[b]Three Weeks Ago- Snyder Research Labs: Irvine, CA[/b]
[i]Patient Six-Fifteen is displaying positive signs from the treatment. His brain is retaining the electric impulses for about 3 point 54 seconds after sent through the brain stem and through the temporal lobe. There is very little activity in the frontal lobe.[/i] The doctor stopped the recording, and left the room to check on the next patient. Keeping a schedule was important, that way he was able to make his records at the one hour mark for each patient, and comment upon the same criteria every day. Reginald Briggs De’Angelo was left alone once more, apart from the flowers on the table beside his bed, beginning to wilt. 

New flowers would be brought every other week, after Reginald’s father had his secretary put it on the calendar for the third Monday of the month. Reginald’s mother’s PA was sent a similar message, courtesy of Reminor’s secretary, asking if she would like to take the first Monday of the month. The personal assistant, a busy woman named Cecily, confirmed such with Reginald’s mother, and the orders were placed automatically with nearby floral centers, paid through the next six months. Apart from the flowers, no one came to visit. A few of the doctors had been surprised at first. They knew that this patient’s family had pushed hard to get him in the program--that he didn’t entirely qualify. They had expected to see more involvement from them coming to visit, bringing the patient tokens from home or something, but the room was barren, apart from a body in a bed.

-.-

Home. Standing in one of the nicer apartment buildings in LA, the place was jam-packed with amenities. The building had a 24 hour gym, indoor and outdoor pool, in-unit laundry facilities, two parking spots, its own balcony, and stunning views. He found himself in the hallway of the building he knew so well, and he looked behind him to see the elevator. Whatever he had just been doing, clearly he was going back to his apartment. A quick glance to the right and he saw he was on the correct floor, and so he turned to the right, walking down the hall and turning to the left at his door. He paused there for a moment, and then pat his pocket for the keys. He was really out of it. Clearly, he just needed to go lay down for a bit, probably sleep off whatever had ended up in his drink.

He looked down, assessing his clothing. Dark jeans, vest, button-down shirt, but no jacket. He might have gone out to dinner, had something slipped in his drink? Hell, maybe he simply had too much to drink. In any case, he needed to get inside and rest. Though he knew it would be fruitless, he reached his hand out for the knob, willing it to be unlocked. He could look for his keys later, he just needed to get some proper rest. [i]What the…?[/i] A confused look spread across his face as his fingers seemed to go through the knob. That wasn’t right. Clearly, whatever drugs he had taken were still messing with his system. 

“Calm down. Take a deep breath.” He closed his eyes and stepped away from the door. The door was locked, he was hallucinating. He needed to find his keys. Turning back towards the elevator, he looked on the floor. Perhaps he had been holding them, and he dropped them during his episode. Unfortunately, they were not on the floor by the elevator. He thought about going to sleep right there, but he wasn’t particularly tired. He felt like sleep was what he needed, but it wasn’t what he wanted in that moment. What he wanted, was to not feel like half of his brain was out at lunch, or dinner. 

A noise down the hall got his attention, and he looked up quickly to see someone leaving one of the apartments. No. Not just one of the apartments…[b]his[/b] apartment. “Hey… Hey you!” He had no idea who she was, but she certainly wasn’t the cleaning woman, he knew that much. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” He asked, closing the distance between them hastily, his arms folding across his chest.