Gene Therapy - Phan

The View from the Window

Dan awoke groggy and confused. Blackness faded into light through many shades of grey, and even once his eyes were open he still struggled to shake his vision into clarity. His head felt like a thick fog had settled over it. He fought back the murkiness of unconsciousness and focused on one fact at a time. He was lying down in a bed staring up at a white ceiling. He dragged his eyes down to scan the room. The walls were a pale blue and they were bare, bar a small sash window. He could see only blue sky outside, so he guessed he was pretty high up. The bed sheets were white and there was a chair in one corner. If it hadn’t been for the lack of medical equipment, Dan would have assumed he was in a hospital. The room was so lifeless, so bleak, that his first thought was that he was in a psychiatric ward and he tensed automatically, straining against the imaginary restraints that held him down.

There was a table by his bedside with a lamp, a piece of paper, and a small metal box resting on its surface. Tentatively, Dan shifted onto his side. There was no pain and he relaxed a little, reaching for the square of paper.

Press the call button on the transmitter when you wake.

Dan picked up the grey transmitter. It looked like a radio, with a microphone and a push to talk button on the side. The call button was in the centre of the device and he hovered his thumb over it before changing his mind. He wanted to get a better idea of what was going on before he alerted the people who had brought him here that he was conscious. He climbed out of bed and was a little perturbed to see that he had been clothed in a pale grey pyjama suit. Where were his clothes? And who had undressed him while he was out cold? He felt shaky on his feet and wondered how long he had been sleeping.

The door was locked, and a trickle of unease fell slowly down his spine. He tried the window, but that too was shut fast. He was four or five floors up, somewhere in the countryside. There was grass at the bottom of the building, and then a high, threatening looking wall with metal spikes bristling at its peak. Beyond the wall, there were trees. Dan turned back around and sat down on the edge of the bed while he tried to piece his mind together.

His name was Dan Howell, that much he was sure of. He knew how to read, obviously, and he knew things. It was a strange feeling. He knew that the bed was called a bed, but he couldn’t remember ever being taught the word. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything at all before he woke up just a few minutes earlier.

He must have been to school, he decided, because of the whole reading thing. And, of course, because he knew what a school was and how it worked. He had a defined picture of school in his mind. So why didn’t he remember going? He scratched his head. To say it was disconcerting would be an understatement, however he didn’t feel particularly upset. He felt numb, he decided, which was probably a very bad sign. He was nowhere near fully comprehending his situation, so his body and mind were coping by shutting out all emotion. It was doing a pretty good job of it, too, aside from his left hand, which was just beginning to tremble. A sick feeling in his stomach, Dan reached for the call button.

Nothing happened.

He lay back against the headboard and turned the transmitter over in his hands. Had he pressed the wrong button? Should he say something into the microphone? Before he could make up his mind however, he heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. The lock clicked. He held his breath. He was half expecting an elderly doctor in a white lab coat so was relieved when two very ordinary looking women poked their heads cautiously round the door.

The lady in front, tall, with auburn hair scraped back into a bun, stepped into the room.

“Hello,” she said gently. “My name’s Madeline. How are you feeling?”

Dan shrugged. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak yet, and was a little scared of what his voice would sound like.

“Are you in pain at all?” Madeline asked.