Embodied

Chapter 1

The wind refused to scream.

Films taught the scream. They taught the high-pitched whistle of air splitting against a body in motion. The reality was quieter. A vacuum. The air rushed past the ears with the heavy, muted roar of a train passing in a tunnel.

Thomas Morrison’s hand remained warm. The memory of the scaffolding pole burned against his palm. Steel slick with morning dew. Rust flaking away under his grip. The taste of metal lingered on the tongue. It tasted like blood.

Gravity was a hungry force. It pulled at the stomach and dragged the organs up into the chest cavity. Weightlessness coupled with absolute heaviness. The paradox made the gorge rise.

Below, the car park waited.

Grey concrete. Pitted. Stained with oil.

The pattern of the oil stains became clear. A cigarette butt flattened near the white line of a parking bay. The resolution was perfect. The eye focused with terrifying clarity in the final seconds.

No thoughts of his wife. No thoughts of the harness hanging uselessly on the hook three floors up.

The brain calculated the distance automatically. It measured the velocity. It estimated the time to impact.

Two seconds.

One second.

The concrete expanded to fill the world.

Crack.

Sarah slammed the mug down.

Coffee sloshed over the rim. It pooled on the coaster. The brown liquid steamed against the ceramic, but the heat did not register. Her fingertips were white where they gripped the handle.

The office was silent. The cream paint was motionless. The Rothko print hung perfectly straight. The lavender diffuser on the side table puffed a small cloud of vapour into the stillness.

Static.

Sarah was not.

Fluid rioted inside her inner ear. Her stomach remained pressed against the underside of her ribs. The roar of the wind was deafening.

She blinked.

Focus returned slowly. The woman sitting opposite came into resolution.

Patricia Morrison was weeping.

The sound was small. A hiccup of grief coming from a great distance. Patricia’s shoulders shook. Her left hand crumpled a tissue.

Sarah released the mug. Her hand shook. She placed it flat on the blotter to hide the tremor.

“He didn’t suffer.”

The voice sounded wrong. Spoken through a gale. Pitching it carefully was necessary to ensure it didn’t come out as a shout.

Patricia looked up. Red eyes. Swollen face. “How can you know?”

“The foreman.” Sarah focused on Patricia’s hairline. Looking at the eyes was too difficult while the room spun. “The report was clear. The fall was significant. The impact was instant.”

“But the fall.” Patricia whispered. “He had time to fall. He had time to know.”

Wind stripped the heat from Sarah’s skin. The stomach lurched with the drop. The ground rushed up.

Fifteen seconds.

She initiated the protocol. Using the breathing technique Hammond taught her, she reached out for the shape of Thomas Morrison.

She found him.

Stepping into the memory of his death was like stepping into a cold shower.

Usually, the exit followed. The impact came, the connection severed, and the safety of the office returned.

The impact had not come.

The fall continued.

“The brain protects us.” Sarah recited the words from the textbook. They tasted like ash. “In moments of extreme trauma, the brain shuts down unnecessary functions. Fear is a higher function. It requires processing time. Thomas didn’t have time.”

Patricia nodded. She needed the science to be a shield. “So he wasn’t scared.”

The oil stain on the concrete remained clear in Sarah’s mind. The absolute, primal rejection of death flooding Thomas’s body was vivid. The panic. The desperate clawing at the empty air.

“No. He wasn’t scared.”

The lie sat heavy in the room.

Patricia blew her nose. “Thank you. I just kept imagining him screaming.”

“There was no scream.”

The only truth she could offer.

Patricia stood up and gathered her bag. The load seemed lighter. The grief remained a heavy coat around her shoulders, but she stood upright.

“Same time next week?”

“Yes. I’ll see you then.”

Patricia left. The door clicked shut.

Sarah remained in her chair. She gripped the armrests. The sensation of velocity increased. The room blurred at the edges.

A stopwatch sat on the blotter. The digital display read 00:00.

Session stopped. Protocol ended.

She closed her eyes.

