Vulgar Lessons -pg4
(Note: the author wishes to thank Cara Coon for her assisance in editing the text).
PART I : "THEM"
Chapter I
"Chiaroscuro"
December 24, 2:15PM
Spokane, Washington, USA
Sarah Tschetter had stocked the house with as much food as she could afford before the onset of the Christmas season. She had even decorated a smaller pine tree in the front yard with wooden ornaments, tiny white lights and plastic candy canes. The same stockings she had used as a small child hung over the mantel on the fireplace. Hand stitched, one displayed her name and the other the name of her brother, Stephen, just as their mother had done for each youngster so many Christmases before.
Opening several bags of candy, Sarah scooped the tiny morsels out by the handfuls and poured them into the stockings, replacing each, lovingly, to its proper place over the mantel. A little three-colored "corn" fell to the floor by her feet. Stooping for the errant morsel, Sarah was suddenly filled with memories of so many other holidays. The tiny kernel shaped candies were as much an important trandition as the days themselves. She picked up the piece and threw it into the fireplace, only to reach her hand inside her own stocking in search of another. Finding several, she put one in her mouth and the texture, as much as the taste, recreated a stunning series of forgotten events.
Suddenly overcome with memories, she too a seat by the fire and allowed the meaningful candies to stir solemn recollections. Sarah studied the three bands of colors as though each contained a recognition code, furthering the release of her misplaced thoughts. She had never felt so lonely and in all of her twenty-nine years she had yet to spend a Christmas season entirely alone. Her father would be unable to fly over as he said; he was too involved in his work this year. Sarah's mother had passed away, succumbing to cancer after a long struggle and poor Stephan did not even know. Poor Stephen, she thought, as tears sprang to her eyes. She and her brother had always been close, so tight, always there for each other. Fate had twisted out unbelievably harsh designs upon her family. Oftentimes she found the thoughts overwhelming ad preferred ignorance to reminders.
Stephan had said, repeatedly, for the past several years, "Help me, Sarah! 'They' are watching me. My life is being taken over! We've got to do something. Please!"
Mental illness had never been a part of her family's ancestral tree, until Stephan. Stephan's paranoid delusions may have been drug-induced. He freely partook in all forms of "partying," and the doctors had mentioned that cocaine and methyl-amphetamine users often became paralyzed with "situational fear," as they called it. Stephan swore he was not paranoid and denied the diagnosis, at first. Then he said he was, maybe "a little paranoid." Then he clearly admitted to being so scared that he could no longer sleep and the deprivation had caused him to be unquestionably mad.
He named his delusional antagonists, calling them, "Fate Molders," or "Transformers of Fate," something like that, anyway. Later, as he melded into the "Paranoid Network" and traded delusions with others -- all of which were sent by "Them" to further confuse his mind -- he fixated upon a single name, "Trident." He seemed to think of "Them" as this huge secret network that worked for the government -- or was autonomous from the government, actually -- and "They" were responsible for producing both citizens, and noncitizens alike. Stephan thought "They" had quotas to meet: X number of college graduates, X number of drug addicts; X number of wealthy; X number of poor; prisons to be kept at a minimum number of X inmates, etc, by design. He was even convinced that "They" were responsible for creating, distributing and monitoring the deadly AIDS virus, not to mention guns, drugs, and most forms of criminal activity.
Stephan had no doubts in his mind about any of this. To him, it was the only "Truth," and in his words, the "Church of Them" ruled over all the streams and rivers, mountains, plains and valleys, animal and man alike."
With a pervasive sense of sadness, Sarah thought about her brother's altered reality, wondering for the millionth time if his "Truth" contained any real truth at all. In her situation those thoughts were the worst detractors from her own state of mental well-being. For with the thought came undeniable guilt. It was not possible to ignore feeling that if anything her brother had ever said were true, then she had blatantly ignored him. Not in blatancy, literally, but she had turned her back on him when he would have needed her more than at any other time during their lives.
The guilt was sickening her. For her own sanity, she tried to think of other things, anything else, desperately attempting to relive more pleasant memories. Instead, her mind worked in a circle. Moments later, she began to rehash the endless nightmare. One thing became abundantly clear. If her brother was really insane, as she was reluctantly inclined to believe, then she could forgive him. She could forgive all and everything, the pain, torment, and outright psychological abuse which he had caused her and the rest of the family. However, if -- and she knew this was a big "if" -- if it turned out, somehow, that there really was "Fate Transformers," and she had denied her brother, her flesh and blood, by turning her back on him, then she could never forgive ... herself.
(It's easier to perpetuate the blaming, in denial of one's own guilt).
Sarah never lived a day without thinking of Stephan and the horror of what his life had become. Often, she would awake at night, with a picture hovering before her mind's eye, of a hospital room. These events would transpire somewhere near her ceiling, tubes and masks covering the identity of the unconscious patient lying in waste upon the bed. The mask would peal away and she would stifle screams as the twisted, disfigured and hardly recognizable face of Stephan were revealed. His hand would reach forward suddenly, his swollen eyes opening as his lips parted to mouth the words, "Help me, Sarah! Help me!" It was a revolting dream, more like a flashback for it had occured in both the night and day, all happening within an instant, as though by telepathic communication.
