Big Pete

Big Pete thought. It occurred to him that he was thinking. I think somebody is listening to me think.

‘Ah, the patient awakes, Monty.’ The voice echoed through a pale darkness. ‘Untie his eye blinders, Monty. Okay, the blindfold, idiot. Let him see the light.’

Pete thought he heard a chuckle as he saw his eyelashes raising and brightness penetrating his head in spear points and lightening strokes. He thought it unusual to be thinking so eloquently and thought it strange to use these descriptive phrases. He wondered, as the pain resumed its ways into his consciousness, who he was; who he really was? ‘Pete. Am I still Pete?’ came, being muddled over by pains gnawing at wrists, ankles and deep in his rectum. ‘Rectum?’, he asked himself.

‘There, there. I do believe you awoke at 1343, leaving a lovely holiday of forty-seven minutes. I round off the seconds, you see.’

Peter recognised the voice. Doctor. But, there was nobody in his vision, just glaring brightness. He closed his eyelashes and eyelids.

‘He is closing his eyes, Monty. No, no, no, we mustn’t let you leave the work at hand just yet, no, oh no.’

A sharp prick behind his ear opened Pete’s eyes quickly. A blur of reflecting eyeglasses and flesh moved in and out of vision but Pete could not move to see it more clearly. Batting moisture from his eyes five fluorescent tubes were neatly arranged above his head and two large round multi-bulbed fixtures were suspended in front of him aimed directly into is face. He was shading his eyes with long eyelashes in order to keep them open but without the pains of so many lights.

Doctor took a step backward. Pete could see his look of confusion haloed by the bright lights. To Doctor’s right side came another blurred figure in another white coat who he took as Monty.

‘Why, Pete, you are conscious? You are truly back? The operation was a success?’

‘I asked you a question,’ Pete demanded.

‘Yes, yes. I am so happy.’ Pete could see Doctor jumping up and down, then short pacing with his hands fumbling fan-like. ‘This is a breakthrough in medical history. In psychiatric history. In the whole history of mankind. Now, we must release the subject. It is 1351, Tuesday 7 March, same year.’ Doctor was monotone in his message to somebody or some thing recording. ‘Patient responding to TS Virus dash 10 in a vigorous manner as though nothing has happened. He seems to have retained the same or similar personality as before the induction. He must now be sedated for the full effect of the primary stage to organise itself without his interference. The escalating phase will begin upon his awakening with every second being carefully studied by the team. He is alive with good, steady measurements and I am elated I might add. Monty has transfused the sedation at 1353. Thank you, Monty. Pete, you are so far ahead of schedule, you wonderful man.’

‘What?’ was the last thing Big Pete said. He drifted and then it was solid beneath him. He was seated somewhere else.

It was dark. A voice called his attention to a wall of darkness as a spotlight flashed on and a man in jeans and a casual sweat-shirt slowly walked along what Pete thought to be a stage, but the lighting was too poor to see clearly. 

‘Peter, this lecture is on Fear… Stimulation… Sleep… Creativity. A misuse of fear is the suppression of stimulation in a large range of life functions. The misuse capitalises on a need to heal, which can take the extreme form of coma, but more common as extended slumber.’

The man crossed back over at the same slow pace. Pete wondered what the point of this was and why this person thought he would know.

‘Except for those who have a strong physical need for sleep,’ the man continued, stopping his soft march, then starting again, ‘there are very few truly creative people who feel a self-induced tendency to sleep. It can also be thought of as part of a creative process when there is a conscious openness to induce sleep in order to experience dream-realities. In this’, he paused and looked out at Big Pete, ‘fears continue their true and various functions as signals.’

What true and various functions as signals, Big Pete thought, then realised it was an answer in itself. A statement. That was starting to scare him a bit. Why was he thinking in this formal manner?

‘Creativity requires a use of energy, indeed creativity is the use of energies. Stimulation brings the energies into recognition, enabling use as a creative function. Within this are the ranges from narrow focus to extra peripheral vision and their recognisable stages or levels.’

‘What the hell? What the hell is this?’ Big Pete heard himself say. He struggled to stop himself because he knew the man was making sense and some way he needed this information… but for what?

The man never stopped his cadence and only slowed to listen to Pete’s outburst, then went on. ‘Logically, to consciously induce a creative spirit,’ he paused but did not look out at Big Pete, ‘logically, a method would be to initiate stimulation and to recognise the creative intention with fear as a signal.’ He stopped walking forward and turned to stare at Big Pete.

‘Peter, this lecture, and we know we have to remind you every so often, is to make you a better warrior; a more creative artist in your field. Eventually your stimulants will work without any conscious effort and you will become a superman. Do you remember your profession?’

Big Pete stood up unconsciously putting his fingers to his forehead while staring back at the lecturer. ‘I don’t. What am I supposed to be doing?’

‘Peter, you are to do whatever we wish you to do, and you are to do whatever we wish you to do in a successful manner. That is all for today.’

The spotlight went out and Big Pete was in total darkness and quiet.