The wind roared. The ground rushed up.

She opened her eyes.

Silence.

Standing required effort. Her legs buckled. The edge of the desk caught her weight. The floor felt unsteady. It seemed to rush up to meet her feet with every step. A wide stance was necessary to maintain balance.

The window offered a view.

Below, the street was calm. A red bus moved slowly through traffic. A cyclist weaved between cars.

Sarah pressed her forehead against the cool glass. The tactile sensation was grounding. The solidity of the building was necessary.

The building felt solid.

Her body felt weightless.

Back at the desk, she opened the black moleskin notebook. The pen felt light.

Client: P. Morrison. Session: 3. Protocol: Embodied Empathy. Duration: 15 seconds.

The numbers stared back. Fifteen seconds.

An hour had passed since she opened her eyes.

She wrote: Subjective experience continues.

A hesitation. She crossed out the line.

She wrote: Successful integration.

The book snapped shut.

Documenting this was impossible. Giving it reality meant admitting the protocol had failed. If the protocol had failed, she was dangerous.

The drawer swallowed the book. The lock clicked.

Putting on the coat felt like a battle against drag. The wool felt heavy. Wind resistance.

The bag went over the shoulder. The door locked. Hopefully the walk to the tube station would shake the sensation loose.

The pavement presented a problem.

Every footfall anticipated the impact of the fall. The brain expected the shattering of bone. A shockwave of dissonance travelled up the spine when the heel met the stone slab.

Head down. Watch the feet.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

People moved around her like ghosts. Static objects in a world moving too fast.

The descent into the Underground brought a rush of air from the tunnel.

Sarah flinched and grabbed the handrail.

The wind felt exactly like the fall.

“Mind out, love.” A man brushed past on the escalator.

Sarah ignored him. The black steps moved downwards. Down into the dark.

The train arrived. She found a seat and wedged her hands under her thighs. Acceleration pushed her back into the upholstery.

Better. The movement of the train masked the movement in her head. For a few minutes, the external velocity matched the internal velocity.

Closing her eyes brought the scaffolding back. The cold steel. The grey sky.

Opening them revealed a woman opposite reading a paperback. A child eating an apple.

Sarah focused on the apple. The child’s teeth broke the skin. The white flesh turned brown.

The image of a skull breaking against concrete intruded.

She looked away.

Garlic.

The flat smelled of tomatoes and heat and safety. The smell of eighteen years of marriage.

Marie stood at the stove. The oversized t-shirt she used for painting was splattered with yellow ochre on the elbow.

“You’re late.” Marie didn’t turn around. She was chopping basil. The knife rhythm was fast. Chop. Chop. Chop.

“Tube was slow.”

The coat went on the rack. The hook resembled the hook on the scaffolding. Sarah averted her eyes.

“Good session?”

“Heavy.”

The kitchen floor was tiled. Hard.

Sarah approached Marie. Anchoring herself to something that wasn’t falling seemed vital.

She reached out.

Her hand trembled.

Marie turned around before contact could be made. A wooden spoon was thrust forward. “Taste.”

The red sauce was thick. Steam rose from it.

Sarah opened her mouth. Marie fed her.

Heat burned her tongue.

Swallowing felt wrong. The stomach was too high. The food felt like a stone dropping down a well.

“Good.”

“Needs salt.” Marie turned back to the stove.

Sarah gripped the edge of the counter. The marble was cool.

“You okay?” The chopping resumed.

“Fine. Just a headache.”

“Take a pill. Dinner in ten.”

The bathroom offered privacy. The door locked.

The mirror reflected a stranger.

Pale face. Dilated pupils. The look of an addict or someone in shock.

She turned on the tap. Water rushed out.

The sound of the water was the sound of the wind.

She turned it off immediately.

Gripping the basin, she leaned forward.

“Stop it.”

The reflection stared back. Wide eyes.

“Stop falling.”

The sensation ignored the command. The stomach lurched. The wind whistled.

