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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
"Who is Greta? Doctor? Tell me who Jean and Greta are? Also, who is Jarod? Is that Jarod with an e or o? O seems rather archaic. Answer me, Doctor Mikhail. Are these people colleagues of yours? If I'm going to successfully treat you, Doctor, it's important that my notes are accurate. As a physician I have a responsibility to record accurate patient history, a practice you consistently refused to adopt primarily because your patients were all given new identities, because, of course, you abducted them from their parents, because you, Jacob Mikhail, are a despicable human being."
Although he no longer comprehended the fellow's reasons for calling him Jacob, his brother's name, Sydney never doubted his ability to communicate verbally, promptly answer, in detail, each question. His mother was Greta. Jean was his father.
Jarod certainly wasn't a colleague.
Sydney, in fact, provided absolutely no answer; typically astute eyes remained tightly closed, an insightful mind was unconscious of three bloody steel blades in their brass casing, an overturned bleeding bowl, a fleam stick.
In equal measures Sydney would have have empathically denied, and been appalled by, the quavering ribbons of pink saliva suspended from his chin, poised to fall, pool onto the dirt floor.
The psychiatrist, however, would have argued that his eyes remained open; after all, he fiercely longed to avert them from the revolving, and rather oppressive shafts of crimson that assaulted his brain.
He wanted to close eyes and mind, escape the fetor and hunger. He wanted savor the comfort of an Édith Piaf melody, run into the open arms of his mother.
He was incapable of summoning sweet memories, was denied refuge. Quietly, Sydney wept.
"What else are you saying there," asked Sydney's captor. "Are you ---praying? Hmm? That certainly isn't English. Is that German? It's a shame that our translator is on maternity leave. The entire staff is rather incompetent here, truth be known. Pardon? Are you attempting to communicate with me? Oh, my, this is an exceedingly wearisome case. I don't know what you're trying to communicate to me."
Nor did Sydney.
In fact, Jarod's handler wasn't aware of his mouth moving, contrite, plaintive cries departing dry, blood-stained lips.
"C'est ma faute. Oui, c'est ma faute. C'est ma faute, c'est ma faute, c'est ma faute. Je vous prie de pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie. Je sais que tout est de ma faute. Je ne voulais pas te blesser. S’il te plaît, pardonne-moi. Je vous prie de pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie.
Je t'en supplie. Pardonne-moi. Plaît. Je suis désolé, chers enfants, pardonne-moi. Je vous prie de pardonnez-moi, je vous en prie. Je t'en supplie. C'est ma faute. Dieu, pardonne-moi. Dieu, pardonne-moi mes péchés. Mon Dieu, pardonne-moi. Dieu, aie pitié de moi."
"Ah, well, perhaps I can assist you, Doctor, in opening yourself up to me," the younger man said, filling two syringes. "When you and Raines allied to curry favor with the Central Intelligence Agency, contend with thousands of other mad scientists, and be recognized at last and recruited to head clandestine projects such as MK-Ultra and Bluebird, William Raines began secretly visiting my chamber-- with syringes.
In one arm he'd inject an amphetamine and in the other a barbiturate. Now, now, don't fret. I wouldn't dare coerce another living creature to suffer as I did. I fully aim to do absolutely no harm. Ah, yes, indeed," the fellow continued, lowering the needle and penetrating Sydney's flesh, "a little diamorphine and a lot of lysergic acid diethylamide will, I'm certain, prove quite illuminating."
