Irreparable Diagnosis: Chapter 4
What drives a man to his breaking point? Where does the threshold of his sanity lie? Can he survive teetering over the brink, and even if he does, will he be better or worse for it?
Chet Barnes couldn't tell you the answers, and he refused to ponder them as he idled in the Los Angeles traffic. Windows down, he let the saline breeze of the Pacific waft through his Infiniti FX35. Barnes shifted his SUV into drive and his mind to neutral as he inched forward, his mind drifting to the noise pollution surrounding him: engines and horns, road construction somewhere in the distance, conservative FM talk-radio on his stereo.
The respite was short-lived, though, as Barnes' mind couldn't let go of Ai's corpse, or at the very least the empty shell. Organ harvesting maybe, but then the only parts missing would be the kidneys, liver, maybe her heart, maybe her eyes. But everything missing? With a replacement skeletal frame? And glass eyes?
Just like an IKEA box: too many missing pieces, too many extra parts, and a mess of packing peanuts.
Barnes instinctively crept off the freeway and exited towards his loft, his mind still perturbed by the forbidden mystery. He couldn't let this go. He couldn't just play by the rules. And he certainly couldn't let that scuzzball Hartley steal away with Janet.
Barnes pulled into the garage and parked in his reserved spot, 3C. He placed his hand on the ignition key, but a familiar voice froze him in place.
"Hi. I'm Governor Palmetti, and I approve this message, because California is a state that needs a healing touch, now more than ever."
Governor Palmetti. Doctor Governor Salvador Palmetti. Former Chief-of-Medicine at Nuestra Dama del Corazón Sagrado Health Services Center, and former best friend and mentor to Barnes himself. Would Sal have forgiven Chet by now? Would he help out a man he used to call friend in this desperate and confusing time? Or had that bridge been burned years ago?
Barnes shut off his SUV and glanced at his smartphone: three missed calls, probably all from Lana. He slid the phone back into his right trouser pocket and, fatigued from his ordeals, unsteadily stumbled out his car and trudged towards the elevator, his senses too dulled to notice the masked figure closing in behind him.
Chet Barnes couldn't tell you the answers, and he refused to ponder them as he idled in the Los Angeles traffic. Windows down, he let the saline breeze of the Pacific waft through his Infiniti FX35. Barnes shifted his SUV into drive and his mind to neutral as he inched forward, his mind drifting to the noise pollution surrounding him: engines and horns, road construction somewhere in the distance, conservative FM talk-radio on his stereo.
The respite was short-lived, though, as Barnes' mind couldn't let go of Ai's corpse, or at the very least the empty shell. Organ harvesting maybe, but then the only parts missing would be the kidneys, liver, maybe her heart, maybe her eyes. But everything missing? With a replacement skeletal frame? And glass eyes?
Just like an IKEA box: too many missing pieces, too many extra parts, and a mess of packing peanuts.
Barnes instinctively crept off the freeway and exited towards his loft, his mind still perturbed by the forbidden mystery. He couldn't let this go. He couldn't just play by the rules. And he certainly couldn't let that scuzzball Hartley steal away with Janet.
Barnes pulled into the garage and parked in his reserved spot, 3C. He placed his hand on the ignition key, but a familiar voice froze him in place.
"Hi. I'm Governor Palmetti, and I approve this message, because California is a state that needs a healing touch, now more than ever."
Governor Palmetti. Doctor Governor Salvador Palmetti. Former Chief-of-Medicine at Nuestra Dama del Corazón Sagrado Health Services Center, and former best friend and mentor to Barnes himself. Would Sal have forgiven Chet by now? Would he help out a man he used to call friend in this desperate and confusing time? Or had that bridge been burned years ago?
Barnes shut off his SUV and glanced at his smartphone: three missed calls, probably all from Lana. He slid the phone back into his right trouser pocket and, fatigued from his ordeals, unsteadily stumbled out his car and trudged towards the elevator, his senses too dulled to notice the masked figure closing in behind him.