Chapter 24 -- Midazolam

 

Chapter 24

Midazolam

Tom lightly swirled the glass of orange juice in his hand and moved into another section of the house. When he stepped through a wide doorway, the interior looked almost like a professional gym. Along the walls were shelves lined with gleaming trophies, neatly arranged medals, and framed photographs. Most of the photos documented Tom’s achievements in rowing—racing shells, finish lines, a young Tom standing on podiums. Many of the photographs had been taken together with Michael.

Passing through these memories, Tom stepped onto the treadmill. He took one last sip from the glass, set it down on the small table beside the machine, and started it. For several minutes he walked at a calm pace, his breathing gradually settling into a steady rhythm.

Then he stopped the treadmill and moved toward the rowing ergometer at the other end of the room. He sat down, secured his feet, and gripped the handles. With the first pull, the muscles stretching from his shoulders down to his lower back tensed reflexively. It didn’t take long for him to find his rhythm; the powerful back-and-forth motion of his body filled the quiet room.

As Tom rowed, both his mind and muscles slowly warmed up, yet somewhere deep inside, that small, unexplainable unease continued to stir.

After the intense workout, the echoes of his footsteps in the gym gradually faded as he headed to the bathroom. Sweat-covered, his breathing slightly fast, he stepped inside. When the cool marble floor touched the soles of his feet, he felt a brief shiver. He removed his workout shirt and shorts and set them aside.

He stood in front of the large mirror above the sink. He squeezed shaving foam into his palms and slowly spread it across his cheeks. The movement of his fingers followed a familiar rhythm—not too fast, not too slow—almost soothing.

He reached for the razor. Just as he was about to draw the first line down his cheek, something caught the corner of his eye. A small bruise on the inside of his arm. His brows furrowed. He turned his arm, lifting it slightly so the light would hit it better. The bruise looked like a needle mark.

But when had it happened?

Tom’s breath caught for a moment.

How had it happened?

When?

A fall?

A blow?

And then—like a flash of lightning—an image appeared before his eyes.

Darkness.

A sound.

Noise.

Fear…

And just as suddenly, the image slipped away and vanished.

Like a subconscious memory briefly surfacing, only to retreat again.

As Tom stared at his reflection, the line between his brows deepened. He touched the mark on his arm, probing it lightly with his fingertips. There was a faint tenderness. But he couldn’t remember when or how it had happened.

He stood there in front of the mirror, foam on his face, razor in hand.

Something was missing.

But what?

His thoughts grew heavy and quiet. Then he noticed another mark, this one near his neck. He didn’t remember that one either. But it was clearly old—the wound had healed, leaving only a faint trace.

Tom put on his pressed shirt and descended the stairs with heavy steps, his tie still undone. As he crossed the living room, he pulled back his sleeve with his fingers, still thinking about the small bruise he couldn’t make sense of.

In the kitchen, George was standing by the counter. Hearing Tom approach, he lifted his head and asked, his expression natural and non-metallic:

“Tom. Are you ready?”

Tom stepped closer, extended his arm, and pointed.

“George… there’s a mark here. Like a bruise. Do you remember anything about this?”

George reached for Tom’s arm and examined it carefully. His sensors emitted a faint hum, followed by a brief pause that signaled processing. Then he replied with gentle seriousness:

“Please allow me. I need to check your blood again.”

Tom extended his hand. George touched the tip of his finger with a tiny needle; with an almost imperceptible sting, he drew a drop of blood. The small red droplet was analyzed for several seconds on the transparent panel in George’s palm.

George’s eyes drifted briefly into empty space as he processed the data.

Then he looked up.

“Your blood values are fine, Tom. However, there are Midazolam metabolites present. And not at a standard dosage… An extended-effect protocol was applied. This type of sedation can suppress memories from even the past few weeks. Would you like me to make a doctor’s appointment for you, Tom?”

After a brief pause, he added:

“But this mark… I’m seeing it for the first time as well.”

Tom’s brows furrowed again.

“For the first time?”

George continued, a slight uncertainty entering his voice:

“When you returned home a few days ago, you were extremely tired. Maybe you had an accident? Did you hit something? Did you fall?”

Tom slowly nodded, trying to process what he was hearing.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t remember anything. But there’s no need for a doctor. I’m fine.”

George remained standing there, still analyzing Tom’s face with careful attention—as if he sensed not just a medical anomaly, but a deeper inconsistency.