Fatal Dose
Adam Benjamin
It’s funny, Adam thought to himself, how much free time he had when he had no concept of time whatsoever.
His father had driven him to a nine-o’clock meeting with his publisher. He figured that if the media had somehow found out he was writing another book, he should probably inform those to whom it actually mattered. As he expected, they were thrilled. They loved checking in on him, reminding him with their faux-gentle prodding that yes, he was fascinating and exceptional, but he was a mere payday in the grand scheme of things.
They’d gone over the due dates with his father, who promised to keep Adam on track, outlined a series of appearances they had lined up once they reached that point, then wished the two men a good day before sending them on their way.
“Just one thing,” Adam said from the doorway. “You hadn’t told anyone about this, right? Didn’t let it slip that I was writing a new book?”
Scott, his editor, looked at him with pure confusion. “We didn’t even know you were writing a new book, Adam.” His head tilted to the side just a bit. Adam decided he believed him. “Why do you ask?”
He thought of the phone call, the woman who claimed to be a certain Naomi Hendricks. “No reason,” he lied.
It was just past eleven when Adam’s father dropped him off outside his building. He didn’t much feel like going home, that feeling of being watched having crept up on him again, and if someone truly was watching him, as the letter suggested, it was probably in his best interest to keep himself surrounded by people. No one would stupid enough to try anything with a dozen witnesses.
At least that’s what Adam managed to convince himself.
So he treated himself to a late breakfast — a full spread of eggs, toast, and tea. He sat in the back corner of the restaurant and kept a watchful eye on anyone who entered, managed to force the food down although he was sick to his stomach with paranoia, and handed over his credit card when it came time to pay. By the time he left, he was almost able to breathe normally. A fraction of the tension had rolled off his shoulders and he walked with his head a bit higher. London was still bustling around him; everything was fine. He nearly laughed at how he’d overreacted.
He ducked into another shop to buy more ink for his printer. Now that he’d informed his publisher of his new book, he’d have to start making actual progress—no more all-night writing sessions only to delete everything come daybreak.
“D’you need help with anything, sir?”
Adam looked up from the display of ink cartridges. A woman stood to his left with an perfectly executed customer service smile. “Uh, no, I’m okay.” The smile stayed plastered on her face. “Thanks, though,” he added, hoping she’d leave him alone.
But she didn’t. Slowly, the smile left her face and a look of pure trepidation replaced it. “You’ve been ignoring us.”
“I—I’m sorry?”
“You threw away our letter, Adam.”
He tripped over his feet as he scurried backwards, the ink cartridges he’d picked up falling to the floor. “Who are you?” he asked. He couldn’t hide the panic in his voice if he tried.
The woman, whoever she was, made no effort to follow him. “We’re not the enemy, Adam. We have the answers you’re looking for—the ones you write about in your books.”
Adam looked around desperately, hoping someone was around to help him. “Have you been watching me?”
The woman chuckled. “It wasn’t very difficult to find you. You aren’t very quiet about your condition, are you?”
This was too much. Adam felt like he was going to be sick, pleaded wordlessly for all this to be a bad dream. He’d had nightmares about this as a kid—about people finding him and doing torturous experiments on him. They poked and prodded and he always woke up screaming. His mother would always tell him they were just dreams, he had nothing to be scared of. Then again, she was able to convince him of just about anything, too.
“W-what do you want?” he stammered.
“We just want to talk. That’s all.”
No, his mind screamed. She’s lying. She’s lying, she’s lying, she’s lying, and all those nightmares you had as a kid are going to come true. Adam managed to swallow every ounce of fear for just a second, and that second was all it took for his feet to carry him out of the door and all the way to his apartment.
He locked, unlocked, and locked his door six times once he was inside. He emptied his stomach into his toilet and sat with his knees tucked to his chest as he cried. How could this be happening? He’d been doing good. He managed to make a living writing books and kept to himself. Why was this happening to him now?
His father had driven him to a nine-o’clock meeting with his publisher. He figured that if the media had somehow found out he was writing another book, he should probably inform those to whom it actually mattered. As he expected, they were thrilled. They loved checking in on him, reminding him with their faux-gentle prodding that yes, he was fascinating and exceptional, but he was a mere payday in the grand scheme of things.
They’d gone over the due dates with his father, who promised to keep Adam on track, outlined a series of appearances they had lined up once they reached that point, then wished the two men a good day before sending them on their way.
“Just one thing,” Adam said from the doorway. “You hadn’t told anyone about this, right? Didn’t let it slip that I was writing a new book?”
Scott, his editor, looked at him with pure confusion. “We didn’t even know you were writing a new book, Adam.” His head tilted to the side just a bit. Adam decided he believed him. “Why do you ask?”
He thought of the phone call, the woman who claimed to be a certain Naomi Hendricks. “No reason,” he lied.
It was just past eleven when Adam’s father dropped him off outside his building. He didn’t much feel like going home, that feeling of being watched having crept up on him again, and if someone truly was watching him, as the letter suggested, it was probably in his best interest to keep himself surrounded by people. No one would stupid enough to try anything with a dozen witnesses.
At least that’s what Adam managed to convince himself.
So he treated himself to a late breakfast — a full spread of eggs, toast, and tea. He sat in the back corner of the restaurant and kept a watchful eye on anyone who entered, managed to force the food down although he was sick to his stomach with paranoia, and handed over his credit card when it came time to pay. By the time he left, he was almost able to breathe normally. A fraction of the tension had rolled off his shoulders and he walked with his head a bit higher. London was still bustling around him; everything was fine. He nearly laughed at how he’d overreacted.
He ducked into another shop to buy more ink for his printer. Now that he’d informed his publisher of his new book, he’d have to start making actual progress—no more all-night writing sessions only to delete everything come daybreak.
“D’you need help with anything, sir?”
Adam looked up from the display of ink cartridges. A woman stood to his left with an perfectly executed customer service smile. “Uh, no, I’m okay.” The smile stayed plastered on her face. “Thanks, though,” he added, hoping she’d leave him alone.
But she didn’t. Slowly, the smile left her face and a look of pure trepidation replaced it. “You’ve been ignoring us.”
“I—I’m sorry?”
“You threw away our letter, Adam.”
He tripped over his feet as he scurried backwards, the ink cartridges he’d picked up falling to the floor. “Who are you?” he asked. He couldn’t hide the panic in his voice if he tried.
The woman, whoever she was, made no effort to follow him. “We’re not the enemy, Adam. We have the answers you’re looking for—the ones you write about in your books.”
Adam looked around desperately, hoping someone was around to help him. “Have you been watching me?”
The woman chuckled. “It wasn’t very difficult to find you. You aren’t very quiet about your condition, are you?”
This was too much. Adam felt like he was going to be sick, pleaded wordlessly for all this to be a bad dream. He’d had nightmares about this as a kid—about people finding him and doing torturous experiments on him. They poked and prodded and he always woke up screaming. His mother would always tell him they were just dreams, he had nothing to be scared of. Then again, she was able to convince him of just about anything, too.
“W-what do you want?” he stammered.
“We just want to talk. That’s all.”
No, his mind screamed. She’s lying. She’s lying, she’s lying, she’s lying, and all those nightmares you had as a kid are going to come true. Adam managed to swallow every ounce of fear for just a second, and that second was all it took for his feet to carry him out of the door and all the way to his apartment.
He locked, unlocked, and locked his door six times once he was inside. He emptied his stomach into his toilet and sat with his knees tucked to his chest as he cried. How could this be happening? He’d been doing good. He managed to make a living writing books and kept to himself. Why was this happening to him now?