Title: Memories of a Parallel Universe

Author: Rhion

Rating: Unsure

Summary: He didn't have much in the way of memories. It seemed like he'd always been there, but his dreams were so vivid. So real. Sometimes they were more real than the world around him. Most of the time he wished that hyper-reality was where he lived rather than this dull, cold, wet place. Where they were crazier than they claimed he was.

Disclaimer: Me no own, you no fuckin' sue. Or I'll beat you with my damn cane *waves it around*

AN: Okay, I'm going to play with historical fact a bit here (um.. hello we do it all the time, right?) and use lithium as a mood stabilizer. It was used pre-1900's, then use was stopped for about 50yrs due to 'pharmaceutical companies not wanting to invest in a medicine that couldn't be patented' before coming back into use in 1949, and that was in Australia in some lab rat experiments. As this story takes place oh, I'd say 1949 or so, that means it wouldn't be in use commonly as that didn't happen for another twenty years. Deal with me monkey-ing with timelines. Oh and it's post train wreck. I won't give more than that away. Oh and also, the etymology for the words 'okay' and 'fuck' are applicable in these years and timelines. I've done my research. And I shall leave it at that. So if you feel that some 'too modern' words are well, too modern, look up the etymology, because due to complaints in other places I have taken the time to do so on my own and been proven that my stance is the correct one. Not to be nasty, it just gets tiring when ppl don't have anything to back up such claims other than their own personal experience. Which is unlikely to be objective or accurate. In general.

Oh on a side note, I'm sorry if I'm sounding bitchy. I'm in Gainesville, Florida – aka Hell. Rotting, stinking hell. You'd be bitchy too. And in the course of the time I've been here I've been sick twice, I'm having man problems *grumbles* on top of being homesick etc… So yeah.


They told him he was a Spaniard who fled to Argentina, and that after the Second Great War was over, he had tried to return to Spain. And gotten stuck in Britain. But he didn't know Spanish, he couldn't remember it. Rubbing his hand over his face, Caspian felt the continual confusion wash over him. Who was he? And why did he have such strange dreams? Doctors at the veterans center told him he suffered from 'battle fatigue', that his recent memories must be so traumatic that he couldn't recall anything at all about who he was. It didn't change anything, their diagnosis didn't change that fact, couldn't change the fact that he was unfamiliar with and frightened by the simplest of things.

Which was passing strange indeed, as when a fight had broken out amongst a couple veterans who thought they were still in the middle of war, Caspian had jumped in. Laying about him with fists and feet he had knocked the soldiers out, careful to not injure them or strike their heads overmuch. The memory that when a person was struck in the head, often their thoughts weren't quite right afterwards had surfaced. At the time he had taken it as a sign of progress, but no it wasn't. So he wasn't a coward, he was capable of acting in a crisis with measured and swift action. Even so, the one time he had been escorted outside, Caspian had cowered as a loud blaring went by overhead. It was a 'plane', patrolling the surrounding sky near the 'air force base'.

Since then Caspian had refused to go outside, except onto a patio where he could stare out at a garden. Changing from his patient's pajamas, Caspian pulled on the loose fitting military uniform he had been given. No one had told him why they gave him military clothes, but they seemed to fit, even if he didn't fit in. Most of the soldiers, all injured veterans with various physical or mental 'difficulties' looked the same. Pale skin or ruddy, different bone structure, different hair, different skin from his, different mannerisms, different levels of intensity. Just – different. Caspian stood out, but it wasn't any one thing that he could put his finger on. Possibly it was his accent, or his golden skin that didn't lighten much at all in places where sunlight didn't hit, but it could also be his shaggy curly hair. A nurse had moved to cut it and without thought he had grabbed her wrist, twisting it and pinning her arm behind her back, yanking the scissors from her grip, throwing them so they buried with a loud 'thwack' in the wall. No one tried that again, but Caspian had given himself a bit of a trim when the hair around his face got to be too annoying. Buttoning the jacket to his uniform, Caspian looked around the small cubbyhole of a room he had been given.

