Seizure Read online

  Another skeleton howled as Troy slashed it with his sword. It collapsed into a pile of bones. More skeletons lurched towards the monitor to take its place.

  "Playing Odyssey, huh?" Kent asked. "Seems like you're always on that thing."

  Troy's eyes narrowed as the last of the skeletons on the field joined the bony heap on the grass. Troy moved his mouse forward, causing the game to simulate his movement further into the gaping mouth of a cave.

  Kent folded his arms. "Okay, look, I'm not gonna beat around the bush. I got a call from your therapist. She says you didn't go to your session today."

  Troy's game moved him down another corridor, into a larger cave. At the far end of the chamber, a length of what looked like golden fur hung from the wall, glittering in the light of a fiery torch nearby. Words scrolled across the bottom of the screen that read, "YOU HAVE FOUND THE GOLDEN FLEECE."

  "So?" Troy asked.

  That wasn't the response Kent was expecting. It took a moment before he said, "So I'd like an explanation."

  Troy didn't even look away from his game as he shrugged. "I didn't feel like going."

  Kent watched Troy move towards the Golden Fleece. The clump of heavy footsteps thundered out of the computer speakers.

  Kent scowled. "I didn't set you up with this therapist so you could decide whether you go or not. I did it because you need help."

  Troy snorted in disgust. "I don't need any help."

  "Yes, you do. You're not handling things well."

  Troy pushed a button on his keyboard. A hand appeared on the screen that reached towards the glowing tapestry. "I'm handling things just fine."

  "No, you're not. I know we haven't always been close, but lately you've been openly ignoring me. You don't do anything but play computer games, you're getting into fights at school--"

  "Whadda you care?" Troy asked.

  On the monitor, a one-eyed monster lunged out of the shadows towards Troy with a lion's roar. It swung a huge wooden club that thumped against the screen. The perspective of the room wheeled, dropping onto the floor of the cave. The words "YOU HAVE DIED" imprinted themselves on the screen in dripping red letters like blood.

  Kent fought to keep his voice calm as he said, "I can't believe you'd say something like that. I care about you."

  Troy spun in his chair to glare up at Kent. The light of the monitor no longer cast itself over his face, leaving his eyes wrapped in shadows. "Is that why you're never home? Why you spend all your time at work or at bars?"

  "Hey, I try to talk to you every chance I get, but you either ignore me or lock yourself in here with that computer of yours."

  "Oh, right, blame it all on me."

  Kent closed his eyes. This wasn't working. "Troy, I'm not blaming anyone. I just want you to realize you have a problem."

  Troy spun his chair away from Kent, facing his computer again. "Forget it. Go back to your real life. Leave me alone."

  Kent rubbed his temples as another headache pounded his skull. This was not going well. "Look, Troy, I can't pretend to understand what you're going through, but I do know you need help. Now I really think Georgia Cohen can help you sort things out. You have another session tomorrow, and I'm going with you."

  "Why?" Troy hit the Return key, bringing the game back into play again.

  "I'm not really sure. It was her suggestion. One reason is then I can make sure you go. And from now on, I want you to go every week, right on schedule. Okay?"

  Troy moved down the corridors of Odyssey's caverns again. "Whatever. Close the door on the way out."

  Kent watched Troy attack the one-eyed monster again, bringing his sword against the creature's spiked club. The clang of metal against wood rang out, filling a silence that Kent couldn't break through. He tried to think of something to say, perhaps a stern reprimand for Troy's rudeness, but something stopped him. Eventually, he simply walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  In his own room, Kent worked on the knot on his tie as he thought over his conversation with Troy. It was a disaster, no matter which way he looked at it. Their first real conversation in months had ended up as a screaming match. Kent had tried to reach his son, but seemed to have only made things worse.

  Kent yanked off his tie and threw it into his closet. Then he sat on the edge of his bed, motionless, as he tried to calm himself. He had spent years trying to rebuild his life after his wife's death, and now it was falling apart again. Maybe he never really had rebuilt his life, only propped it up like a house of cards, hoping an unexpected breeze wouldn't collapse it. But it had been too fragile. The breeze had come. The cards had fallen.