Sarah embraced the ideas of such things as telepathy, psychometry, astral projection, and telekinesis. She also entertained vague concepts concerning energy fields akin to George Lucas' "The Force," though she did not use those exact words. Sarah did not believe in ghosts, poltergeists, evil spirits, Satans/devils, God/gods/goddesses or possessions as associated with typical teachings and practices of Catholicism and similar religious sects and cults. "Mind control for peasants," was her personal view on most religious matters, preferring to establish a personal relationship within herself regarding her "higherself" and her associated position within the whole Universe. When her beliefs were questioned, she answered, simply, "I have none." If pressed for viewpoints, she often replied without sarcasm, "None of your goddamned business."
Throwing another log on the fire, Sarah poked at it somberly while mentally projecting an image toward her brother, who was at the convalescent center some forty-five miles south of her home. She had every reason to believe that some type of "connection" were possible, if given the proper "signal-boost" through a basic underlying belief that it would work. Regularly, she projected her love and support, occasionally sending entire mental dialogues of what she had been doing and what she had been feeling while doing it. She had no idea whether Stephan could register the mental images, but it never dissuaded her from trying. Sarah "projected" unfailingly every day, every night, and intermittently while attending to various tasks.
(Genetic-electronic, biometric knowledge concerning the "TheThirdEye" was unknown to her at this time).
"Stephan, I have no idea if you can hear me, but I want you to know that being alone on Christams, without you, is very sad. I miss you so much! God, how I miss our mom! And our dad, but he says he needs to work and can't be here. I don't think he's telling the truth, Stephan. It just hurts him too much. I don't think he can stand the pain. I don't care if he has to lie about it, and I hope he's fishing for a marlin in a boat off the Hawaiian Islands and not sitting around a gloomy house and pouting like I am. I know it doesn't seem to make any difference, Stephan, but Happy Christmas, anyway. Please get better. Please come home!"
However, Sarah had nearly given up hope on ever having such pleasant events as those occur. It had been ten months since Stephan's brain had seemingly "shutdown." The doctors, at a loss to explain such a thing, ha taken extensive interviews with Sarah and other members of the family. Even close friends were included. Desperate to formulate a plausible-sounding explanation, the doctors had described certaint traits of Stephan's unusual personality as clear "symptoms." They had even gone as far as to say his "symptoms" were evidential years in the past, but had been overlooked by doctors of lesser experience than themselves.
(Failure to believe the doctors' Theories, therefore, "TheoryWorship," was met with scorn.)
In Sarah's mind, it was all "bullshit." They just didn't know and were not inclined to admit the obvious. Although the various hospitals and medical specialists had conducted countless tests, uincluding toxicological studies, nothing could be conclusively proved and no diagnosis or subsequent prognosis could be made. In desperation, Sarah, with her father's money, had taken Stephan to a Naturopath to undergo a different series of toxicological batteries. Those lab results tested the chemical reaction of thousands of naturally occuring toxins when mixed with samplings of Stephan's blood. No link to his current problems could be found, though a few minor allergic conditions were proven to exist.
"I know it 't-t-Them.' Help me, Sarah!" were Stephan Tschetter's last known spoken words. Sarah had spent nearly eleven-thousand dollars of her inheritance money before it was received to hire an independent laboratory to test all of the food stuffs, vitamins, bathroom and kitchen cleaning-supplies, including various household goods in Stephan's apartment. Again, there was nothing proven, nothing to prove, just a waist of time and money. However, in Sarah's mind, she had done everything possible to prove "They," whoever "They" may be, could not have been responsible for Stephan's condition through continuous poisoning or blood tainting.
(It never occured to her to check the water-supply, nor the sewer-pipes, where a 'sniffer-snake' had been inserted from the man-hole cover in the street, altering Stephan's apartment's environment).
So, on the fourth of March, upon the advice of friends, she reluctantly agreed to place Stephan in a convalescent center. Sadly, there was nothing left for her to do, Stephan's objections going unvoiced as he could no longer speak intelligible sounds. His every move had been reduced to the clumsiness of a newborn, and Sarah could not possibly care for him at home by herself.
After the mental exercise in front of the fireplace had been completed, Sarah was overcome with deep emotion. Long ago she felt her last tears over the matter had dried. Realizing the emptiness of a lonely holiday refilled her cascading pain, the sudden onslaught of deep depression, quite moist, and overflowing again. Finishing the last words of her "projection" to Stephan, tears running down her cheecks, she longed for the companionship that had been unfairly stolen from her. She clutched a pillow against her breasts and folded her knees, rocking back and forth, grieving for all the losses suffered throughout the most tragic year of her life.
