Chapter 8 - The Threshold of Grief
""No!"" Mark screamed, stepping in front of Clara and Toby. ""Get out of my house!""
The surgeon stepped across the threshold. With each step, the living room dissolved further. The hardwood floor turned to linoleum; the cozy sofa warped into a stainless-steel hospital bed surrounded by silent, unplugged monitors. Only the coffee table remained, incongruously resting in the middle of the sterile room, with the glass of water and the colorful picture book sitting on its surface.
""Mark, we have to let him go,"" Clara wept, dropping to her knees on the cold hospital tiles. Her casual green shirt turned into a hospital gown. Her hair was tangled, her face hollowed by months of sorrow. ""We’ve been trapped in this loop for months. You created this. Your mind wouldn't accept it.""
""I didn't create anything!"" Mark yelled, tears blinding him. ""He's right here! He shushed me! He took the remote!""
Toby walked past Mark’s legs, stepping toward the doctor. The toddler looked up at the towering figure in white, showing neither fear nor sadness. In his small hands, the TV remote began to unravel, its plastic casing melting away to reveal a bundle of silver hospital bracelets and a flatlined electrocardiogram strip.
""He wants to keep us asleep, Daddy,"" Toby said, turning back to look at Mark. ""The man under the floor... he’s the one who turns off the lights.""
May you like
The doctor reached down, extending a gloved hand toward Toby’s shoulder. ""It’s time to sign the release forms, Mr. Vance. You have to let the boy rest.""
Mark lunged forward, tackling the doctor to the ground with a furious roar.