  He squinted as another bolt of pain shot through his head. The stress was getting worse. Kent found a bottle of aspirin in his bathroom and swallowed three tablets. Then he opened his briefcase.

  He spread TeleTech's management reports out on the bed in front of him and began working on his expanded analysis. He worked for another hour until he was so tired that he slumped back onto the bed, and fell into a deep sleep. During all that time, his troubles, his fears, his sorrow, and regrets all faded away into the deepest corridors of his mind. His work was his escape, as it had always been.

  6.

  "I THINK you're really going to like the new computer center, Chris," Mister Fletcher said. "It's state-of-the-art, and we provide full access to all students, free of charge."

  Christopher Thompson was only half-listening to his English teacher as they walked across the grounds of the Kachina High School. The sand of the desert landscaping they were crossing crackled beneath his feet as Chris gazed in wonder at the sun peeking over a distant mountain range.

  "What mountain is that?" he asked.

  Mister Fletcher shaded his eye from the sun as he looked at the horizon. "Oh, uh, I'm not sure. Camelback, I think. I've never learned all their names."

  Chris shook his head in amazement. He couldn't get over the native Arizonans' casual attitude towards the mountains that surrounded Phoenix. They were something he'd never seen in Chicago, that was for sure. His father was right. Moving here was a great idea, even if it meant leaving behind a few friends and familiar places. Besides, his father needed the job and promotion which the move had ensured.

  Mister Fletcher led him off the gravel onto the concrete sidewalk that led to a much larger building. Chris ducked past a cactus as they headed to the door.

  "This'll be the last stop on our tour before you have to get to class," Fletcher said. "They just built this place last month. The English department's been nagging to get one for years, but you know how it is."

  Fletcher pushed open the door of the center, and held it open for Chris as he walked inside.

  Chris faced a large room filled with computers. Even though it was late afternoon, the computer center was already packed when Chris walked in. Hundreds of students perched before an equal number of stations, all working on desktop PCs. His English teacher, Mister Fletcher, grinned at Chris' dazed expression.

  "What do you think?" Fletcher asked.

  "It's fantastic," Chris whispered.

  Chris heard a roar bordering on a shriek that filled the room. He wandered over to where a young boy operated a mouse as an animated monster filled the screen. Chris realized the entire computer center resounded with the clangs and squeals of the game.

  "What's that?" Chris approached one of the other computers that had the same image on it.

  Fletcher's face dropped into a slight frown. "Oh, that's a new game we got, something called Odyssey. Not quite sure what it's all about, something about Greek mythology, but the students love it. We got an email giving us directions on downloading a beta version of it with a few extra levels, and now we have to peel the kids off these things."

  The computer screen went blank. Fletcher frowned and began punching buttons on the keyboard.

  "That's odd," Fletcher murmured. "I think it's just another problem on the network. It's crashed three times since it was installed a month ago
. School still hasn't worked all the bugs out. Maybe we should--"

  The screen lit up again with a graphic of a three-headed wolf standing on a lonely desert prairie. The wolf's heads looked at him. Right at him. Chris could hear others in the computer center talking and murmuring with confusion, but he was only aware of being locked in the gaze of the monster on his screen.

  "What is this?" Fletcher whispered.

  The wolf began to run straight at him, and it came close enough to see the saliva dripping from its teeth as it seemed to swallow the monitor whole, and Chris saw the black interior of its stomach. But it was gone. The screen was black.

  It began to flash, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Chris felt frozen in his seat, feeling a strange tingling running down the side of his face, and only had time to wonder about a horrible stench that came out of nowhere. Then his left hand began to tremble.

  Just before Chris Thomas went into convulsions, he realized that Fletcher had collapsed, and that every other workstation in the room flashed in time with his own.

  7.

  THE SUN had already set by the time Kent and Troy arrived at the apartment building where Dr. Georgia Cohen both lived and held sessions. Kent paid the driver of the taxi to wait for them, then turned to find that Troy was already on his way up the front steps. Kent followed as closely as he could, but Troy was in the elevator by the time Kent got inside the building.