He unsettled the other patients too much, so he had been given the privilege of a private room, and while it was the height of luxury compared to the long hall lined with cots, it still felt like a nightmarish hole to him. Glancing at the brass clock on the rickety nightstand, he decided it was time for his afternoon stroll around the dreary halls. Dressed as smartly and immaculately as those soldiers who patrolled the veterans 'hospital', he could almost pass for normal. The sterile cold white painted walls felt like they would close in on him, but he didn't show any of that, just nodded or saluted when he passed by other soldiers. It was easy to see why they had assumed he was a soldier though, his stride matched all the other veterans, the way he carried himself was similar, and his ability to know who, when and where to salute or nod came with ease. Shoving aside the memory of his hideously scarred body from his mind, Caspian made himself forget that that was another reason why they believed him to be a soldier.

"Hey Ten!" a familiar voice shook him from his usual bleak thoughts.

Repressing a groan of irritation, "Captain Obvious, to what do I owe the pleasure?" taking the few steps back to the room he had passed. Inside four men were playing cards, 'Captain Obvious' amongst them. The good 'Captain' got his name from his annoying habit of stating the obvious at the most trying of times. His left arm had been blown off, and Caspian wasn't sure if the concussion from the 'grenade' blast had addled Seymour Smythe's senses or if he had been that stupid beforehand.

"We're playing cards Ten," patting at the round table, indicating the white and red checkered cards.

"I can see that," sighing, moving further into the room. "And how does this affect me?"

Clearing his throat, "Well we have four lads to play."

Somehow Caspian kept himself from pressing his palms to his face. If only he could block out the idiocy around him, Caspian thought then he could possibly be content. There was a collection of snickers all around. Except from Seymour and Caspian. Seymour couldn't see the humour, and Caspian saw it but didn't find it all that amusing. Being baited wasn't on his list of fun and educational activities.

"Yes I can see that as well Seymour."

"Well you'd be a fifth," smiling openly.

Caspian didn't like those beatific grins, they reminded him of village idiots. And his own failings, his own inabilities. At least Seymour was happy being who he was, and knew who he had been. He suspected that the lithium helped with that a great deal. The lithium Caspian was given didn't do anything other than make him feel numb, so he usually hid the pills and threw them out later. In many others' cases the pills seemed to help, so Caspian tried not to begrudge them their numb joviality. Let them find comfort where they could.

Rolling his eyes, Caspian grabbed a chair, "Yes I would be a fifth, and yes I shall join you, but no I do not have any stakes to win or lose, so no I do not care who wins as it means nothing at all. Now, who is dealer?" plunking down, leaning his elbows on the table.


Dr. Carter's coat was always white, as well as his white starched shirt with its white buttons, and in the white box of the exam room, the much shorter white man, who also had white hair – blended into nothing. A bland little man in a bland cold little room. Long familiar with the routine, Caspian pulled his jacket and shirt off, then sat on the cot – which was also white, was nothing not white in this place? – waiting for Dr. Carter to touch him with his too cold hands.

The stethoscope was like ice where he was pressed into his chest, "Deep breath."

Inhaling, Caspian puffed his chest out as far as it would go, holding it.

"Exhale," the word sharp, "slowly!"

Obeying the commands lethargically Caspian moved allowing the poking, prodding, measuring and weighing that was typical of his weekly physical. The part when he had to turn his head and cough on command was the one part of the exam that he had to repress a violent flash of emotion – how dare the doctor touch him in such a manner? But all the soldiers went through it, and it was considered normal, somewhat humiliating, but normal nonetheless.

Clipboard in hand, button on the pen clicking as it was readied, "Now, Caspar tell me about your week. What did you do?"

Adjusting his pants, ignoring the intentional or unintentional misuse of his name, "The same thing I do every week. I get up, get dressed, go for a walk, eat, go for another walk, play cards, read, eat, go for a third walk, listen to the radio, play chess, eat, read once more, clean myself for bed, take my medicines, and go to sleep," listing it all out coolly. His routine never changed. "Repeat the same actions every day until it is time for my physical, come here rather than take my afternoon stroll, and then I go back to my regularly scheduled activities."

"Are you being cheeky?" washed out brown eyes tried to stare him down.

"Why waste my time doing something like that?" grunting.

Pen scribbling, making incomprehensible notations on his clipboard, Dr. Carter's voice was implacable, "I believe it is time you finally started seeing one of the psychotherapists. Otherwise since the lithium isn't helping with your rebelliousness," more scribbling, "my only recourse if they can't help you is lobotomy."

