Interlinked
by Carmelo Labbozzetta
“That brain of mine is something more than merely mortal; as time will show.”
— Ada Lovelace
Without context, the outside of the Ecclestone estate looked dystopian. Hordes of people camped outside a lavish mansion for days on end, waiting for their chance to pry inside and get their shot at the $50,000,000 bounty. Past the gilded pink ivory doors, up the spiral marble stairs and through to the fourth door on your right you’d find Winston Ecclestone, stood over the bed of his son William. Surrounding Winston were swaths of penguin-suit-fitted caretakers, all eagerly observing a self-described ‘mesmerizer’ as he wielded his wild hand gestures like a marionette, with William as his puppet. The only problem was that William was a very unresponsive puppet.
“I’ve seen enough, bring in the next one.” Ordered Winston as he placed a single hand to his forehead.
“Are you alright sir? Maybe it’s best we continue tomorrow.” One of the caretakers suggested.
Winston looked up at the caretaker, with a distressed snarl, “No! As long as my boy rests I cannot.”
“Understood.” The caretaker replied as he escorted the ‘doctor’ out of the residence.
Winston’s message was simple, cure my son and the money is yours. In response, people of all professions came out of the woodwork to try their hand at helping the boy. Traditional medical doctors, chiropractors, priests, exorcists, shamans, hypnotists, magnetizers, even people who kind of just wanted to have a crack at it—though they were quickly dismissed. Hordes of people came and went, spreading rumours as they left. The kid’s clearly faking it! The father too! They’re both in on it for publicity! With claims of fraudulence, waning media coverage and little progress toward a cure, the crowds diminished by the day until no one outside Winston’s mansion seemed to care anymore. That’s what Winston thought at least.
***
The winds and rain ravaged the landscape surrounding Winston’s mansion as he sat by the twitchy diminished flames of the living room fireplace. The fire casted a faded warmth on the multi-billionaire’s face as he turned toward the framed picture of his wife sitting on a dresser. The dresser—which despite its diamond coating—looked horrid when compared to the visage of the person who sat atop it.
“I can’t lose both of you, it’s not fair.” He said to himself.
There was a knocking at the door. Winston opened it to the view of a man who looked as curly as his own handlebar moustache. The strange man was equipped with vintage airman googles—which in addition to his plain white shirt, constricted by an ash brown vest—were drenched, both in rainwater, and a quite foul odour.
“Hello! I believe you are Winston Ecclestone. My name is Percival Bruns.” He said in a polite and reserved tone. “I’m here to help the boy.” Winston had seen too many people claiming to be guardian angels to even have a glimmer of hope at this strange man’s proposal, but he didn’t know what to do any more.
With tired eyes he responded, “Let me show you to his room.”
Winston found himself in an all too familiar position, stood over his comatose son, with his caretakers, and a madman. However, Winston noticed that this man, though definitely mad, was different. Others had come in with truckloads of medical equipment, sometimes an entire hospital’s worth of staff, while he had just a single briefcase. Others had bizarre instruments which they used to run every test imaginable, but he, he wasn’t running any tests at all, he was just staring the boy. Half a minute of staring later, Percival’s limp unconscious body fell to the ground. Ten seconds later, he awoke to the sight of Winston and about five caretakers hovered over him, their muffled voices slowly got louder as he regained consciousness and told them that he’s alright.
He stood back up, looked directly toward Winston and said, “I am now entirely confident that I can help the boy.” A few weeks ago, Winston would hear this phrase around thirty times a day. He wanted to dismiss it and get Percival out of there, but it wasn’t like he had many other options. A caretaker escorted Percival to one of the many guest rooms, the caretaker offered him a spare set of clothes, but he declined as he opened his briefcase and pulled out a nightgown.
Percival’s odd reputation only grew among Winston and his staff over the next few days. His ‘treatment’ of William consisted almost entirely of staring at him before fainting, then awakening only to repeat the cycle once again. The only changes in this routine came from the increase in the intervals of time from fainting to awakening, and the chair the caretakers got him for his own safety. It took half a week before Winston’s patience ran out. He stormed into his son’s room, and just as he expected, both his son and Percival were in a nearly identical state to which he left them—minus the chair.