  The elevator was an iron cage that squealed as Kent dragged the door shut behind him. They rode up to Cohen's floor in silence, except for the tinny whine of heavy metal playing on the headphones of Troy's iPhone.

  Kent watched him out of the corner of his eye. Troy hadn't said a word to him all day, not even when Kent had picked him up after school. The drive to the therapist had been in silence, broken only by Kent's brief attempts at conversation. All of them had failed.

  The elevator came to a shuddering halt as it stopped at Georgia's floor. Kent hauled the door open, allowing Troy to lurch past him into the corridor. They walked down the faded hallway to the door of Georgia's apartment, which bore an engraved plaque that read "Dr. Georgia Cohen, Psychologist. Counselor and Family Therapist."

  Kent pushed the doorbell, letting its ring echo through the building. Troy made a show of pretending to be interested in a crack in the wall instead of the door when it opened.

  Georgia reminded Kent of a kindly grandmother, which was probably intentional. From her round, cheerful face and horn-rimmed glasses to her silvery-gray hair, Georgia was the kind of person that could disarm anyone.

  "Hello, Mister Reynolds," she said, then smiled at Troy. "And how are you this evening, Troy?"

  Troy had his arms folded over his chest as he glared at the floor.

  Kent felt a rush of shock and anger at his son's rudeness, but Georgia didn't seem surprised.

  "Same as usual, I see. Well, come right in." She moved aside to let them through.

  Kent glared at Troy until he stepped ahead through the door into the apartment. Kent followed.

  Georgia's office was also her home. Kent glanced around the living room to take in the decoration, which included various African artifacts, and reproductions of Renaissance paintings. A trace of cinnamon lingered in the air from an unknown source.

  They moved deeper into the apartment to a simple arrangement of chairs around a voluminous couch. Kent hung his son's coat on a rack while Troy slumped onto the couch. When Kent approached, Troy shifted over a little to let Kent sit down next to him. Georgia took a seat directly in front of them, opened a notepad in her hands, and smiled.

  "It's good to see you both," Georgia said. "I'm glad you could make it."

  "Likewise," Kent said.

  "Well, let's get started, shall we? Now, Troy, let's try to pick up the thread from last time, hm? I believe we were talking about how you're getting on at school."

  Troy was focused on a pattern on the Oriental rug spread beneath them on the floor. His head bobbed in time with the iPhone blaring on his ears.

  Kent reached over and yanked the earphones off Troy's head. "Come on. She's trying to help you."

  Troy pushed out his jaw in anger, but kept his eyes fixed on the ground by his feet.

  "Troy?" Georgia asked. "Do you want to talk to me about your school?"

  "No," Troy murmured.

  Georgia leaned back in her chair. "I see. Well, I just want to touch on it for a moment, okay? I'd like you to talk to me about the fights you get into with the other students."

  Kent could see the muscles in Troy's jaw bulge out under his skin as he tightened them.

  "Come on, Troy," Georgia said. "I want you to feel you're safe here. You can talk to me."

  Troy finally forced out a murmur, "They make fun of me."

  Georgia smiled, giving Kent an encouraging glance. He could tell this was more than she was used to. "Good, good. Tell me more. How do they make fun of you?"

  "They just make fun of me," Troy said in a louder voice. "Make fun of me and Dad. And Mom."

  Bullies. Kent clenched his fists at the thought of other children making his son this way, but caught the look on Georgia's face. He remembered her advice to him earlier; no matter what, stay calm and supportive. Kent forced himself to relax and let Troy talk.

  "I see," Georgia continued. "That must be very difficult for you."

  "Yeah," Troy said. "Guess so. I hate everybody."

  Georgia raised an eyebrow. "Now is that really true?"

  Troy nodded. "Everybody's mean to me. They all hate me. So I hate them."

  "Now, Troy, I think it's important for you to understand that children can be cruel. They say things and do things, but society at large isn't like that."