The medicine cabinet yielded a bottle of aspirin. Two pills went into her hand. She swallowed them dry.

They wouldn’t help. This wasn’t a headache. It was displacement.

Back in the kitchen, Marie was plating up. Two bowls on the table.

“Wine?”

“Water.”

The chair felt flimsy. Sarah sat on the edge. Feet flat on the floor.

Marie ate with enthusiasm. She talked about a client. The logo was too aggressive. The font was wrong. The colours clashed.

Sarah watched Marie’s mouth move. Following the words was difficult.

“And then he said he wanted it to pop.” Marie rolled her eyes. “I told him to use a balloon. I’m a designer. Not a magician.”

Sarah forced a smile. “He sounds difficult.”

“He’s a nightmare.” Marie paused. “You’re not eating.”

The pasta was a tangle of red and white. Like the inside of a body.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat. You skipped lunch.”

“I had a big breakfast.”

“You had toast. You left half of it.”

Marie put her fork down. The metal clattered against the bowl.

The sound was sharp. It cut through the roar in Sarah’s ears like a gunshot. Sarah flinched, her knee knocking the underside of the table.

Water sloshed in the glasses.

“What is it?” Marie’s voice softened. The annoyance bled away. “Is it the Morrison case?”

“Yes.”

“It’s getting to you. I can tell. You go somewhere else when you talk about it.”

“It’s a difficult case. Sudden death. It’s messy.”

“They’re all messy, Sarah. That’s the job.”

“This one is different.”

“Why?”

Sarah looked up. The woman who knew her better than anyone was waiting for an answer.

Telling her was impossible.

Marie would make her stop. She would call Dr Reeves. She would insist on the hospital.

Scans would find nothing. Doctors would call it stress. A breakdown.

They wouldn’t understand that Sarah wasn’t broken. She was just elsewhere.

“He was young.” The lie came easier this time. “He had plans.”

Marie sighed. She reached across the table and took Sarah’s hand.

Sarah braced herself. The jolt of static. The disconnect.

Marie’s hand was solid. Heavy.

“You can’t save them all.”

“I know.”

“You have to come back to me. You drift away. You think I don’t notice. I notice.”

“I’m here.”

“You’re fading.”

Sarah squeezed Marie’s hand. Squeezed until the bones shifted under the skin.

“I’m right here.”

Marie smiled. A sad expression. She withdrew her hand.

“Eat your pasta.”

Sarah picked up her fork. She wound the pasta around the tines. Lifted it to her mouth.

She ate.

The food tasted of nothing.

Bed was the enemy.

The dark removed visual references. Vertigo became absolute.

Sarah lay on her back. Hands gripped the mattress. It felt like being strapped to a table thrown out of a plane.

The wind was a hurricane now. It roared through the bedroom.

Beside her, Marie slept. Rhythmic breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Sarah envied the stillness. The gravity holding Marie to the bed seemed like a luxury.

Closing her eyes brought the concrete closer.

It had to be closer. The fall had lasted ten hours.

Opening her eyes revealed the dark ceiling.

An anchor was needed.

She reached out to the bedside table. The phone button clicked.

Blue light blinded her. It cut through the dark.

Calendar open.

Structure was necessary. Appointments. Meetings. Obligations proving Sarah Hargreaves still existed. Still a doctor. Still alive.

Thursday.

09:00 - Staff Meeting.

11:00 - Admin.

14:00 - New Intake. R. Lewis.

Sarah stared at the entry.

Subject: R. Lewis. Age: 19. Cause: Drowning.

The phone lowered.

The word hung in the air.

Drowning.

She lay in the dark. The wind screamed in her ears.

Imagination summoned the water.

The silence of the water. The pressure. The cold.

The wind roared louder.

Tomorrow, the water would come.

Perhaps the water would stop the fall. Perhaps hitting the surface would shatter the body.

Or perhaps the fall would continue through the water. Falling forever. Suspended in a column of air wrapped in a column of water.

She shut her eyes.

The concrete waited. The water waited.

Sarah fell.