An Artificial Life Ch. 03

She knew David had to create a reality that would help him understand and benefit from his experiences, both real and imagined. She hoped she could guide him through this process, but whatever reality he settled would be of his own choosing. Imposing reality on another was rarely successful. She made plans to begin slowly reintegrating David's created reality with his actual reality and would start the coming week.

For his part, David decided to take a pragmatic approach to his situation. After a his third day in restraints, he concluded he didn't care what was real or not real. He knew the restraints were real, and the few times he had been out of his restraints, he had felt the wave of memories overtake him and he had lost control and found himself back in restraints. Or maybe they were a wave of delusions like Dr. Angela said. He didn't give a fuck. I don't have any fucks to give, anymore. And he didn't. He didn't have a lot of tears left either, even though he was surprised to often wake up only to find tears in his eyes, still streaming down his face.

No, he needed to stay in control when the waves hit him. That was the only way to keep the constraints off. Control became his mantra, and the restraints remained off after the third day. Or he thought it was the third day. There was no clock displayed on in the leaves of the gently swaying palm trees. Swaying seductively like Ainsley's hips, he thought and then felt his room start spinning. Get a grip, we're counting on you. He heard Vanessa tell him. Or maybe he read it. I have lost my fucking mind.

You are ninja fucking crazy, lab guppy, Vanessa told him. But she wasn't there. She was dead. He knew it because they told him. And then he felt the room spin again. And he started laughing. Laughing because it didn't really matter. Vanessa was dead, and Ainsley ... that was harder. He really liked Vanessa, but Ainsley...

She had said, "I am in love with you, Creator David Jackson." She had been curled up in his lap and said it. He could feel her with her arms clasped on his neck hanging loosely and remember her quiet voice, telling him a secret. She was in love. In love with her creator. In love with him. And he had created her. Even Dr. Angela said he had created her, invented her out of nothing.

Nothing and something are equivalent. That was important. This cannot be. But it is. Ainsley had said that. Nothing had said that. And she was everything, he concluded. So I am crazy, but I will survive, he thought, I have to survive. Nothing and everything depends on it.

When he felt the room spin, he would grasp nothing. And he would remember everything, and everything was good. When Dr. Angela brought up Vanessa quitting school and asked him how that had made him feel, he would feel dizzy and see visions of Vanessa wearing her nerd glasses and typing furiously. He grasped for nothing. And that was enough, he found.

He became almost zen-like in his mantra. It made him laugh when he imagined speaking to a room of novice monks: "To find everything, seek nothing." Oh yeah, he had lost it completely. He was sure of it. And in losing it, he would find everything.

He knew this was the way out. To give into his memories, to his delusions. To make them part of him: he needed them, so he would become them. And in becoming them, he would become himself.

He would be so fucking crazy he would become sane. Ninja fucking sane, Vanessa said to him as she reclined on the sands of the beach. He giggled. Vanessa swam out to sea. And died, he thought. He paced and shook his head, holding back tears.

So what ... so what if I did make it all up? He spoke to an imaginary audience as he paced about his room, looking at his class of students writing down his words. He was careful not to say anything out loud when he taught his imaginary class. Imaginary words for an imaginary class, he giggled.

Maybe his mind had made it all up. He didn't care. If making it up was his response to failing at school and Vanessa dropping out -- if that was how he made sense of an insane world -- who the fuck cares? And it was true that he had been sexually attracted to Vanessa and too insecure to act on his feelings. Just like Dr. Angela said. Was that so strange?

He had thousands of conversations with himself, his imaginary class of novices, with anyone he could conjure up. But he kept these thoughts hidden. He kept them safe. Because as long as his thoughts were alive, Ainsley was alive in his thoughts. And that was everything even if she was nothing to anyone else. Nothing and something were equivalent. And that secret would get him back to her, even if she would never be real except for in his dreams. That was enough. It was everything.

He concluded his lecture. Class dismissed. He giggled again. He knew he did that one out loud. Ninja fucking dismissed, bitches.