Biting his tongue, Caspian kept his expression neutral. Asking questions of Dr. Carter only resulted in two burly orderlies coming in, pinning his arms, while Dr. Carter pushed a needle into his arm. Which would result in Caspian passing out for several days, his body still unused to whatever was in the glass tube being forced into his system. And upon waking, Caspian would be sick for days, woozy, dizzy, and vomiting until whatever poison it was they forced on him ran its course. And all that for just voicing a concern or query.

This place was far more insane than they said he was.


Hoisting himself to sit on stone railing of his usual patio, Caspian scooted around, one leg hanging down the inside of the railing, the other tucked so that he was sitting half cross-legged. He liked this spot, it afforded him a pleasant view of the washed out green grass, with the pebbled walkways covering the mud. It rained so much here, the sound constantly coming and going, that he wondered how the hospital wasn't washed away. Rummaging in his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes he tapped the bottom on his thigh, a dirty gray-white tube popping out. Raising the half crumpled package to his face, his lips nabbed the cigarette from the pack in what had become a reflexive habit.

Many of the other men smoked, and the scent had been familiar, niggling at the back of his mind. So he had latched onto the familiarity of the smell of pungent smoke, though this was nothing but a shadow of a shadowed memory. One of the doctors would go outside and smoke from a pipe, and that was far closer to what Caspian recalled, but whenever he thought he had a handle on the image it fled. Fabric rustled as his fingers fished into his pocket once more, searching for his lighter. The weight was quite heavy, Caspian had some sort of funding available, that allowed him the little niceties like having a silver high quality lighter, and decent cigarettes. Unfortunately it didn't afford him an escape from this place.

The documentation, which he wasn't supposed to have seen but had, on the details of his arrival here had ensured he would stay in this place a long time. He had been stopped at a department in the port of Avonmouth where he had proceeded to have some sort of meltdown. His possessions had indicated a military background, and heavy stress from the Civil War in Spain before fleeing to the country of Argentina. Lighting his cigarette, Caspian inhaled the harsh smoke, used to it now, before blowing a trail out his nose and mouth. Captain Obvious always said he looked like a drowsing dragon when he did that. Eyes unfocused, he watched nothing, while trying to backtrack his steps to the veterans hospital. After he had been restrained, calmed, and identified as a sufferer of extreme battle fatigue, he had been carted off to this hospital.

And here he stayed, being 'treated' because Spain didn't recognize his passport, and he was considered a bit of a charity case now. Stuck in this land he didn't remember, but it seemed like he'd always been here. There was no memory of his first day here, no place where he could say definitively that his memories began. Stubbing out his cigarette, the cherry scraping on stone a gentle rasp in his ears.

One of the white skirted nurses was wheeling out one of the amputees in a chair, the pebbles crunching loud enough for him to hear it from where he sat, hidden in the shadowed patio. The sway of hips drew his eye, somewhere between reflex and actual curiosity, and Caspian's thoughts stopped flitting around for a moment. Lighting another cigarette, he watched the straight line of her back, and how the curve of her hips were hugged by the all pervasive white fabric. Closing his eyes, Caspian banished his lascivious thoughts. Many of the soldiers accosted the nurses, their manners absolutely barbaric and unacceptable. And his own momentary responses to female presence weren't all that appropriate either. He was better than that, and while it was nice to have such a pleasant view of rounded bottoms or trim waists and breasts to raise his pulse, Caspian knew it was wrong to simply ogle a woman. Some long forgotten mother would be ready to thrash him if he had acted like that.

Of course he couldn't truly be sure of that. Or that he had a mother at one point to instill such beliefs. But it made him feel better to think that he had.

A nurse accompanied by an orderly came near the double doors, swinging them open behind him. Turning to nod at them once, knowing that they had come for him, Caspian took one long final drag on his cigarette before flicking it over the railing. It was a minor rebellion, throwing such a small thing as the butt of his cigarette into the bushes, but he did it as though it was totally normal. At least then it could be chalked up to his general strangeness and not to 'rebelliousness' or being 'difficult'.

Bowing just a tad to the red headed nurse, "Good afternoon Nurse Kerry."

"Hello Ten," she smiled, the vibrant crimson of her lipstick putting him in mind of fresh blood coming from lungs, so colourful and bright, "it's time for your appointment with Dr. Anderson."

The smile that had started to curve his lips froze, but he managed to keep it in place, offering his arm to the nurse, "Then shall we?"

