The Doctor's office was quite a walk away. The corridors seem to stretch endlessly, their surfaces subtly shifting colors with the changing daylight from the windows. Each step feels both familiar and foreign, like walking through a dream of a place I should know.
"They really renovated this place," I mutter, watching the lighting panels adjust their warmth as clouds pass outside. "Last time, evaluations were just next door to the common room."
We pass by various patients and staff members. Everyone looks... different. Not just well-dressed, but their clothes seem to move differently, adapting to their bodies in a way I've never seen before. Even the obviously troubled patients have this ethereal quality to them. A young man arguing with himself wears what looks like liquid silver, his jacket rippling with each agitated gesture.
"This way, if you will," Dr. Knapphead prompts, his hand passing through a shimmer in the air. The door slides open without a sound.
The office hits me with a wave of cognitive dissonance. Where I expect to see the usual cluttered desk with a bulky monitor, there's just... space. A glass panel floats in mid-air, images flowing across its surface like water. The desk itself seems alive, its surface occasionally rippling with subtle information patterns.
"Damn," I whisper, my tech enthusiasm momentarily overwhelming my unease. "That's some setup. Never seen anything like it. What's the display tech? Has to be beyond OLED, right?"
Dr. Knapphead glances at the floating screen, then back to me with a carefully measured look. "It's quite standard now, actually. Neural-responsive interfaces are the norm in most institutions." His fingers dance through the air, text and images responding to his movements like leaves in a digital wind.
"Neural... what?" I feel my stomach tighten. Something is very wrong here.
"I'm just accessing your file," he says softly, his eyes tracking invisible data streams. "Would you like some water?
"I'm fine," I respond automatically, watching as he manipulates information with the casual ease of someone who's done this thousands of times. There's no keyboard, no mouse – just his hands conducting an orchestra of data in the air.
Suddenly, an image materializes on the desk surface in front of me, seeming to rise from within the material itself. The text glows with a soft blue light, each letter perfectly crisp, as if etched into reality itself.
"Doc..." I feel my throat constricting, "I don't... This isn't..." The implications start crashing into my consciousness like waves against a crumbling shore.
"Yes, Robert. You've been here longer than you realize." His voice carries the weight of years I can't remember. "Not an eternity, but..."
"No," I interrupt, my voice sharp with denial. "Just a few weeks. I remember checking in. It was autumn. The leaves were still falling."
"They were," he confirms, turning fully towards me. The light from the window seems to bend around him, creating an almost halo-like effect. "They were falling in 2024."
Outside the window, a young woman walks past, her fingers dancing through invisible screens, manipulating the augmented world that's apparently become normal. Her movements are too precise, too practiced to be delusions. She's interfacing with something I can't see, something that belongs to this time, not mine. The sun shining above here is pleasantly dimmed, even though the sky is clear blue, like a round piece of sunglass is held right in front of the sun. I look down at the table at my personal file, seemingly imprinted into the wood.
PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION RECORD
Facility: Munthe Memorial Psychiatric Center
Patient ID: 002547-7878
PATIENT INFORMATION
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Name: Robert Styner
DOB: 2000/07/12
Admission Date: November 12, 2024
Current Date: November 5, 2029
PRIMARY DIAGNOSIS
Persistent Delusional Disorder (F22)
Treatment-Resistant Psychosis
Secondary: Temporal Displacement Syndrome
TREATMENT HISTORY
2024-2025: Standard antipsychotic protocol (failed)
2025-2026: Enhanced neurological intervention
2026-2029: Experimental cognitive restructuring program
CURRENT STATUS
Patient demonstrates first sustained period of lucidity since admission. Shows significant temporal disorientation, believing only weeks have passed since admission. Cognitive functions appear intact, though temporal markers are severely disrupted.