While Sarah was crying, her best and truest friend in the whole world came to her, bearing comfort. "Meow?" her friend asked, looking up with concern and affection. The cat purred and butted against her legs, offering encouragement, companionship and unfailing support.
"Oh, Ramses!" she cried, picking up and stroking the furry bundle of love, "We're all alone this year. Just you and me." She scratched him around the ears and under the collar as he purred with delight.
Collecting herself, she suddenly spoke to Ramses more brightly, asking, "Want a Kitty Treat? I got some really good ones at the store. You're going to like these. Salmon, I think." She set the cat back on the floor and rose to her feet, tossing the pillow by the couch. Just as she turned toward the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
The sound startled her as it was so unexpected. Sarah had no plans for visitors or guests, nor had she agreed to meet anyone. Sarah was the type of person that adamantly insisted upon calling first, where "dropping-by" was strictly forbidden. She was known to stand at the kitchen window doing dishes while blatantly ignoring the door, unannounced visitors be damned. Even if a rude "guest" walked around the side of the house and jumped up and down in front of the windows, she'd not share her time. For some reason, the discourtesy really pissed her off.
On this cold early-afternoon, perhaps because the next day was Christmas, she felt a softening within her and a bit more generous toward those who were not aware of her rules. Perhaps it was her pervasive sense of loneliness, but she halted her errand to find Ramses' treat and chose to answer the door instead.
"Sarah Tschetter?" a woman asked, a total stranger to Sarah.
"Yes?"
"My name is Ellen Green. It's imperative that I speak with you immediately. The matter is most urgent. May I come in?"
Impulsively, Sarah nearly slammed the door after such a pushy opening by a complete stranger. For some reason, however, she did not feel intimidated by the woman and her abruptness. In the newcomer's favor, by a random roll of the die, was the fact that Sarah "felt" no inherent danger by allowing the woman access in to her home. A man, possibly, may have been treated to a different set of rules.
After only a brief hesitation, Sarah casually mumbled, "I suppose. Take a seat by the fire. I'll join you shortly." She then waved the woman to the den while busying herself with sweeping away with little snow had been tracked in. It gave her a moment to study her guest, and the guest a moment to study Sarah's home. Shortly, Sarah walked in to the den and took a seat opposite Ellen Green.
"What is the nature of your visit?" Sarah asked, choosing to be as abrupt with her words as the woman had been at the door.
"It's about your brother, Stephan."
"You were a friend of his?"
"No."
"Is this another money scam, where you claim my brother owes you and now you've come to me to collect?"
"Absolutely not! Please allow me to explain."
"Please do, but as you can see, I'm preparing for the Holidays, lonely though they may be."
"That's why I'm here, Miss Tschetter. We must leave immediately for Fairfield and get Stephan out of that hospital. Time is critical."
Sarah was dumbfounded. What was this woman thinking, her brother was off to camp?
"Sarah, listen very carefully to everything I am telling you," the woman said, her voice becoming doubly intense, earnest. Ellen Green reached across the short distance to place a hand on Sarah's knee, their eyes locking. "Stephan Tschetter is alive inside his shell. He is alive, Sarah. Yesterday, our scientists isolated a compound that we believe has been slowly administered into his blood stream over a long period. I flew here from Virginia immediately to meet with you and gain your cooperation. If Stephan is given additional doses, maybe another two or three months' worth, he'll never recover. Today, we believe the overall levels of the drug, which are cumulative, have not reached that critical threshold. Are you with me so far?"
Sarah was so thunderstruck that it was nearly impossible for her to answer such a simple question. Who in Hell was this woman? In a shaky voice, so soft it could barely be heard, she said, "But I paid the best lab in America to examine everything ..."
"... everything in his apartment, including deodorant, toothpaste and vitamins," the woman interrupted. Continuing quickly, she said, "The bill came to a total of ten-thousand nine-hundred seventeen dollars and twelve cents, a significant portion of her pretax inheritance. There is nothing about Stephan or Sarah Tschetter, you dear, which we do not know."
"We?!" Sarah asked in a tiny squeak.
The woman sat back against the couch, sighing heavily. "That prt is a bit complicated. Without going into details, as there is no time, let me tell you this: I am with a group called the 'Knights.' It's a school of thought (ThoughtSchool), academia on a broad scale. I'll tell you up front there is another ThoughtSchool. We are both at odds in deciding how people should and should not be treated. The way your brother has been treated is definitely not from our ThoughtSchool. Each of us has our own agenda about how things are to be accomplished. Both groups are unseen, unheard, totally and undeniably invisible. We've been declared war upon, you see, differing ideologies at war against us by no fault of our own. It's all a matter of perspective -- and -- I'm not asking you to choose sides. Those that work for these two rival ThoughtSchools, give their lives over completely to 'Them-'," she held up her fingers to double-quote the word "Them." "These people will stop at nothing, cannot be stopped, so far, anyway, and will die before revealing their true identities."