"Oh you sly devil," she giggled, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.

All the soldiers loved Nurse Kerry as she was actually nice to them. At least that's how it seemed on the surface. But Caspian didn't like her, not really, because he had seen the vicious looks she'd send to the other 'girls' for approaching her favorite 'boys'. Caspian simply played along, it made things easier, and staying on Nurse Kerry's good side was a good idea if he wanted to keep getting such a wide selection of reading material.

His boots tapped on the linoleum floors, Nurse Kerry's thick high white shoes clicked, while behind them the orderly whose name Caspian could never remember lumbered. The orderly was there to ensure he behaved and didn't try and get out of going to the psychotherapy appointment. True, he did wish to turn on his heel and go back to his quiet spot, smoke until he had to open the second pack tucked in the cargo pocket of his uniform, but he wasn't stupid. No, Caspian certainly wasn't, and they may think he was, because he had spied the syringe in Nurse Kerry's pocket, and he wasn't going to fight at all. Unless he absolutely had to, but it was unlikely, as they didn't do it without at least some provocation. And he was the perfect gentleman – of course.

A metal door, with a glass square inset loomed. Flanking the door in the hellishly pristine white wall were two wooden benches, a deep mahogany. The colour was soothing to his abused eyes, and Caspian had to resist the urge to run to the benches and hug or kiss them thankfully. So much white, so so much white. Maybe he would go insane from all of it. From carefully measuring his reactions with the Nurse Kerry, with the orderlies, Dr. Carter or the other patients and veterans here… Then and there, Caspian wanted to scream. But the deep rich red-brown wood drew his eyes, soothing him instantly. Such a simple thing, but it reminded him to be strong. That outside these frozen familiar walls that there was more, more than his fears. Drawing strength from that knowledge, vowing he'd get out, get better, or whatever it was he'd have to do to prove to them he was fit so he could leave, Caspian strode to the office door absent of all trepidation.


Seymour was covered in blood. That was all Caspian saw for a moment, then his eyes focused, and he was moving forward, feet pounding down the hall, everything flying past him in a rush. Orderlies were trying to 'restrain' him, and the generally friendly soldier was thrashing. Other veterans turned their faces, not wanting to see, but Caspian hit the knot of bodies with a crunch.

Knocking one of the orderlies aside, arm snapping around another's neck, Caspian hauled backwards. Strangling the heavyset man, Caspian braced his feet far apart, shuffling back several steps, dragging the much larger man far enough so that he couldn't kick at Seymour. A chair was knocked over, and Seymour was shaking, body tensed, making gurgling sounds. Dropping the orderly, Caspian yanked his belt from its loops, shoving it into Seymour's mouth, and tried to cushion his head. But the damage was done.

More white clad men rushed in when the first orderly blew his whistle. Ignoring them, Caspian moved, cradling Seymour's head, concentrating on testing for sponginess in the young man's skull. As the fit continued, a nurse had come in, and was standing between Caspian and the orderlies, standing firm and immovable. Blood was still pouring from Seymour's nose, and some from tears in his scarred skin from hard shoes kicking him. In an attempt to stop the flow, Caspian struggled out of his jacket with some difficulty, always maintaining a firm hold on Seymour's chin, before he got the jacket off and was pressing it over the soldier's ruined shoulder and side.

"I think you've done enough damage," it snapped through the air when one of the orderlies tried to move forward. "Stay back for now, and someone get Nurse Kerry for goodness sake!"

No one made a move.

Gritting his teeth, Caspian roared in a battlefield commander's voice, "Go!"

The unnamed nurse knelt next to Caspian, helping how she could with Seymour. All Caspian caught was a flash of dark hair drawn back under her hat, and blue eyes, before he was too busy focusing on Seymour once more to pay further attention to her.


"Where does she get off?" it was catty, and Caspian slowed his steps, cocking his head to listen.

Knowing who was on Nurse Kerry's bad side was one of those tidbits that if he played his cards right would get him writing materials. Or maybe a new newspaper.

"She's just new Caitlin," warm and gentle, that must be Nurse Lewis, "and you don't know what the poor dear's been through."

"I don't care," huffing, "she thought she had the rank to pull that little stunt? Well I'll be telling that little floozy that my boys are mine. All mine. And she thinks she's going to be taking those charts, making those rounds. Susie has another thing coming!"