NOTABLE OBSERVATIONS
Patient maintained consistent technological expertise despite condition
Recurring delusions centered around being "stuck in a time loop"
Strong fixation on religious/mystical interpretations of reality
Preservation of core personality traits and technical knowledge
CURRENT MEDICATION
Neurostat™ 15mg daily
Tempoxetine™ 300mg twice daily
[REDACTED] trial compound X-775
CLEARANCE STATUS
Level 3 Supervised Release Candidate
Pending final evaluation
Dr. Marten Knapphead
Chief Psychiatrist
Neural Integration Division
I lean forward, studying the medication list that seems to float just beneath the desk's surface. "Neurostat? Tempoxetine?" The names feel alien on my tongue. "And what's this compound X-775?" My finger passes through the holographic text as I try to point at it, sending ripples across the display.
Dr. Knapphead's expression shifts subtly. "They're part of the new generation of neuroplasticity enhancers. The trial compound..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "it's helping your brain reconstruct temporal markers. Think of it as rebuilding bridges between memories."
My eyes keep returning to that date. 2029. Each time I look at it, my stomach drops a little further. Five years. Eighteen hundred days, give or take. I run my hand through my hair, feeling the unfamiliar texture – it's thinner than I remember.
"Well," I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to me, "I guess this gap in my resume is going to need one hell of an explanation." The joke falls flat, echoing in the pristine office.
The doctor's holographic displays shift, showing what looks like a complex neural network diagram. "You won't be facing this alone, Robert. Level 3 Supervised Release means you'll have support systems in place. We've made remarkable progress with your temporal coherence in recent weeks." He gestures, and the display shows a rising trend line. "See these patterns? Your brain is finally accepting linear time progression again."
"That's... good?" I manage, trying to focus on the technical details rather than the implications. "I just want to go home."
"About that..." He waves away the neural displays. "Is there anyone you'd like us to contact?"
The question seems simple enough, but something in his tone makes my chest tighten. "Diana, of course. My wife should be the first to know."
The change in the doctor's demeanor is immediate and profound. The ambient lighting in the room seems to dim slightly, matching his expression. He takes a breath, and I can see him shifting into what I've come to think of as his 'careful news' posture.
"Robert," he begins, each word measured, "Diana has made her position quite clear. The circumstances of your admission... they were complicated. She's explicitly requested to be removed from your contact list."
The words hit me like physical blows. "What circumstances?" My voice rises sharply, and I notice the room's environmental systems responding, subtle changes in air flow and lighting designed to promote calm. It only makes me angrier. "What aren't you telling me about my wife?"
"The events leading to your admission were... intense," he replies, maintaining his composed demeanor. "Diana's wishes have to be respected, and professionally, I cannot-"
"Can't be trusted with my own history, is that it?" The words come out as a snarl. The desk display flickers, responding to my emotional state. "You want me to just accept that my wife is gone? Without even knowing why she-"
I stop myself, suddenly aware of my white-knuckled grip on the chair's armrests. The material beneath my fingers is automatically adjusting its texture, becoming softer, more soothing. I force myself to release it, watching as it returns to its original state.
"I... I apologize," I manage, the anger draining away as quickly as it came, leaving exhaustion in its wake. "This temper... it's probably part of why I'm here, isn't it? And you have your protocols. I understand that. Professionally speaking."
Dr. Knapphead nods, relief evident in his features. "Emotional regulation is still a work in progress, but that was well handled, Robert. You caught yourself." He gestures, and the displays shift to a calmer configuration. "We'll work through this transition together. You have priority status here – access to our support systems whenever you need them."
"Yeah..." I slump slightly in my chair, feeling the subtle adjustments as it conforms to support my posture.
"Your sister Emily," he offers, his tone brightening slightly. "She's been asking about you. Would you like me to contact her?"
"Emily?" I grasp at this lifeline. "Yes, please. Though I hope she has a car by now. Everything seems so... different now."
The doctor's smile returns, genuine this time. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," he says, making a final gesture that sends cascading data streams across his displays. "Transportation has... evolved quite a bit since 2024."