“Right, I don’t know if you’re some sort of creep, or if you’re homeless, or... whatever reason, I don’t care! Just get o-!” The instant Winston began to annunciate the final syllable of his condemnation, Percival shot out of his chair and stared bullets into Winston’s skull. Winston felt as if he was yanked from a wretched dream and sent straight into a nightmarish reality.
His body was no longer in the comfort of the Ecclestone manor but instead plummeting through the Earth’s dense atmosphere. His view transitioned from Percival’s unflinching eyes to the uncaring sea—that at this height, was practically blue concrete. The chill wind pushed past his face, stretching every pore of his skin as if it had somewhere better to be. He screamed obscenities, waving his arms and legs in a frenzy, like a distressed bird learning to fly. Winston felt himself losing grip on his consciousness as the mental whiplash ravaged his entire system.
“There are two fears innate to every human alive, loud noises, and falling.”These words came from Percival, who to Winston’s complete awe was not only right next to him, but also completely stood upright. It was as if the air under him had changed state just to grant him a platform.
“Winston, look down.” Percival continued in a surprisingly dull tone considering their situation.
“WHAT! I... I DON’T UNDERSTAND!” Cried Winston, trying to process both the situation’s absurdity and danger all at once.
“The ground, it’s not getting any closer, is it.” Percival said. Winston whipped his head downward, and to his surprise, he was right. He was falling, but he wasn’t. Winston felt slightly less peril, but dramatically more confused. He looked back at the strange man, desperate for any sort of coherent answers.
“You aren’t falling.” Just as Percival said this, the air resistance Winston felt immediately dissipated. Previous sounds of air whipping past him as he fell ceased to exist, like the whole planet had gone silent. “There is no ocean below you, nor sky around you, nor are you anywhere at all.” The ocean, sky, clouds, and every other detail which made up the environment turned into a depthless white void in an instant. It felt even more objective and uncaring to Winston than the place which he thought would see his death. Winston tried to open his mouth, tried to question anything, but he didn’t know where to start.
“What you see around you is a phenomenon which I coined, a cerebral nexus. An event which occurs when two or more brains emit neural signals at the exact frequency for just long enough.” Percival monologued as he paced around the infinite void which seemed so familiar to him. Winston was still flat in the freefall position below Percival, floating mid-void, too afraid to move. “The result of such is what you see around you, a domain in which you can manifest anything you can imagine. A perfect unity where all barriers of communication are removed, so that not even one’s thoughts are private.” Percival took pride in explaining what seemed to be his own discovery.
“So, where exactly are we?” Winston asked, his voice trembling.
“Currently laying on your son’s bedroom floor. Our bodies didn’t go anywhere, it’s just our minds doing the talking.” Percival responded. “The mouth you see moving right now is not physical, these bodies are simply manifestations of how our unconscious minds believes us to look in that moment. They wear the same clothes and skin you saw when you looked in the mirror this morning.” The thought that nothing Winston was experiencing at the time was real, seemed absurd to him, but at the same time he found comfort in the idea that he could wake up from this bad dream.
“So, what exactly does any of this have to do with my son?” Winston asked, as he began to come to terms with this simulated reality.
“Remember what I said about these manifestations of ourselves. Whatever occurs to them in here will be accepted by your unconscious self as reality. For example...” After Percival said this a mean grin spread across his lips, the once infinite void transmuted into an old western scene. Powdery dirt as brown as the surrounding dead flora covered the landscape. Mountains looked down on the two from afar, imposing themselves on the barren background. Winston found himself on the one thing there that wasn’t brown, a pair of train tracks. Even better, both his hands and feet were bound by rope. He could only hear the whistling and rhythmic chugging of the oncoming train, as his vision was impeded by the dust kicked into his eyes by the inconvenient wind. Expectedly Winston’s panic restarted.
