If Robert had to name one thing he enjoyed about New York, it was the food stands. The crowds, noise and traffic congestion were awful. And without Central Park, he was afraid he might forget what greenery looked like. But New Yorkers did not screw around with their food stands. New York was not named "The Big City" lightly: it was humongous in both size and history. Land purchased from Indians for a price that should have been considered robbery. But that was history. What was the present was the bratwurst on a toasted bun with mustard and sauerkraut. It was cheap and delicious, like most street food stands he had encountered. The only bad mark in an otherwise boring day was when the vendor had looked at him strangely. "Hey. Weren't you that guy who the news was fussing about in that robbery gone wrong from a year ago?" "No idea," he replied dully as he took his first bite of food, "you must have me mistaken for someone else." That was his typical response to the question, one that was thankfully being asked less frequently. The warm sausage had heated his hands up and his belly as he walked the final few blocks to his apartment.
It was on the twelfth floor, two bedrooms and two bathrooms. There was not much space, and the neighbors above made noise, but it was high enough to avoid the sound of street traffic, which was worse than stomping. White walls and leather furniture, with thick, dark curtains to keep the light out. A maid came by once a week to keep things clean. There was no television in the living room, but there was one in his room, which only had a bed and a nightstand with a lamp. He kept his diplomas framed in the second bedroom as a computer room, music practice room and guest room: the couch could be converted into a bed space. It was simple, but it was his. And with the view of towering buildings built in varying decades and centuries of American history, Robert felt trapped. His bars were made of concrete, and his barrier was his apartment. He had told them he could continue working: a few silly migraines lasted only for ten minutes. But Jay, his case worker, and the FBI in general thought otherwise. A pension to live the rest of his life without doing a job he spent sixteen plus years preparing for. "Fuck him," Robert had grunted at his mental cursing after swallowing his last bite of hotdog and tossing the wax paper and holder into the trash, "and his bureaucrats." He winced shortly afterwards, and shook his head at his words. Money was money. He had a nice place to live in, and Jay was only following policy. Still, his fingers itched, and the sirloins he bought and butchered did nothing to help. The problem was not about the money at this point. It was the challenge, the puzzle that Robert craved. The lack of challenge that kept him awake and bored, despite his attempts to distract himself with fencing, television, and sex. It was an itch that was not easily ignored, but one that had to be forcibly smothered sometimes with a pillow, soft nightclothes, and warm sheets after a day of roaming, and letting sleep drown him in rolling waves and drag him to its dark, murky bottom.
Tonight he was visiting Dr. Peter Larsen to discuss notes from their work. They each took turns hosting, and the guest brought food, mostly in the form of meat and potatoes. He had opened the door, which was normal since it was unlocked during these nights. "Larsen! I brought food!" Instead of a greeting and a bid to come in, however, he was greeted with the foggy sight of a man with a distorted aura around him. He could not see his face clearly, or much of his features. But he did see the body on the floor, which was quickly abandoned as the stranger ran off. Without thinking, Robert had charged into the room, and soon was standing over the body of his colleague, pooling blood onto the carpet. Robert would not have recognized him if he hadn't seen him earlier that day. "Oh shit... Fuck!" He cursed out loud as he fell to the floor to check for vitals in his neck. He felt nothing. There was so much blood, he didn't know where to start, but realized his efforts were fruitless: Dr. Larsen was dead. Unknowingly, his actions caused the gun concealed by a vest he wore to be revealed. And that proved to be his undoing.
The first blow was to his head, he was certain. Just a brief, fleeting second of sharp, radiating pain before it evaporated to a fuzzy feeling. It caused him to fall on his side to the floor, the blow too jarring for him to react or move. Robert did not need a medical degree to know that he was just hit in the head very hard, along with the consequences: a possible concussion, and head hemorrhaging. He remembered that head wounds were always the bloodiest as his head continued to bounce into the floor. Was he still getting hit? His hearing was ringing and vision so fuzzy. He thought he saw a rod of some sort swing into view as it smashed into his ribs. Broken ribs, he thought passively and his breathing became shorter and sharper. He was starting to feel cold, and so, so sleepy. Was he dying? He wasn't sure. He felt like he was sinking into sand, with no resistance or care. Sleep, he thought, slow the blood flow. The world was beginning to fade away to nothingness and he was slipping through the fabric of reality. Cotton began to wrap around him like a cocoon, insulating him from the world. The last thought on Robert's mind was the Hippocratic oath.
"... Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God."
He awoke then, with a blood curdling scream and pain, soreness, so much soreness. His arms had clutched at his ribs and his head to nurse the pain. And yet, it seemed to subside to an itch. An itch similar to a scar. Itching at places that were wounded on his chart that he saw when he awoke a year ago in a hospital bed. "W-What is... What is--I don't... Oh God..." He could not sleep now. The meat must have had something strange in it, he thought as he slumped back against his pillow. Perhaps he would call Jay tomorrow. The dream had felt so real, after all.
But was it really?