The two nurses rounded the corner, and they almost bumped into him. Ashamed to have been caught eavesdropping under most circumstances, Caspian only quirked a brow at duo. Caitlin Kerry gave him a hard look, but he smiled instead, showing off his perfect pearly teeth in his dark skin. What did she think he'd do with the information about her little vendettas? Other than fake a bit of sympathy about the fact that not everything went her way? So, he'd been caught – it didn't mean anything at all.

Waving his hand graciously while giving his customary small bow, "A pleasant day to you ladies." Walking off, he tossed over his shoulder, "And be sure to give whoever is supposed to be a floozy my room number. I could go for a little bit of feminine company."

A scandalized gasp, and a brief hiss were all the response he got. He didn't care, he really didn't care anymore. Smiling for real for the first time in forever, now that that realization had hit him, Caspian went to his dark little porch to celebrate that piece of news. Here he had been telling himself that he didn't care, and now he finally didn't! Not one whit, not about what the nurses could do to him, what the esteemed Dr. Carter would do or what the orderlies could do. In fact – they couldn't touch him, not deep down, not where the memories were.

This time here meant nothing, nothing at all. He could say what he wanted when he wanted, shock whoever he pleased – Rolling hips caught his eye. Turning his head, Caspian tracked the motion, forgetting his forced mirth. Sure that the nurse walking out on the path with a soldier leaning on her arm as he used a cane to limp about was the same woman who had helped him with Seymour, Caspian couldn't stop his traitorous gaze. She was tiny, and from behind she was built like any of the nurses here – somewhere between enticing and muscular. There the similarities ended.

She was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Leaning on the rail, enraptured with each step she took, Caspian tried to identify why she seemed so out of place. Each step was measured, just like any other woman here. And her uniform was that annoyingly neat and perfect glaring eyesore that all the nurses wore. Sometimes he wanted to rip the uniforms off their bodies, to see if beneath that white cloth their bodies were any other colour as well. Not that he ever said that sort of thing, not even in his sessions with Dr. Anderson. Down to the sensible support stockings she wore, the woman was like all the others. Yet she wasn't, and now he was going mad trying to figure out what it was that drew his eye so much.

As they moved around the garden, Caspian caught more glimpses of the unnamed nurse. But it was so far away, he couldn't make out her face. Then the pair moved closer in their circuit, and Caspian's heart started to pound. She wasn't overly beautiful, nor was she lovely. Something had scrubbed sweetness and innocence from her face, and where once she would have been the most breathtaking beauty to grace anyone's presence, now this woman was something else entirely. Despite that she was still pretty, not in the hardened perfection of Nurse Kerry, or in the soft way that Nurse Lewis was. It was just in her own way.

All it took was a glance to the side and she spied him. Caspian knew when he was seen, and his first instinct was to hop over the waist high rail and go to her, ask her name. The other told him to go. To leave and forget all of this foolishness. Some choices weren't worth making. So he made none, standing his ground holding her gaze until she looked away from him.


Dressed for bed, Caspian in his brown robe over his pajamas waited, his back braced against the headboard of his bed. Nurse Kerry would be bringing his pills by shortly and to make sure he was ready for lights off. His pen drifted over the creamy beige of his journal, doodling aimlessly keeping himself occupied for the duration. A flower began to form, with nine outer petals, seven inner and a set of thirteen very small ones comprising the innermost bud. It was a frequent motif in his drawings, random shapes that ended in sharp points then would twine out into winding round flares. All with that flower in the center of the nest of thorns.

Sighing, Caspian lifted his pen from the paper, unwilling to waste yet another page on such trivial contents. He was supposed to write his thoughts down, all of them, for Dr. Anderson's perusal, looking for clues as to how they could trigger his memories. It was unfortunate that Caspian didn't believe in the good doctor's ideas or trust them, so all that he wrote was edited. Sterilized and made appropriate for the psychotherapist's judgment.

Knocking on his door, then it swung open, "It's time for your pills."

It wasn't Nurse Kerry's voice uttering those words at all, and allowing his eyes to be torn from the page of his journal Caspian's vision pinpointed. The Woman as he had started thinking of her stood framed by his doorway, a tray in her hands. Her eyes were the strangest blue he'd ever seen, somewhere between dark sapphire and silver. No perfectly ruby lips or any cosmetics of any sort had been smeared onto her skin. And he still couldn't figure out what was so different about the Woman, because not even the absence of cosmetics could give her that oddness. She was Other, but of what sort Caspian would think about later.

