The Experiment of Dreams

  The Experiment of Dreams

  by Brandon Zenner

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. No parts of this book may be reproduced without written consent of the author.

  Copyright © 2014 by Brandon Zenner

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design: James goonwrite.com

  Formatting: Polgarus Studio polgarusstudio.com

  ISBN: 978-0-692-25914-6

  Dedicated to my wife Mallory,

  For her unwavering love and support,

  A million dedications would never be enough.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Ben cut across the empty parking lot of the Annapolis Foundation for Sleep Research, picking at the dried paste plastered to his scalp where the electrodes had been attached to his head the previous night. He enjoyed an odd sense of pleasure in removing the paste, like finding pockets of sand buried deep in his hair after a day at the beach.

  It was shaping up to be a warm day, and as Ben neared his car, he flung his jacket over his shoulder, letting the sunlight warm his hospital-cold skin. Ben pulled his keys from his pocket, and a business card that Dr. Wright had given him slipped away and fluttered over the pavement on a light wind. Ben jumped to catch it, but it danced over the parking lot in a gust and was lost from sight.

  Not a problem, he thought. Dr. Wright had given Ben the same business card three times already and had been urging him to call the doctor—whose name was on the card—for over a month now. He explained in detail how important it was for Ben to meet the man.

  Ben fiddled with his keys, found the alarm button, and unlocked his car. He flicked away the dried paste left stuck to his fingers, brushed his hands off on his pant legs, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The reflection gazing back at him in the rearview mirror was not flattering. Nights at that lackluster hospital made him feel so disheveled. His face was gaunt, his eyes were bleary and red, and the stubble on his face was in desperate need of a shave. He rubbed the side of his cheek, enjoying the sensation of the coarse hairs against his palm. The stubble gave off a silvery-hue that reminded Ben that he was getting older. Even the hair on his head was now speckled with grey, like someone splattered a brush with drying white paint all over his head. He looked like his father, or rather how he remembered his father.

  He turned his gaze from the mirror and put the car in drive.

  Ben yearned for good coffee—not the sour crap they served in the hospital that tasted like the Styrofoam cups they served it in. The clock on the dashboard read 11:37. With any luck, he would be home in an hour—that is if he didn’t stop along the way for coffee, and maybe some breakfast. And of course, if the traffic around I-95 wasn’t particularly unbearable. But the chances of the circle around Baltimore’s Inner Harbor being anything but hellish during lunch hour were slim to none.

  He hated that circle, loathed every car that sped along the pavement, cursed it with every breath in his body. As soon as he merged with the traffic, his life was put in imminent danger. Cars and trucks sped between lanes, weaving this way and that, coming dangerously close to hitting one another—inches from disaster. When Benjamin Walker moved to Baltimore, he named I-95 “Maryland’s Inner Death Circle,” and the name became more relevant with each passing day.

  As bad as driving I-95 was, driving the streets of New York was not much better; Ben was glad his commute was no longer between Baltimore and New York City. Currently his drive between Baltimore and Annapolis took a little over an hour, and outside of the harbor, the drive was not bad at all. It was a good thing Dr. Wright left the city to take the job in Annapolis. His loyalty to the man might have eventually worn out. The commute was not worth the money, unless the doctor started paying substantially more, which of course, the hospitals would never agree to. Ben’s fees and rates were set in contract, per test, and rarely—if ever—changed in the slightest. Compromise and negotiation were out of the question.

  Nevertheless, Ben knew in his heart that he would miss the old doctor if he ever stopped participating in his tests and experiments. Not exactly like missing an old friend, though Stuart was an old friend, but more like missing a well-accustomed routine. Or like missing an old tree in the backyard after watching it grow over the years. The tree could be replaced, but it would never grow the same branches.

  Lately though, the work with Dr. Wright was good. The money was all right, and the sessions were regular enough that Ben considered it a real job. He could endure the old man’s stale breath as he hovered over Ben’s face attaching sensors and wires to his forehead and scalp. He could endure the sleep deprivation studies, the food abstention trials, the unknown medications presented in white Dixie cups, and the incredibly tedious paperwork and questionnaires he constantly had to fill out.

  The biggest problem Ben dealt with over the last few years was not the pay or the long commute. It was the lack of anything new—anything exciting. The original tests, back when he was a teenager, were groundbreaking. At least they were to him. Over time, they became repetitive. The same sleep deprivation studies, the same food abstention trials, the same melatonin and B-12 supplements, over and over….

  However, he could endure the boredom if the price was right. If the money kept rolling in, he would put up with it—and lately the money was rolling in.

  Ben’s curiosity was stirred, however, as they were wrapping up the sleep deprivation study earlier that morning.

  Dr. Wright had paused, then said, “Ben, I have something for you. I’m not sure how to do this, so I’m just going to go ahead and do it.” The tall doctor scratched the light fuzz on the side of his hairless head, wrinkling his trimmed mustache. “I want our working relationship to stay as professional as always.”

