family. Heck, all people who ever lived! The Laws of Physics! Gravity! Hah, even that’s thinking too small. The concept and existence of dimensions! The galaxies! The multiverse! Why, the very concept of existence itself! And all thought up by the dreaming… ‘being’.”

“That’s impossible,” Thomas scoffed.

“And then, to tie it all off, the duration of the creature’s sleep is the duration of its stay in that world, after which it will be gone, as fleeting as a dream, which it indeed is.”

“Well,” said Thomas, jokingly, “If anybody said that they actually believe this, I’d call them insane! Eh, Mike? Mike?”

There came no answer. Mike was staring forward into the darkness, his eyes unblinking. His face was frozen in a fixed stare, and his hands were fists, clenching and unclenching.

“Mike…?” Again, no answer.

“Mike…?” More worried this time. Mike’s voice was a thin whisper, gradually growing in strength and intensity,

“…and then, and then, there’s a whole species of them, up above, each dreaming their own separate dreams, each their own separate world—”

“Mike!”

“—and in each world, it is a completely new existence, with new rules, new everything, everything is different—”

“Mike!”

“—until they wake up and then go to sleep again and then everything starts all over again—”

“Mike!” Thomas grabbed Mike’s shoulders and Mike’s tirade died abruptly.

Then again, in a whisper heard only, and even then, barely heard, by Thomas, “I need to wake up.”

“What?”

“I need to wake up from this dream, and return to the world above of the dreamers. I need to wake up. Now.”

Thomas released Mike. Then, his face obscured by shadow, he quietly sidestepped into a phone booth and, his hand shaking, dialed for the police, vowing that he will get Mike out someday, and reverse his betrayal.

As the sound of sirens began to echo through the night, far above it began to rain.

The Dreamer awoke. In its world, physics was not like on Earth. In fact, there was no such thing as physics. Existence as a whole was different. But that was not of importance. In the Dreamer’s analog for the human ‘mind’, ‘thoughts’ were swirling as it sought to remember its dream, bits and pieces falling from in between its ‘fingers’.

“You know, I liked that dream. Molly was a good touch; just as wanted, just as happened, and the Dreamer woke up.”