The woman broke off as she noticed how deeply her words had affected Sarah. Sarah's chin had started quivering uncontrollably and, before the woman could inhale her next breath and utter reassurances, a well of tears gushed from Sarah's eyes. Her entire body began shaking in uncompromising spasms. Suddenly, Sarah was wailing, agaonized sobs robbing her breath. Though her teeth were clenched, the sound was forced through, all brought on by the horrible impact of profound guilt, the trigger-key pulled when the strange woman held up her fingers to double-quote the word, "Them."
Ellen Green was not heartless, though her compunctions of compassion had grown thin. After having worked with several families, victims of tragedy, whose loved ones had been so senselessly taken from them, she thought she recognized the signs of guilt in Sarah. Although a softer approach may have yielded more trusting relationships, Ellen's methods for spurring recovery had grown brutal. She had become increasingly impatient, feelings having no place in crisis. Feeling the sleepless night she had spent on the plane, Ellen struggled with cranky indifference and frustration. If her mission were to continue as planned then time was critical. There was little room for emotional outpourings of guilt. Making a decision, Ellen rushed over and grabbed Sarah by the shoulders, shaking her roughly. "Stop it! Stop it right now! We don't have time for this, Sarah. You can make peace with yourself and whatever gods you subscribe to later, after we save your brother. There are many like him! But if you don't collect yourself and come with me immediately, Stephan and many others will die!"
Her words were lost on Sarah, for she was swimming in a singular universe of pain and remorse. Stephan had already experienced a form of death in her mind. He was already gone. The woman standing before her only opened a door that Sarah had once shut, locked and nailed closed like a coffin.
The woman, Ellen Green, her face flushed with frustration, suddenly lifted her hand and slapped Sarah, hard, in a desperate attempt at warding off hysteria.
Sarah gasped, her body straightening as she lifted a shaky hand to her stinging cheek. Her eyes slowly lifted toward the stranger, burning with fury and hatred.
Noticing a sharp inhale and expecting more outbursts, Ellen quickly added new words to her many compelling reasons why Sarah needed to compose herself immediately. In fervent tones, her words a rush of seriousness, Ellen continued to deliver the urgent message she had promised at the door.
"Sarah, you could not have helped Stephan in the past. It took nearly a year for out top scientists -- arguably, the world's best -- to isolate these drugs. And the top intelligence-operatives in the world to isolate the methodology. There was no way you could have helped him. If we hurry, we can probably do something for him now. Time is of the essence!"
The statement seemed to pacify Sarah, though little. She began to breathe more regularly and the trembling in her limbs lessened, but the burdens she carried haunted her still.
Ellen backed away, rightfully reading the hostility her presence intimidated. Proven through trial and error, a stern approach had worked for her in the past and Ellen continued with that design. "Maybe you didn't understand me, Sarah. Before, there was nothing you could have done. Right now you can. Stephan needs you right now, this instant!" There is a private nurse waiting to meet us at the hospital. Get your ID, coat, mittens, whatever, and let's bring your brother home!" She emphasized the last word.
Sarah rose without a sound, nearly bowling Ellen over backwards. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, Sarah tried speaking. A garbled sound emerged, her chin trembling too violently for words to be understood. Turning, she walked to the front door, collected her purse and coat from the rack and walked outside, leaving Ellen alone by the fire.
Ellen sighed, her head moving from left and right, saddened, angry and so very, very tired. She had been awake for nearly two days without any rest, so important was the mission she had embarked upon. A mission of tragic urgency, both to her and the ideological factions, "ThoughtSchools," for whom she worked. Being the holiday season it had been impossible to book an immediate flight by normal means. She had been forced to charter a private jet, at great expense to herself, reimbursement being probable but timely. The impromptu decision was an uncertain attempt, at best, to rescue yet another victim from the grips of her nemesis, "The Trident Family." For it must be "They" whom had done these monstrous acts, such unspeakable, cowardly things. She knew of no other groups proficient in gruesome acts of mental atrocity. Ellen entertained few doubts that Stephan Tschetter had been destroyed in yet another vile, odious, and despicable Trident operation.
(The many 'facets' of DECEPTION: and Stephan was just one, tiny element within a vast plot).
Composing her racing thoughts, Ellen Green walked out of the house, making sure to lock the door behind her. She faltered on the steps, startled that the rented Grand Prix she had left in the driveway was occupied. Surprisingly, she saw that Sarah had already buckled in to the passenger seat. Quickening her pace, she hopped in through the driver's side, urgency and speed returning to overwhelm her own sense of grief as she quickly started the motor. Moments later they were heading South, toward Fairfield, on a little two-lane highway through the snow, to rescue, if not too late, Sarah's brother, Stephan.
They drove in silence, Sarah's unspoken questions requiring the less demonstrative answers of silent denial. Occasionally, Ellen glanced in Sarah's direction, noticing the tears streaming down Sarah's face unaccompanied by sound.