  “Sure, Stuart, so do I. What’s up?”

  “Here.” He handed Ben a white envelope. “There’s five-hundred dollars in there.”

  “Wait, is this all I’m getting? This study lasted over a month, I’m contracted—”

  “Your check for the study is in the mail. This is a little something extra, a bonus. We appreciate your years of work at the hospital. This is just a little something to show our gratitude.”

  Ben thumbed open the envelope. Our gratitude? Five crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills were stacked inside, all facing the same direction. The money smelled new—starchy and fresh. Ben scratched his head. “Is this your way of firing me, like a pension or something?”

  “No, no, Ben.” The doctor shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. Not long ago we received some private funding at the hospital from some very generous donors. These individuals are following your work and dedication to the hospital; in return, these donors would like to show their appreciation by giving you a bonus. That’s all there is to it. Just a bonus.”

  Each payment Ben had ever received over the many y
ears working with Dr. Stuart Wright came in the form of a check written out to the exact amount. Ben even declared the earnings on his income tax, on a 1099-MISC form. Cash was never an option, never mentioned. Neither was a bonus. Hospitals do not run like that. Doctors get bonuses, but test subjects do not.

  “This is cash, Stuart.”

  “I know it is.” Dr. Wright’s mustache moved with his sigh. “I think you can understand why we need to keep this … to ourselves. These are private investors, Ben, and it’s just a bonus.” He patted Ben on the shoulder. “We’ve been working together for a long time now, and you deserve a few extra dollars every once in a while. Don’t think so hard; you’ll give yourself a migraine. Just say ‘thank you,’ and take the cash.” He smiled, wrinkling the furrows on his bald forehead.

  Private investors rolled around Ben’s head. He stared at the money—cash money, five hundred dollars, tax-free. Ben had worked in the bar business for most of his life; even owned a small place in upstate New York that did quite well while it was open. It wasn’t unusual for a few dollars here and there to slip through the cracks and not get reported to the IRS. This was normal in the bar scene. But from a doctor, from a hospital? Perhaps the less he knew the better. He folded the envelope and tucked it inside his jacket pocket.

  “Tell them ‘thank you.’”

  “I will, Ben. I will.”

  This conversation played over in Ben’s mind as he eyed his jacket lying on the passenger seat, where the five hundred dollars were folded inside. He shook his head.

  Strange, he thought.

  Rent money, he assured himself.

  Ben survived “Maryland’s Inner Death Circle,” certain that several of the other drivers were trying to kill him, and found a space to park less than two blocks from his door. Walking past a flower-store delivery van that lately always seemed to be parked around his block, he arrived at the entryway of the four-unit apartment building—an old, converted row-house that he called home.

  At the top of the staircase on the second floor were two apartments with their front doors mirroring each other on opposite sides of a small landing. Ben’s apartment was the door to the left. He unlocked the deadbolt, turned the handle, and hurried inside, happy to be back in his own space with his own bed and comfortable couch. The apartment was not much to look at—just a narrow one-bedroom flat—but the interior had a bit of character. The living room wall opposite the front door was solid brick and ran the length of the room. It was open to the kitchen and a dining-room nook where Ben stored unopened boxes from when he first moved into the apartment. Ben liked the brick wall, liked it very much. It probably drove the rent up an extra hundred dollars a month, but he didn’t care. It gave the place a touch of personality.

  Ben tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, grabbed the bottle of dish soap from the sink, and walked straight to the bathroom. He changed out of his hospital clothing, burying the dirty garments deep in the hamper. Anything he wore in hospitals during trials and tests absorbed that antiseptic hospital stench—that sterile smell that reminded Ben of the color white—and lingered on his skin for hours after.

  A hot shower removed more of the electrode-crust plastered in Ben’s hair and scalp, but whatever the stuff was that the doctor used, it never cleaned off completely with soap and water. After years of trials, Ben found that dish soap worked the best. Now clean and fresh—the hospital smell scrubbed from his skin—Ben put on his old well-worn robe and collapsed on the couch.

  His body was sore, his mind exhausted. He needed a few hours of rest before heading to his shift at the bar. He wished he had never agreed to work that night, but filling in shifts was why the bar hired him. Ben was obliged to work when an employee was sick or went on vacation, or when someone just wanted the night off. A few shifts a week always popped up.

  It was times like these—these lazy afternoons—that Ben wished he had cable TV. The old square box on the shelf wasn’t even plugged in. Why he didn’t just get rid of the thing, he didn’t know. Of course, he could plug it in, look for the antenna in one of the boxes in the dining room, and maybe pick up a few channels, but there was nothing on TV worth watching. Besides, he wasn’t even sure if TVs still used those old-fashioned antennas. Instead, he just sat there, gazing at the stack of books on the coffee table, debating whether he was too tired to read anything at all. The only books on the coffee table were philosophy—Nietzsche, and the like—all books that he started reading at some point or another and never finished. In his current frame of mind, he couldn’t handle philosophy.

