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I’m sitting in this armchair in the doctor’s office that’s comfortable enough to make you think they care but uncomfortable enough to show that they don’t care that much. And what’s with the cleanliness in these places? I know that doctors’ offices have to be clean because of all the sickness. I get it. But does the whole place have to smell like disinfectant? Surely they could develop a disinfectant that doesn’t smell like disinfectant.

My mind continues to wander like this as I look around at the stark white room, sparsely filled with medical equipment and charts explaining how I should take better care of my body. I haven’t had a headache since I walked in here, so that’s a positive.

I was a little worried when they started the CT scan that something would trigger another headache, but I made it through okay, just a little claustrophobia.

I’ve been waiting in this room for twenty minutes now, and I’m tired of waiting. At least they let me put my regular clothes back on. I kill some time scrolling through the feeds on my phone. Nothing’s really happening on any of them, but I browse through the pictures and updates anyway. My phone buzzes. It’s Ruby.

How’s it going?

Fine. Just waiting for the dr.

Did they suck out all your brains? :)

lol. Yep. They found out that I never had one. Gotta go. The dr’s here.

When the doctor walks in, he greets me and introduces himself as Dr. Carver but doesn’t look up from the tablet he’s carrying. Sitting down on a rolling stool, he looks up at me for the first time, a pleasant smile on his face. When I see his face, I catch myself. He looks familiar, like I’ve seen him before, but I’ve never been to a neurologist before today. It must be one of those weird deja-vu things.

This one is being resistant to the program. We have to contain him.

My head tilts to the side, and I squint at him. His mouth wasn’t moving, but I could have sworn I heard him speak. It couldn’t have been the voice I’ve been hearing because this one was deeper, more like a man’s voice. It sounded just like Dr. Carver. Plus, there wasn’t a headache that went with it.

As if in response to my thoughts, lightning blinds my sight with searing pain in my temples. It’s gone almost instantly.

“Well, Ben, it doesn’t look like anything is physically wrong with your brain,” he said, turning the tablet toward me. “The CT scan didn’t show anything abnormal. You can see here that there aren’t any spots on your brain we need to worry about.”

“Then what’s causing these headaches?” I ask. “I’ve never had anything like this happen, and so often. Could there be something else wrong?”

“It could be any number of things,” Dr. Carver said. “It could be your eyesight getting worse and straining. Could be your diet. It could just be allergies.”

He’s trying to give me a reassuring nod, but something keeps me from believing him. It’s the voices, I realize. The voices are what’s wrong, not the headaches. Headaches are normal; voices are not.

“Dr. Carver,” I say hesitantly. “I, uh, I was wondering…” I can’t say it though.

Dr. Carver leans in toward me and puts on his best bedside manners. “What’s on your mind?”

He’s waiting, almost like he knows what I want to ask, but I don’t want to sound crazy.

“So what if,” I begin. I don’t know how to put it into words. “What if there are other things connected to the headaches?”

“Other things?” His head perks up. “What kind of other things? Pain? Numbness? Vision issues?”

I shake my head. “No. Nothing like that. Well, there’re some vision things. Intense flashes of light when the headaches happen, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is…”

I look down at the floor that smells of bleach. I don’t want to say it. I don’t need anyone else thinking I’m crazy. I already feel crazy enough as it is.

“It’s voices,” I finally say with a heavy breath. My hands are shaking. I don’t know if it’s nerves or adrenaline or what. I wring them together to try to stop the shaking.

“Well,” Dr. Carver says with a slight chuckle, “I’m afraid that’s out of my depth. I can only analyze the physical brain. You’re going to have to go to a psychiatrist or psychologist if you want answers about that. I’m sorry. I can’t help you there. I can recommend a few doctors if you want.”

I think for a moment about his offer. It would probably help me out. I shake my head.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be okay. I think I’m just having weird thoughts after these strange dreams I had.”

Dr. Carver looks at me with furrowed brows. He makes a few low grunts while nodding his head. Suddenly, he turns and scoots his stool across the examination room to a table filled with medical supply containers.

“I understand your concerns,” he says, “but the mind is not something to be trifled with.” He grabs a couple of cards from the table and scoots back over to me. “Here. These two are the best in the area. Take it just in case you change your mind, okay?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“You’ll be okay,” he says as I stand to leave. “Everything should return to normal in a few days.”

He must be re-assimilated.

I glance around the room, confused. I finally look at Dr. Carver, who’s smiling politely at me. Too politely. He says I’ll be fine, but something about his demeanor doesn’t convince me. I nod at him a again, holding up the business cards in thanks.

As I’m walking out the door, he says, “If those headaches keep up, please let me know.”

“I will,” I say, heading toward the elevator.

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