============================
PART I : "THEM"
Chapter I
"Chiaroscuro"
December 24, 2:15PM
Spokane, Washington, USA
Sarah Tschetter had stocked the house with as much food as she could afford before the onset of the Christmas season. She had even decorated a smaller pine tree in the front yard with wooden ornaments, tiny white lights and plastic candy canes. The same stockings she had used as a small child hung over the mantel on the fireplace. Hand stitched, one displayed her name and the other the name of her brother, Stephen, just as their mother had done for each youngster so many Christmases before.
Opening several bags of candy, Sarah scooped the tiny morsels out by the handfuls and poured them into the stockings, replacing each, lovingly, to its proper place over the mantel. A little three-colored "corn" fell to the floor by her feet. Stooping for the errant morsel, Sarah was suddenly filled with memories of so many other holidays. The tiny kernel shaped candies were as much an important trandition as the days themselves. She picked up the piece and threw it into the fireplace, only to reach her hand inside her own stocking in search of another. Finding several, she put one in her mouth and the texture, as much as the taste, recreated a stunning series of forgotten events.
Suddenly overcome with memories, she too a seat by the fire and allowed the meaningful candies to stir solemn recollections. Sarah studied the three bands of colors as though each contained a recognition code, furthering the release of her misplaced thoughts. She had never felt so lonely and in all of her twenty-nine years she had yet to spend a Christmas season entirely alone. Her father would be unable to fly over as he said; he was too involved in his work this year. Sarah's mother had passed away, succumbing to cancer after a long struggle and poor Stephan did not even know. Poor Stephen, she thought, as tears sprang to her eyes. She and her brother had always been close, so tight, always there for each other. Fate had twisted out unbelievably harsh designs upon her family. Oftentimes she found the thoughts overwhelming ad preferred ignorance to reminders.
Stephan had said, repeatedly, for the past several years, "Help me, Sarah! 'They' are watching me. My life is being taken over! We've got to do something. Please!"
Mental illness had never been a part of her family's ancestral tree, until Stephan. Stephan's paranoid delusions may have been drug-induced. He freely partook in all forms of "partying," and the doctors had mentioned that cocaine and methyl-amphetamine users often became paralyzed with "situational fear," as they called it. Stephan swore he was not paranoid and denied the diagnosis, at first. Then he said he was, maybe "a little paranoid." Then he clearly admitted to being so scared that he could no longer sleep and the deprivation had caused him to be unquestionably mad.
He named his delusional antagonists, calling them, "Fate Molders," or "Transformers of Fate," something like that, anyway. Later, as he melded into the "Paranoid Network" and traded delusions with others -- all of which were sent by "Them" to further confuse his mind -- he fixated upon a single name, "Trident." He seemed to think of "Them" as this huge secret network that worked for the government -- or was autonomous from the government, actually -- and "They" were responsible for producing both citizens, and noncitizens alike. Stephan thought "They" had quotas to meet: X number of college graduates, X number of drug addicts; X number of wealthy; X number of poor; prisons to be kept at a minimum number of X inmates, etc, by design. He was even convinced that "They" were responsible for creating, distributing and monitoring the deadly AIDS virus, not to mention guns, drugs, and most forms of criminal activity.
Stephan had no doubts in his mind about any of this. To him, it was the only "Truth," and in his words, the "Church of Them" ruled over all the streams and rivers, mountains, plains and valleys, animal and man alike."
With a pervasive sense of sadness, Sarah thought about her brother's altered reality, wondering for the millionth time if his "Truth" contained any real truth at all. In her situation those thoughts were the worst detractors from her own state of mental well-being. For with the thought came undeniable guilt. It was not possible to ignore feeling that if anything her brother had ever said were true, then she had blatantly ignored him. Not in blatancy, literally, but she had turned her back on him when he would have needed her more than at any other time during their lives.
The guilt was sickening her. For her own sanity, she tried to think of other things, anything else, desperately attempting to relive more pleasant memories. Instead, her mind worked in a circle. Moments later, she began to rehash the endless nightmare. One thing became abundantly clear. If her brother was really insane, as she was reluctantly inclined to believe, then she could forgive him. She could forgive all and everything, the pain, torment, and outright psychological abuse which he had caused her and the rest of the family. However, if -- and she knew this was a big "if" -- if it turned out, somehow, that there really was "Fate Transformers," and she had denied her brother, her flesh and blood, by turning her back on him, then she could never forgive ... herself.
(It's easier to perpetuate the blaming, in denial of one's own guilt).
Sarah never lived a day without thinking of Stephan and the horror of what his life had become. Often, she would awake at night, with a picture hovering before her mind's eye, of a hospital room. These events would transpire somewhere near her ceiling, tubes and masks covering the identity of the unconscious patient lying in waste upon the bed. The mask would peal away and she would stifle screams as the twisted, disfigured and hardly recognizable face of Stephan were revealed. His hand would reach forward suddenly, his swollen eyes opening as his lips parted to mouth the words, "Help me, Sarah! Help me!" It was a revolting dream, more like a flashback for it had occured in both the night and day, all happening within an instant, as though by telepathic communication.