  "I guess."

  "Tell me, what do they say that makes you so angry?"

  "Stuff," Troy murmured. "About Mom dying to get away from me 'cause I'm such a loser."

  Georgia nodded with genuine sympathy. "I see. And how do you feel about that?"

  "I hate it."

  "And do you believe it?"

  Troy looked up at her. "No. She got hit by some drunk in a car. She didn't do it on purpose."

  "Well, it's good that you realize that," Georgia said. "How do you feel about your mother?"

  "What's to feel?" Troy asked. "She's dead."

  "Yes, but do you ever think about her?"

  "No."

  "Never?"

  Troy shook his head.

  Georgia put on a friendly smile. "Now, Troy, it's natural to think about someone you've lost."

  "I don't. She's been dead for years. She doesn't matter anymore."

  "That's not really true. I'm sure she's had a big influence on your life, maybe more than you might realize."

  Troy looked back down at the floor. "Whatever. Look, I don't wanna talk about it."

  "But Troy--"

  Troy screamed. "I said, I don't wanna talk about it!"

  Georgia nodded. "I understand. Oh, I'm sorry, I haven't offered you two anything. You must be thirsty. Troy, would you mind getting us something to drink in the kitchen? There's some Pepsi in there, that will do for all of us, I'm sure."

  Georgia looked meaningfully at Kent as the boy gave her a bored shrug, then hauled himself out of the living room. Kent saw that this was just an excuse to talk to her alone. He watched his son disappear into the kitchen, then settled back in the couch to look at Georgia.

  She threw up her hands. "You see the problem I'm having. The moment I bring up his mother's death, Troy stops talking. He refuses to discuss it in any way."

  "Yeah." Kent glanced at the open kitchen door where the hiss of soda being poured into glasses could be heard. "Poor kid."

  Georgia folded back some of the pages in her notepad. "From what I've learned from observing and listening to Troy, I've come to some conclusions about him that I'd like to share, if you don't mind."

  Kent leaned forward. "No, of course not. Go ahead."

  "Thank you. First of all, it seems that Troy dealt wi
th his mother's death by not thinking about it. He created a sort of mental block that locked off the portion of his mind and emotions that cared about his mother, like locking a wild animal in a box. In this way, he avoided the pain and emotional release that was part of the natural process of grieving."

  "I see." Kent felt a sense of relief at finally being able to understand his son, and the pain he was going through. There was a reason behind it at last.

  "Yes," Georgia said. "I would say Troy has been like this for several years. The problem is that, with the passage of time, his mind is ready to deal with the pain. The block is coming down, and Troy is not prepared for the emotions that are flooding through him. He's only delayed the suffering he tried to avoid. The result is that he is desperately trying to force the pain back into its box, as it were. He avoids talking or even thinking about his mother because of the pain this causes. Obviously, this is only going to make things worse for him."

  Georgia turned over a page in her notepad. "Troy is very angry at his mother's death. This is only natural, but he's directing that anger out at the world. He's trying to cut himself off from all emotional situations and ties. It's a serious problem."

  Kent nodded. "So I see."

  Georgia tilted her head to one side as she looked at Kent. "Yes. But the biggest problem that I see, if I may be blunt for a moment, is you, Mister Reynolds."

  Kent blinked, then shook his head. "Me? I don't understand."

  Georgia closed her notepad and rested it on her lap. She looked at him with her kindly brown eyes. "You see, from what I've learned about Troy's home life, it seems as if he's developed this pattern of behavior from you. Troy tells me he never spoke to you about his mother's death, not even after the funeral. You never comforted each other. In fact, Troy tells me you're never home."

  "That's not true. I'm home on weekends."

  "Yes, but what do you do? You go into your den or bedroom to work. Troy says that's all you ever do. From his description, I would guess that you're a workaholic. You used work as a way of avoiding the pain of your wife's death, and continue to use it to avoid life itself. Basically, your problem is exactly the same as your son's. Like Troy, instead of facing the grief, you pushed it away, expecting to keep it away without ever facing it. That's not realistic."