The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 9: No Requiem (Part 4 of 7)

The OC had become so familiar R.J. had stopped seeing it.  He had been in every day that week, but when he thought back, he couldn't remember any particular details from the time he had spent there.  The memories were of the generic template in his mind called the Observation Center.  He knew what each monitor showed.  He could name every knob, switch, and dial on the consoles and say what they were used for.  If he thought about it, he could almost feel the fake black leather of the chair seats and point out which one squeaked when you leaned back on it.  But there was a flat quality to it all.  The texture of everyday life was removed.

He was about to leave for the day and had just stepped in for one last look.  The room chilled him with its starkness.  The lights gleamed off the white surfaces making a blizzard-like fog.  The hum of the cooling fans rose to a rumbling, chugging sound that bulldozed every noise in its path.  Fine goosebumps spread across his neck as it seemed like he was looking at it for the first time.  Its well-known features were suddenly cold and alien, as though the OC had been picked up and dropped onto the surface of some distant ice planet.

R.J. wanted to get out of there.  It was Saturday and he had a date with Nikki.  They were going to have dinner at a steakhouse.  Afterward, Nikki wanted to stop by a trendy club where a friend of hers worked.  The bartender—or as she called him, the mixologist—was going to be making Halloween themed cocktails which she wanted to sample, while surrounded by all the people in their costumes.

Nikki loved Halloween.  As she said, "When else do you get a chance to pretend to be someone you aren't."

He was already late, but he wavered—lingering a moment longer at the window and looking into Amy's bedroom.

The girl sat on the bed with her back to the wall, knees pressed to her chest.  A book was flung next to her, its cover spread open but the paged turned down—buried against the blanket.  Amy's face was hidden by the fortress of her legs and was as unreadable as the book.

Horus's report said she was agitated and aggressive, but she looked miserable and withdrawn.  The doctor had tried to make out that her behavior yesterday was part of a larger trend and made a recommendation for actions to be taken.

R.J. liked Horus—it was hard not to.  Horus was always quick to smile and slow to speak.  When he did speak, there was grandfatherly wisdom in his voice that made him seem older than his fifty-eight years.  His body was big and lumbering, but he carried himself with dignity.  There was a grace with his movements that came from being confident and unhurried.  And in the snake pit of the Music Box, Horus was someone who could be trusted.  But lately, there had been something off with him.  He was nervous and jumpy.  He looked haggard as though he hadn't slept well in weeks.  His eyes were permanently rimmed by a red corona and they darted around, seeking out phantoms in the shadows.  He wasn't the same person he was back in May.

Watching the tape of the session, it appeared that he was pushing the girl too hard, poking at her sore spots until she snapped.  And what was worse, he did it with a distracted, disregard to what was happening in front of him, until things had gone too far.

A review of the tapes of the past week showed much the same story, except they ended with Amy in tears or sulking away from the window and refusing to speak.  Her outburst may have been bizarre, but in light of these other sessions, it seemed long overdue.

When R.J. called Horus into his office, he kept his eyes on the printed report rather than look at the sad, beleaguered face in front of him.

He flipped a page over as though he were looking over an important passage.  "I really don't think extra precautions are necessary."