Sarah embraced the ideas of such things as telepathy, psychometry, astral projection, and telekinesis. She also entertained vague concepts concerning energy fields akin to George Lucas' "The Force," though she did not use those exact words. Sarah did not believe in ghosts, poltergeists, evil spirits, Satans/devils, God/gods/goddesses or possessions as associated with typical teachings and practices of Catholicism and similar religious sects and cults. "Mind control for peasants," was her personal view on most religious matters, preferring to establish a personal relationship within herself regarding her "higherself" and her associated position within the whole Universe. When her beliefs were questioned, she answered, simply, "I have none." If pressed for viewpoints, she often replied without sarcasm, "None of your goddamned business."
Throwing another log on the fire, Sarah poked at it somberly while mentally projecting an image toward her brother, who was at the convalescent center some forty-five miles south of her home. She had every reason to believe that some type of "connection" were possible, if given the proper "signal-boost" through a basic underlying belief that it would work. Regularly, she projected her love and support, occasionally sending entire mental dialogues of what she had been doing and what she had been feeling while doing it. She had no idea whether Stephan could register the mental images, but it never dissuaded her from trying. Sarah "projected" unfailingly every day, every night, and intermittently while attending to various tasks.
(Genetic-electronic, biometric knowledge concerning the "TheThirdEye" was unknown to her at this time).
"Stephan, I have no idea if you can hear me, but I want you to know that being alone on Christams, without you, is very sad. I miss you so much! God, how I miss our mom! And our dad, but he says he needs to work and can't be here. I don't think he's telling the truth, Stephan. It just hurts him too much. I don't think he can stand the pain. I don't care if he has to lie about it, and I hope he's fishing for a marlin in a boat off the Hawaiian Islands and not sitting around a gloomy house and pouting like I am. I know it doesn't seem to make any difference, Stephan, but Happy Christmas, anyway. Please get better. Please come home!"
However, Sarah had nearly given up hope on ever having such pleasant events as those occur. It had been ten months since Stephan's brain had seemingly "shutdown." The doctors, at a loss to explain such a thing, ha taken extensive interviews with Sarah and other members of the family. Even close friends were included. Desperate to formulate a plausible-sounding explanation, the doctors had described certaint traits of Stephan's unusual personality as clear "symptoms." They had even gone as far as to say his "symptoms" were evidential years in the past, but had been overlooked by doctors of lesser experience than themselves.
(Failure to believe the doctors' Theories, therefore, "TheoryWorship," was met with scorn.)
In Sarah's mind, it was all "bullshit." They just didn't know and were not inclined to admit the obvious. Although the various hospitals and medical specialists had conducted countless tests, uincluding toxicological studies, nothing could be conclusively proved and no diagnosis or subsequent prognosis could be made. In desperation, Sarah, with her father's money, had taken Stephan to a Naturopath to undergo a different series of toxicological batteries. Those lab results tested the chemical reaction of thousands of naturally occuring toxins when mixed with samplings of Stephan's blood. No link to his current problems could be found, though a few minor allergic conditions were proven to exist.
"I know it 't-t-Them.' Help me, Sarah!" were Stephan Tschetter's last known spoken words. Sarah had spent nearly eleven-thousand dollars of her inheritance money before it was received to hire an independent laboratory to test all of the food stuffs, vitamins, bathroom and kitchen cleaning-supplies, including various household goods in Stephan's apartment. Again, there was nothing proven, nothing to prove, just a waist of time and money. However, in Sarah's mind, she had done everything possible to prove "They," whoever "They" may be, could not have been responsible for Stephan's condition through continuous poisoning or blood tainting.
(It never occured to her to check the water-supply, nor the sewer-pipes, where a 'sniffer-snake' had been inserted from the man-hole cover in the street, altering Stephan's apartment's environment).
So, on the fourth of March, upon the advice of friends, she reluctantly agreed to place Stephan in a convalescent center. Sadly, there was nothing left for her to do, Stephan's objections going unvoiced as he could no longer speak intelligible sounds. His every move had been reduced to the clumsiness of a newborn, and Sarah could not possibly care for him at home by herself.
After the mental exercise in front of the fireplace had been completed, Sarah was overcome with deep emotion. Long ago she felt her last tears over the matter had dried. Realizing the emptiness of a lonely holiday refilled her cascading pain, the sudden onslaught of deep depression, quite moist, and overflowing again. Finishing the last words of her "projection" to Stephan, tears running down her cheecks, she longed for the companionship that had been unfairly stolen from her. She clutched a pillow against her breasts and folded her knees, rocking back and forth, grieving for all the losses suffered throughout the most tragic year of her life.
