Shades of Gray

"Your brain is absolutely amazing," Jack tells me seriously and earnestly, like one would say I love you during a public proposal.

I merely acknowledge his comment, lazily pressing a wet rag to my face. I am sweaty, too sweaty. Half an hour lying completely still has shocked all my nerves into kicking in. I wouldn't be surprised if I suddenly grew a beard or something.

When I blink to get the stinging wetness out of my eyes, I notice that my vision-span seems to have gotten slightly, well, smaller.

Jack seems to notice too, taking a look at me. He pinches the skin next to my temple, hard, making me flinch dramatically.

"Your eyes are swollen," he says softly, forgetting about his amazement for gray pictures of my brain, fingers brushing underneath my bottom lashes.

I suck in my breath, what the fuck, his fingers are cold, and the room is still. Even Derek and the neuroimaging assistant both seem to quiet down for a second. I blink, feeling the wave in my eyelashes from contact.

Jack's managing to look me straight in the eye, whilst focusing on just studying my under-eye intensely.

He looks like he's about to speak, but I interrupt with, "this is so fucking gay," before he can say something like 'you've got beautiful eyes.'

And then he blushes, actually blushes, fucking dork, face turning serious as he turns to the black print outs in his hand. He holds them up to the light, hovering above me so I can see well.

"It's a blob of gray," I complain and turn away, the brightness already egging on a massive headache.

"It's magnificent," Jack comments again, and damn, I think this is the first time someone has literally fallen for brain, instead of body.

I'm distracted by the feeling of someone's presence in the room. It's not the way you feel someone come in the room, though, it's kind of like when you're asleep and you wake up from a nightmare and feel a ghost looming over your bed.

Gravity feels wrong, too. It feels like the blood is being washed out from me, but then the overly-circulating feeling comes back, and Jack is gripping me tightly, sure to leave a bruise, hands over the dozens of scabs from scratching, which he hasn't commented on.

The imaging assistant tells Derek that Dr. Burnett wants to see me in his office, and not to worry, he's the best neurologist on campus right now, JHU undergraduate, Stanford Medical alumni. I don't mention that the undergraduate program kind of sucks because I'm a business major and we're not supposed to notice these things, only the college name on our résumé. He could do better than Stanford Medical, and Jack agrees when I tell him.

Before we go, the girl gives me my meds, some Lorazepam all over again, because those seemed to work best, but in a stronger dose. I haven't had any meds in a few days, so we'll see how this goes over.

We have to cross this courtyard to get to Burnett's office, and it's cold as fuck. It should be illegal for it to be this cold in October. In fact, it's like 4 fucking 34 in the afternoon. It should be decently warm already. Jack is doing this weird thing where he rubs my shoulders. I don't bother telling him he's pressing on my bruises.

When we're seated in his office, Derek scans the room for certifications, says this guy looks okay, and then sits in the far corner to take a nap, because he was up all night studying, "not because of this lame ass disease, you fucking asshole."

The room smells like salmon, and the scent is so strong what you can almost see it.

Burnett walks in and smiles at me with such familiarity that I'm pretty sure his name isn't actually Burnett.

"Your brain is completely normal," he tells me, leg crossing over the other in such a pose that my immediate thoughts are over the drag queens at the gay bar downtown.

Jack does a double take at the lab images in his hand, and then goes back to swooning, eyes focused on this small blob near the split of the stem, slightly lighter than the rest.

I nod absentmindedly at the neurologist, assessing the bile that's making it's way up my throat. When I give a force cough to shake it off, Jack hands me a water bottle, and I do my best to swallow it back down.

"Do you have any history of slurred speech, doubled vision?" Dr. Burnett asks, and Jack snorts loud enough that Derek kind of startles awake, though I don't actually think he was sleeping.

"Most people have a history of that when they're insomniacs who only sleep after their body breaks down," my supposed-to-be classmate replies for me.

I watch the small hand on the clock tick by, 4:43, 4:57, 5:02, 5:03, 5:04, and count every second.

I am not, however, aware I am doing this until Jack gives me a shake, and suddenly Derek is sitting next to me, the both of them staring at me like concerned parents at a therapy session.

"Could you tell me the reason you're not sleeping, Alex?" Burnett asks, and I give him this glare that hopefully shoves him off, but he's persistent.

"At least tell me why you began not sleeping, and when."

I can answer this. It's an easy answer. It's an easy shrug.

"Tenth grade," I answer smoothly, leaning forward to rest my elbows on his desk. "I was probably fifteen or sixteen, I don't know. I'd wake up sweaty and cold, like I'd just woken up from a nightmare or something."

From my left, Jack smiles a little at this.

"So I read about it online, right? Y'know, sleep paralysis and all that. Told my doc, she said it was cool, probably a part of stressed nerves, and that was that. I dealt with it until senior year, when it got really bad."

And then I stop. Everyone looks at me, like I'm in a pause, but I don't continue. Leaving the neurologist hanging gives me some kind of satisfaction.

Derek comments about his narcolepsy, and "are there meds for this because, man, I've got shit to do besides be confused about whether or not my conversations with people are real," taking the attention off of me. I busy myself with the clock turning 5:07, picking at my scabs, until Burnett looks at me again.

"Do you have OCD?" he asks, and I swear, I'm going to punch him.

"No," I throw back in the most hostile manner I can because I'm pretty fucking sick of being asked if I've got an obsession problem.

"I want you to see a psychiatrist."

I look at Jack for defense, but he only nods at me. I make a mental note to call my mom and appoint her my sickness buddy.

"I've also scheduled you for a Functional MRI, and a few blood samples," he says, "maybe I'll hand your case over, because it's kind of weird, but your brain is completely normal, I assure you, so I'll probably keep it myself," and I'd rather see a gynecologist than this bastard again.

"Why do I need blood samples?" I question, trying to catch myself before it appears, but the slur slips it's way out, It's only been forty-three hours, however, so this is kind of unusual.

"I just want to check something," he smiles at me, and then, as if I need any more irony in my life, tells me to to sleep well tonight.