“What’s interesting is that even though you know this isn’t real you’re still scared. Though it is no different from shrieking at the sight of a cockroach or miniscule spider. In both cases you know the situation is not dangerous, yet you remain irrationally frightened.” Percival lectured as the scene changed once more. Winston remained paralysed yet conscious on the operating table, as intricate surgeons picked at his insides. Winston stayed fastened on a table, but the room shifted once more. He was then constricted in a damp musty dungeon as a muscular man in a black cloak pulled on the lever of the wooden contraption Winston was strapped to. The resulting force pulled on metal braces chained to each one of his limbs. The unbearable sensation of being pulled from each angle quickly faded as Winston’s surrounding changed from aged stone to modern metal. He was laid flat in a pit encompassed by metal debris. Winston jumped up in fear as he noticed his body was not flesh and bone, but an amalgamation of scrap metal cobbled together from parts of various vehicles and appliances. Before Winston had time to process his new physiology his environment changed once again. He found himself at the entrance of a barber shop, vomiting up mounds of slimy jet-black hair onto the tiled floor, feeling each strand climb out of his throat. Winston’s environment continued to change, again and again and again. With each change he felt his consciousness stray further and further away from him. His mind was overstimulated with experiences and sensations he couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“What you’re feeling right now, is dissociation. Your sense of self is being overwritten. Distort someone’s self-perception enough, and they lose all idea of who they are.” Percival stopped torturing Winston, preserving his barely conscious state. The environment changed again; however, it wasn’t nearly as coherent as the others. Various areas from the Ecclestone estate flashed in and out of existence as if it was forgotten as soon as it was remembered. Ornate vases became impossible Klein bottles, spiral staircases formed mobius strips, the face of a beautiful woman changed expression in a rhythm out of sync with her continually changing outfits. Everywhere Winston looked he could see himself repeating from every angle, as if he were everywhere at once. The only absolute point in space was Percival. He did not repeat, he was not distorted nor made absurd. He formed the only basis for the conventional.
“We are communicating with William’s mind now. Dissociation can take many different forms.” Percival gestured to the illogical backdrop. “This is what William’s mind perceives itself tobe.”
“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me... to my family?” Winston wept in a defeated tone, even the cracks in his voice cried for this to end. Percival’s expression turned sour.
“Your family? What right did you have to claim them? To take them from me? They were mine fir-!” Percival stopped himself, hiding his emotion. Winston remained motionless as he pondered his comment. He had some idea of his wife and child’s past. For the first time in weeks Winston felt something other than despair, anger. Winston stood upright and manifested himself at eye level with Percival.
“If you love him so much then why don’t you spend your time curing him Instead of torturing me?” Winson asked, his voice as still as a lake.
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do the last few days?” Percival replied, looking him up and down, disgusted at his newfound confidence.
“Nothing, clearly.” Winston said, noticing Percival’s lips tighten.
“To break someone out of a dissociative state, you need to manifest their image so accurately that their unconscious mind finds it familiar, and latches onto it. Matching both physical appearance and personality. I would do it myself...but-.”
“But the only time you ever saw his face was in the reflection of a glass bottle.” Winston retorted; Percival remained in enraged silence.
Winston then did the same thing he’d been doing for the past ten years, he thought of his son. From the toes of the feet he used to wash, to the head of hair he used to cut. The nights they spent inside, curled up roasting by the fireplace, and the days they spent outside, where he could have sworn William’s smile outshone the sun. No detail was too minute for Winston, every atom of his son was captured and used to rebuild William, brick by brick.
Winston awoke from the floor of his son’s bedroom to find his boy, standing over him, his famous smile in tow. Winston jumped to his feet and held his boy tight, serenaded by the caretakers’ applause.
Everyone was so caught up in the celebration, no one even cared to ask where Percival went. The last the caretakers saw; he woke up a few seconds before the others and rushed to get his briefcase. If perhaps one of them followed him a bit further, they’d find him at the front entrance of Winston’s abode, briefcase in hand, pausing to hear the echo of commemoration as it reverberated off the extravagant walls, before leaving his son, for good.