While Sarah was crying, her best and truest friend in the whole world came to her, bearing comfort. "Meow?" her friend asked, looking up with concern and affection. The cat purred and butted against her legs, offering encouragement, companionship and unfailing support.
"Oh, Ramses!" she cried, picking up and stroking the furry bundle of love, "We're all alone this year. Just you and me." She scratched him around the ears and under the collar as he purred with delight.
Collecting herself, she suddenly spoke to Ramses more brightly, asking, "Want a Kitty Treat? I got some really good ones at the store. You're going to like these. Salmon, I think." She set the cat back on the floor and rose to her feet, tossing the pillow by the couch. Just as she turned toward the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
The sound startled her as it was so unexpected. Sarah had no plans for visitors or guests, nor had she agreed to meet anyone. Sarah was the type of person that adamantly insisted upon calling first, where "dropping-by" was strictly forbidden. She was known to stand at the kitchen window doing dishes while blatantly ignoring the door, unannounced visitors be damned. Even if a rude "guest" walked around the side of the house and jumped up and down in front of the windows, she'd not share her time. For some reason, the discourtesy really pissed her off.
On this cold early-afternoon, perhaps because the next day was Christmas, she felt a softening within her and a bit more generous toward those who were not aware of her rules. Perhaps it was her pervasive sense of loneliness, but she halted her errand to find Ramses' treat and chose to answer the door instead.
"Sarah Tschetter?" a woman asked, a total stranger to Sarah.
"Yes?"
"My name is Ellen Green. It's imperative that I speak with you immediately. The matter is most urgent. May I come in?"
Impulsively, Sarah nearly slammed the door after such a pushy opening by a complete stranger. For some reason, however, she did not feel intimidated by the woman and her abruptness. In the newcomer's favor, by a random roll of the die, was the fact that Sarah "felt" no inherent danger by allowing the woman access in to her home. A man, possibly, may have been treated to a different set of rules.
After only a brief hesitation, Sarah casually mumbled, "I suppose. Take a seat by the fire. I'll join you shortly." She then waved the woman to the den while busying herself with sweeping away with little snow had been tracked in. It gave her a moment to study her guest, and the guest a moment to study Sarah's home. Shortly, Sarah walked in to the den and took a seat opposite Ellen Green.
"What is the nature of your visit?" Sarah asked, choosing to be as abrupt with her words as the woman had been at the door.
"It's about your brother, Stephan."
"You were a friend of his?"
"No."
"Is this another money scam, where you claim my brother owes you and now you've come to me to collect?"
"Absolutely not! Please allow me to explain."
"Please do, but as you can see, I'm preparing for the Holidays, lonely though they may be."
"That's why I'm here, Miss Tschetter. We must leave immediately for Fairfield and get Stephan out of that hospital. Time is critical."
Sarah was dumbfounded. What was this woman thinking, her brother was off to camp?
"Sarah, listen very carefully to everything I am telling you," the woman said, her voice becoming doubly intense, earnest. Ellen Green reached across the short distance to place a hand on Sarah's knee, their eyes locking. "Stephan Tschetter is alive inside his shell. He is alive, Sarah. Yesterday, our scientists isolated a compound that we believe has been slowly administered into his blood stream over a long period. I flew here from Virginia immediately to meet with you and gain your cooperation. If Stephan is given additional doses, maybe another two or three months' worth, he'll never recover. Today, we believe the overall levels of the drug, which are cumulative, have not reached that critical threshold. Are you with me so far?"
Sarah was so thunderstruck that it was nearly impossible for her to answer such a simple question. Who in Hell was this woman? In a shaky voice, so soft it could barely be heard, she said, "But I paid the best lab in America to examine everything ..."
"... everything in his apartment, including deodorant, toothpaste and vitamins," the woman interrupted. Continuing quickly, she said, "The bill came to a total of ten-thousand nine-hundred seventeen dollars and twelve cents, a significant portion of her pretax inheritance. There is nothing about Stephan or Sarah Tschetter, you dear, which we do not know."
"We?!" Sarah asked in a tiny squeak.
The woman sat back against the couch, sighing heavily. "That prt is a bit complicated. Without going into details, as there is no time, let me tell you this: I am with a group called the 'Knights.' It's a school of thought (ThoughtSchool), academia on a broad scale. I'll tell you up front there is another ThoughtSchool. We are both at odds in deciding how people should and should not be treated. The way your brother has been treated is definitely not from our ThoughtSchool. Each of us has our own agenda about how things are to be accomplished. Both groups are unseen, unheard, totally and undeniably invisible. We've been declared war upon, you see, differing ideologies at war against us by no fault of our own. It's all a matter of perspective -- and -- I'm not asking you to choose sides. Those that work for these two rival ThoughtSchools, give their lives over completely to 'Them-'," she held up her fingers to double-quote the word "Them." "These people will stop at nothing, cannot be stopped, so far, anyway, and will die before revealing their true identities."