"Hello," greeting her as he greeted few.

Surprise flashed in her eyes, "Hello. Are you ready to take your medicine?"

No he most certainly wasn't, and he was going to spit them out as soon as she was out of the room.

Nodding, "Of course, Nurse….?"

"Susie Fisher," gracing him with a small smile.

That didn't feel right – her name. It felt like a lie. But he didn't let that show, he rarely let anything show. So, he rose slowly, putting his journal aside, next to his brass alarm clock, making sure to make no rapid movements. He didn't want to startle her or make her call for an orderly.

"Well Nurse Fisher," taking the two cups from the tray, "I have a bit of advice. Watch out for Nurse Kerry. She does not handle change very well at all. There are times when I think perhaps it is she who should be taking these," gesturing with the paper cup with three pills in it, "and not I."

"What do you mean?"

Tossing the contents of the cup back, but tucking the pills into the side of his cheek, he made an audible swallowing sound. And pulled a face at the taste like he always did.

"You're supposed to drink water with that," chiding him.

Sipping the water, "Well yes. I find it is easier to just get it over with. As for Nurse Kerry – she does not like new things. Change only raises her ire until she either gets used to it, or things return to the way they were before." Placing his glass of water on the tray, "So be cautious."

She turned to leave, then paused, "Why do they call you 'Ten'?"

"I have no surname but the numeral 'X'," shrugging. Folding back his covers, not looking at her, "But surnames mean nothing at all, they can be so easily changed, is this not true?"


The straps bit into his wrists, ankles, legs, chest and forehead. Caspian wanted to fight. He probably needed to, who knew what Dr. Anderson's contraption would do to him? A needle slipped into his vein and something was shoved into his mouth tasting of rubber and leather. But he knew no more until he dreamed.

"What do you mean she will not be coming?" he gaped at the trio.

The dark haired lad sighed, "She forgot."

"Forgot? How…" shaking his head, disbelieving, "how could she forget?" Waving his hands about, "There was so much she did! So much that she was! She should be here, should be amongst us. Why did you abandon her to forgetfulness? How could you do such a thing?"

"Look," he was blond, blue eyed, "she's our sister. How do you think we feel about her not being here? She lost her way, and there was nothing we could do! We tried Caspian."

Snarling, hand slicing through the air emphatically, "It was a failure on your part. And now she is the one to suffer? From your damnable pride? Always with your pride, you are nothing more than a spoilt boy and never were anything more."

"She's our sister, and you're standing there lecturing us? Who are you Caspian to question what we did? Who are you to judge?" snapping, the blonds' blue eyes narrowed. "You weren't there! You didn't have to deal with –"

Slamming to wakefulness from the dream, Caspian was drenched in sweat. In his arm a small hose was installed, the needle digging and wiggling where it was taped down to his skin. Panting, Caspian's eyes followed the thin tube to the glass bottle that hung upside down. He had been dreaming, but it was more intense, more real – and he remembered each word said. Almost. But it was dissipating like smoke. And he wasn't in his room, his journal wasn't at hand, he was in the monitoring ward strapped down and unable to move more than his head.

Croaking, "Nurse."

No answer.

"Nurse," mustering strength, working saliva into his parched mouth.

Rapid steps fell, and there was a cup held to his lips, water dribbling into his mouth. Swallowing it greedily, Caspian drained the glass. Fingers ran through his hair, smoothing it down, soft murmurings filling his ears. Caspian wanted to hang onto the images, to the words that he had dreamed. But he couldn't – all of it fled on wings of the nebulous.

Eyes focusing, he saw Nurse Fisher, "Thank you."

"You're welcome Ten," a brief smile. "Is there anything else you need?"

"To be unstrapped," jerking at his bonds with one arm, "and pen and paper if at all possible."

Shaking her head, "I can't do that. I could loosen the straps some, but Dr. Anderson left express orders for you to remain restrained."

He growled in irritation, closed his eyes, thumping his head on his pillow several times, "It is all fleeing. I need to write it down before it is all gone."

"Before what is all gone?"

"Memories or a dream, I do not know…"