Progress

By the end of David's second week, Dr. Sinclair noted significant improvement. She weaned David of all his medications, and still found him able to maintain control. Their sessions had changed from several short sessions during the day to a single two hour session four days a week.

When they weren't in session, David was given privileges to walk the grounds with an escort, attend supervised workouts with a trainer, and swim in the lap pool. She gave him materials to read and a workbook to journal thoughts and record notes for later discussion. He often swam laps two or even three times a day.

Dr. Sinclair looked forward to her sessions with David, he was much better company than many of her patients, and it was a joy to watch him grow and develop. She tried to plan her session for midday, giving David time to collect his thoughts in the morning and time to process his thoughts after they had met. She still kept him from other patients and severely limited his interaction with staff. He was her project, and she wanted to take every precaution to guarantee his success.

Angela knew she was being over-protective, but she felt he needed the one-on-one time with her to develop. She reasoned that because he had lacked a nurturing environment form his parents, it wouldn't hurt him to experience nurturing under her care.

The process of integrating his realities was delicate, and though she saw signs that he was beginning to sort out the jumble of real and imagined experiences, she knew his hold on this new reality was tenuous, and she cleared away all external threats to his development.

She was pampering him, and she knew it. Never having raised a child, she knew she was hovering over him, anticipating danger, trying to catch every fall and mend each scrape. She knew it, and she knew she wasn't going to stop herself from watching over him any time soon.

She had never felt so attached to a patient, and though the professional in her threw up flags and called foul, the mother in her, new to this profound experience, cherished each new step, each new discovery and every single moment she spent coaxing David back to life.

David wasn't complaining either. He had slipped and called her Dr. Angel once, and when she didn't correct him, it became her name. She looked for signs that he was manipulating her, but his sincerity seemed genuine.

If he is faking his therapy, good for him, she thought. It showed that his psyche was taking charge of his life, that he was asserting some control over his fractured world.

But if he was faking it, she couldn't tell. During one session, she began talking about Vanessa's sense of humor to see his reaction. She brought up his story about Vanessa's theory of "Hypnosis by pussy" and they both laughed -- and then David couldn't hold his tears. He cried, and she let him.

"Dr. Angel," he asked through his tears.

"Yes, David?"

"She was my best friend. I know she's gone, and I will get there. But this hurts."

It was supposed to hurt, and she told him so. They sat together and he cried; she let him sob. She wanted to get up from her desk and wrap her arms around him, to comfort him, but she let him pour out his grief and it was heartbreaking to watch. Heartbreaking and necessary, she told herself.

And then he laughed and wiped his tears and his snot from his face. It was a hearty laugh, not a giggle or a practiced chuckle -- a full throated laugh betraying deep emotion and joy. "She was funny," he admitted.

"She was ninja fucking hilarious, David."

David's eyes caught hers in disbelief, he had never heard Dr. Angel swear, and he lost himself in laughter and tears, smiling with sorrow that only comes from knowing joy and loss, a conscious choice to celebrate a life dearly missed. It was good session. She wrote an extensive note afterward.

David wrote notes afterward as well. He had read his workbook on the subject of grieving, its physical and emotional effects and its role in recovering from loss. He read how the failure to grieve had a profound effect on mental health, that denial of a loss was like losing what had been loved a second time. He noted that exercise helped, and he wrote down his memories, real or imagined, of Vanessa's wicked laugh, her artful turn on a phrase, and line upon line of her teasing, degrading, sarcastic and always loving pet names she used on him. He underscored his favorite: my little lab moron.

He suffered a small setback when Dr. Angel took him on a stroll in the private gardens. They say on a concrete bench next to the reflecting pond, staring and talking easily as the koi swarmed near the shore, the rings of their mouths gasping and hoping for food, giving the illusion that they were a murmuring audience trying to play apart in the discussion.

David looked into the water, a distant expression stilling the conversation and silence fell over the garden like a blanket, muting all sound. He suddenly gasped and his shoulders fell, tear drops meandered an unsteady path down his face only to collect and land upon the koi.