The woman broke off as she noticed how deeply her words had affected Sarah. Sarah's chin had started quivering uncontrollably and, before the woman could inhale her next breath and utter reassurances, a well of tears gushed from Sarah's eyes. Her entire body began shaking in uncompromising spasms. Suddenly, Sarah was wailing, agaonized sobs robbing her breath. Though her teeth were clenched, the sound was forced through, all brought on by the horrible impact of profound guilt, the trigger-key pulled when the strange woman held up her fingers to double-quote the word, "Them."
Ellen Green was not heartless, though her compunctions of compassion had grown thin. After having worked with several families, victims of tragedy, whose loved ones had been so senselessly taken from them, she thought she recognized the signs of guilt in Sarah. Although a softer approach may have yielded more trusting relationships, Ellen's methods for spurring recovery had grown brutal. She had become increasingly impatient, feelings having no place in crisis. Feeling the sleepless night she had spent on the plane, Ellen struggled with cranky indifference and frustration. If her mission were to continue as planned then time was critical. There was little room for emotional outpourings of guilt. Making a decision, Ellen rushed over and grabbed Sarah by the shoulders, shaking her roughly. "Stop it! Stop it right now! We don't have time for this, Sarah. You can make peace with yourself and whatever gods you subscribe to later, after we save your brother. There are many like him! But if you don't collect yourself and come with me immediately, Stephan and many others will die!"
Her words were lost on Sarah, for she was swimming in a singular universe of pain and remorse. Stephan had already experienced a form of death in her mind. He was already gone. The woman standing before her only opened a door that Sarah had once shut, locked and nailed closed like a coffin.
The woman, Ellen Green, her face flushed with frustration, suddenly lifted her hand and slapped Sarah, hard, in a desperate attempt at warding off hysteria.
Sarah gasped, her body straightening as she lifted a shaky hand to her stinging cheek. Her eyes slowly lifted toward the stranger, burning with fury and hatred.
Noticing a sharp inhale and expecting more outbursts, Ellen quickly added new words to her many compelling reasons why Sarah needed to compose herself immediately. In fervent tones, her words a rush of seriousness, Ellen continued to deliver the urgent message she had promised at the door.
"Sarah, you could not have helped Stephan in the past. It took nearly a year for out top scientists -- arguably, the world's best -- to isolate these drugs. And the top intelligence-operatives in the world to isolate the methodology. There was no way you could have helped him. If we hurry, we can probably do something for him now. Time is of the essence!"
The statement seemed to pacify Sarah, though little. She began to breathe more regularly and the trembling in her limbs lessened, but the burdens she carried haunted her still.
Ellen backed away, rightfully reading the hostility her presence intimidated. Proven through trial and error, a stern approach had worked for her in the past and Ellen continued with that design. "Maybe you didn't understand me, Sarah. Before, there was nothing you could have done. Right now you can. Stephan needs you right now, this instant!" There is a private nurse waiting to meet us at the hospital. Get your ID, coat, mittens, whatever, and let's bring your brother home!" She emphasized the last word.
Sarah rose without a sound, nearly bowling Ellen over backwards. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, Sarah tried speaking. A garbled sound emerged, her chin trembling too violently for words to be understood. Turning, she walked to the front door, collected her purse and coat from the rack and walked outside, leaving Ellen alone by the fire.
Ellen sighed, her head moving from left and right, saddened, angry and so very, very tired. She had been awake for nearly two days without any rest, so important was the mission she had embarked upon. A mission of tragic urgency, both to her and the ideological factions, "ThoughtSchools," for whom she worked. Being the holiday season it had been impossible to book an immediate flight by normal means. She had been forced to charter a private jet, at great expense to herself, reimbursement being probable but timely. The impromptu decision was an uncertain attempt, at best, to rescue yet another victim from the grips of her nemesis, "The Trident Family." For it must be "They" whom had done these monstrous acts, such unspeakable, cowardly things. She knew of no other groups proficient in gruesome acts of mental atrocity. Ellen entertained few doubts that Stephan Tschetter had been destroyed in yet another vile, odious, and despicable Trident operation.
(The many 'facets' of DECEPTION: and Stephan was just one, tiny element within a vast plot).
Composing her racing thoughts, Ellen Green walked out of the house, making sure to lock the door behind her. She faltered on the steps, startled that the rented Grand Prix she had left in the driveway was occupied. Surprisingly, she saw that Sarah had already buckled in to the passenger seat. Quickening her pace, she hopped in through the driver's side, urgency and speed returning to overwhelm her own sense of grief as she quickly started the motor. Moments later they were heading South, toward Fairfield, on a little two-lane highway through the snow, to rescue, if not too late, Sarah's brother, Stephan.
They drove in silence, Sarah's unspoken questions requiring the less demonstrative answers of silent denial. Occasionally, Ellen glanced in Sarah's direction, noticing the tears streaming down Sarah's face unaccompanied by sound.
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posted by Clayton Leon Winton | 1:03 PM
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