  He looked up from the books, his gaze wandering, until the solitary painting hanging by the front door stole his attention. It was the only painting created by his beloved wife Emily that he still owned. It was the only thing remaining from his old life in upstate New York.

  It was a small painting, about a foot and a half square.

  The swirls of paint were still vibrant, still brilliant. It was a painting of the cabin in the woods, the cabin they hiked past dozens of times. A small wooden building hidden among the towering pines. A whisper of smoke trailed from the chimney, hinting of the cabin’s warm and cozy interior, sheltered from the blustery air. Snow covered the ground in half-melted patches, with stale, dead grass poking out from beneath. Clouds soared in the blue sky, illuminated by swirls of creamy zinc and titanium white paint. The sun was barely visible in the corner, brought to life by yellow and orange swirls, twisting and turning with various shades of red. This painting, out of the many paintings in Emily’s studio—the landscapes, still-lifes, and portraits—had always been his favorite. The scene was realistic in detail, yet she used her own flair of artistic imagery to turn it into a surrealistic figment of her imagination. The sky swirled in shades of blue and purple never found in nature, yet her artistic ability was subtle enough to make these irregularities easy to overlook at first glance. It was not until you spent time absorbing the painting in full that the irregularities became apparent to see. It was genius.

  At least it was to Ben.

  This was the only painting he had taken from her studio. He left the others neatly stacked in the corner of her paint-flecked room, exactly where Emily had last touched them.

  After she died, Ben could not be around her things—not even the house they lived in. He could not sleep in the bed they’d shared for the eight years of their marriage, side by side. He couldn't look at her clothes, or her shoes—the leather boots she just polished and left out to dry—or her toothbrush balanced on the corner of the sink. He couldn't look at her watch with its coiled black-leather strap, sitting on the bedside table where she had last taken it off.

  When he stepped into that house for the first time all alone, straight from the hospital, he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, speckled with blood—her blood. The quiet and stillness all around him was maddening. It took a considerable amount of strength just to step away from the front door. He wanted to be outside, to run as far away as possible. These things, her things, were causes of great pain—not relief, not comfort, nor gentle remembrance, just pain.

  She was everywhere in that house. She was still in her studio, standing in front of her easel with her back facing him. Her image on the large plate-glass windows reflected the focused concentration of her creased brow as she applied a stroke of color with her brush. He saw her applying her makeup in front of the bathroom sink, her face an inch away from the mirror. He smelled her in the almond-scented shampoo and the little jasmine-scented bars of soap with the Chinese writing on the packaging. Everything in his home reminded him of her. Emily had seeped into the very walls, fibers, and structure of their home. It was impossible that she was gone, absolutely impossible—she couldn’t be. She was everywhere in that house, around every corner, and in every room.

  But she wasn’t there. She was gone.

  Taken from him like all the rest.

  A simple accident. A stupid fight at the bar. Two drunken patrons fighting over somethin
g. Anything. Nothing. Sports, maybe. A girl, perhaps … it didn’t matter. Words were spoken and punches were thrown. By the time Ben heard the commotion and ran out from the kitchen, it was over. Stunned customers were circling about. The two men stood slack-jawed and in shock, all of their anger deflated. Emily lay on the ground bleeding, the knife by her side. She had tried to stop the fight, tried to get between the two men.

  That was it, an accident. No sickness, no long hospitalization. She was healthy and vibrant one moment, dead the next.

  Ben left New York, left their old home and sold it all, leaving everything behind but for one thing: the painting of the cabin in the woods.

  As time passed, his decision to abandon Emily’s possessions caused countless nights of regret and anguish. Those items, however painful they were at the time, would have been most welcome as the years went by and the reality of her being gone truly sank in. The longing to possess anything and everything of hers became an obsession, a comforting need, and an endless source of torment and sorrow. How could he have left everything? Why? He had to smell her, hold her, squeeze one of her shirts in his hands, smother it against his face. Breathe in lungful’s of her fragrant scent lingering on one of her silk shirts—but it was all gone. Ben called the agent who sold the house and contacted the current owners in an attempt to track down any of the paintings left behind, but to no avail. All of Emily’s possessions were gone, and all Ben had left were his memories.

  These thoughts and needs raced through his mind in endless waves of guilt as he stared into the swirls of paint in the sky above the cabin in the woods. Feelings pierced his mind like sharp blades, slashing away without consequence, sinking their cold metal teeth deep into the flesh of his brain. The painting brought back memories both beautiful and horrid. He saw his wife painting, her reflection in the plate-glass window, her forehead furrowed in concentration, paint smeared and dotted all over her hands, forearms, and face. He stood in the doorway, just looking, not wanting Emily to see him looking at her. Just enjoying the pleasure of watching her work, doing the thing that made her most happy … and that, seeing her smile, was what made him happy … so happy ….