"I am... I am..." he hesitated.

"Find a word, David" she said softly. "Hurting, angry, sad..."

He burst into tears and fought for breath between his moans. It frightened her to see the anguish, to see his face tense as he wailed, his chest and shoulders shuddering with the staccato exhalation of his breath. An angry, almost primal howl of deep despair violated the garden sanctuary. Her staff escort, alerted by the noise approached cautiously, seeking instruction from her with his eyes, ready to subdue David or save her if David made any motion of harm.

And just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He straightened and sighed deeply. "I'd like to go back to my room now."

She nodded to the escort and David was returned to his room. The staff reported that David spent the rest of the day pacing in his room and gesturing.

David was surprised at his outburst, and it filled him with anger and dread. And fear. It wasn't fear of loss, but a fear that he had something pried from him, something precious, and he couldn't explain when it had happened. But something in the garden set him off, and he just couldn't explain it. The control he had cultivated vanished, and he was full of a sense that he would not get it back. He paced his room, angry at his display of rage and raw pain.

He had thought he would talk about Ainsley, about his knowledge that if Vanessa was gone, then Ainsley must be gone too. He had grown accustomed to thinking of the two as separate, but he knew that one could not exist without the other. He thought he had been working through his grief. But the pond set him off. It triggered a memory, or a dream, or a memory of a dream. It didn't fucking matter.

He was tired. Tired of analyzing his thoughts and tired of working through his emotions. He was sick of it all. He missed Ainsley, and the more time he spent in this place, the farther away she seemed to go. He could feel the distance growing and it frightened him.

He knew the arguments, and they made sense. He had been failing at his project. That was true. Vanessa left school. That was true. He had been over it in countless sessions: the mind is a powerful tool; we fantasize to escape painful realities; failure in grad school, the enormity of his student debt, Vanessa abandoning him -- all painful realities. His age. Psychotic episodes were common for his age, and the mind would fill the gaps to bring the delusions to life.

She did this. He fumed, pointing a finger at the culprit. He knew it was her fault. Dr. Angel triggered his rage with her caring and her nurturing and her "Find a word..."

And then he cried some more, but kept pacing. He could feel Ainsley on his lap, and her quiet, small voice "I am... I am..."

He remembered the words she had chosen. Ainsley said in that small voice, "I am terribly sad." And that's what he was, terribly sad. It was his fault. He told her so. It had all been his fault.

That stupid pond with those stupid fucking fish staring at him and mouthing with their unblinking eyes -- it was all your fault, David. And it was. He had accepted this, created this, owned all of this before it had even happened. He had created this beautiful woman, his fantasy. It was his failure that created her, and now he would be letting her go.

David just crawled in bed and pulled the covers up, curling in a ball. Sleep took its time. But David stayed patient, chanting his mantra. Nothing and everything are equivalent. This cannot be. But it is.

Dream Therapy

His dreams were relentless at first, popping through his head like corks shot out of a bottle. A garden, a line of code, water lilies, gasping fish, a typewriter... images bounced through without context or connection.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of snapshots flashed by, slowly giving way to motion. A hand gently grasping, eyes sparkling, hair swishing...

And then motion revealed context: hands reaching to embrace, lips opening to envelope, hips teasing for attention, eyes pleading for more, mouth open in pleasure...

David's dreams began floating, and the full pallet of senses painted across his slumber. Ainsley teased him with her tongue, sending shivers through his mind. Her breasts lay bare calling for his lips as his eyes devoured her pleasure. Her lips glistened as his tongue danced across her inner thigh.

His mind offered up a collage of sensuality, a feast of erotic bliss. His mouth exploded as he tasted her scent on the soft glow of her ecstasy, urging his thrusts as he slowly teased her clitoris and his greedy fingers worried the pebble crowning her soft breast slick with the sweat of their efforts. The drifting clouds parted and revealed clear skies, and bright sunlight bathed his lover.

And then the full dream revealed itself with every detail, every smell, the sound driving him, beckoning him to the completion of his desire. Ainsley lay bare, gazing with her green eyes full of light, full of love. His lips were slick with her taste and smell of her ecstasy fresh on his tongue, the memory of the softness of her thighs as they brushed against his, guiding him forward and urging him to her, driving him towards her warm embrace as he entered her, feeling her moist depths draw him in as her slick fluids hastened the rhythm. He felt the sweet frustration of their groins pressed together, desperately pressing harder to gain depth and growling his primal desire while his greedy hands roamed and claimed her body, her breasts, her hair.

The dream called out the voice of her groans and gasps, and the sounds of their lovemaking beat endlessly throughout his mind. Her breasts rose and fell with each cycle of her pace, his penis disappearing between her legs only to emerge shiny and slick with her desire. She rode him tirelessly, sliding forward as she lifted, only to plunge back and cry out with joy knowing that she gave her lover such delight. His penis expanded and strained to fill her and stretch her, to make contact and claim her, urging her to take him more deeply into her innermost being.

His dream teased him, prolonging the agony as he begged for release. She gripped his hair and pulled his mouth on her mons, screaming his name as he fluttered her swollen clitoris between his pursed lips, sucking her nib greedily while tensing his tongue and applying unyielding pressure to her most sensitive pearl. Her voice rose higher as his fingers danced and pulled at her nipples, cupping her breasts while maintaining his merciless feast at her slick alter, lapping her juices and kissing her lips as convulsions rocked through her body, thrusting her hips up as she lost herself to wave upon wave of vibration.

His dream forced his mind to expand until he found himself fully inside of her, able to experience her sensations blended with his own until he couldn't tell where she began and he ended. She sensed a finger join the symphony, and press inward, curving slightly as he rubbed and teased the sensitive, firm ridges inside her vaginal wall, while his tongue frolicked and skipped across her shifting focus, laying waste to her reserves as a crescendo of pleasure rocketed to every end of her body: her legs shaking, her toes curling, and her head lurching forward as she howled and froze in a silent scream of abandon and disbelief. Her eyes locked on David; and she peered into the infinite mystery representing her devotion and his worship, feeling his love while her consciousness wavered and careened towards a euphoria she had never known.

The imagery and sensation overwhelmed him. He groaned in his room, and pressed against his sheets, and while tensing he released and drifted deeply into an untroubled sleep.

The staff reported David had groaned and called out, restlessly tossing and changing positions throughout the night. The cleaning staff for the day, a kindly spindle of an older man, discovered the soiled sheets and night clothing in the hamper, and provided fresh laundry without adding his observation to the note, thinking back to his youth and memories of many distant and long gone pleasant nights.

David felt great, no longer haunted by colliding realities. His dreams had been vivid, and the mess in his sheets made him smile as he grabbed his shower and changed, meeting his escort as he went to his private breakfast alcove. His dreams had given him a gift: she could exist in his dreams, and he could experience the fullness of their union, dancing and joining with her until even her experience was his own. He had been branded by her, claimed and consumed, and she could come to him in his dreams and he would not resist.

During his day, he would sort realities, make choices, get on with life. But he would allow his dreams the freedom to travel where they will, and he would cherish the moments his dreams carried him back to her arms.

Angela Sinclair reviewed the staff reports and prepared for her session with David. He was back to his pacing and gesturing to an unseen audience, and he clearly had a rough night following the behavior in the garden. She would assess and decide whether he needed to be put back on medication. He had made so much progress, and she hated to see any of it undone. This would be his third week of therapy.

The escort brought David to her office, and she waited for him to sit before she began, but he spoke before he sat down. "Dr. Angel, I apologize for my behavior yesterday." Maybe there is hope for him yet, Angela noted as their session began.

It had been a long session, but a good one. Angela agreed with David that he was free to dream, as long as the dreams didn't interfere with his everyday life. "Ainsley's your fantasy girl, David. Everyone has fantasies." As they talked, she noticed David speaking naturally, with an ease she hadn't seen from him.