The transition back into the waking world was instantaneous.

  Like a physical impact, his senses came rushing back. It would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t already been lying down.

  Every sense had a sharp, abrasive quality. The light filtering through the window seemed to stab into his eyes, and the sound of the ticking clock on the wall sounded like axe strikes on marble.

  He swung himself into a sitting position and tried to recall what had happened.

  The memory of his phone smashing on the ground — and the plants — nightmares coming to life as he lost hold of consciousness, flashed into his mind.

  He gazed around, dumbfounded at his surroundings. He was seated on a red couch in an unknown living room.

  Against the wall in front of him, there was a TV cabinet with an old-style, box-shaped television on it. At the centre of the room sat a small coffee table complete with magazines and a TV guide.

  He barely had time to wonder before Potrevski walked in carrying a dinner tray, and the memories of where he was and what he had come to do clicked into place.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” Potrevski said as he smiled and placed the tray on top of the TV cabinet.

  “Yes,” said Patrick, while trying to rise from the couch and stand.

  Potrevski walked over and gently pushed him back down before he could fully rise.

  “Sit, sit. You will still be weak from your fall.”

  His words were true enough. Patrick felt his head spinning from the effort of trying to stand.

  Clutching his head in his hands, he tried to push back the dizziness.

  “How did I get here?” he asked.

  “You must have passed out. I was in the kitchen when I heard a horrible scream coming from outside. When I came to investigate, there you were, collapsed on my pathway.”

  “But how did you get me inside?”

  Potrevski took a glass of water from the tray, walked over to the couch, and handed it to Patrick.

  “It was difficult, but I managed to carry you inside and lay you out on the sofa.”

  Patrick lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip.

  “Thank you. The sun must have gotten to me more than I thought.” It was the only excuse he was willing to give.

  “Quite possibly. The heat has been persistent all throughout this awakening. I am still not used to it.”

  As disoriented as he was, the sentence still put Patrick on immediate high alert. Awakening?

  Potrevski lowered himself into the armchair across from Patrick.

  “But you look much better now.”

  “Yes, I feel much better, thank you.” He didn’t feel better. He took another sip.

  For a while, neither man said anything. Potrevski simply sat in the opposite chair and continued smiling at Patrick, as though he were waiting for something.

  Silence lay heavy in the room.

  Patrick broke first. “Unfortunately, I have some bad news.” He’d been dreading this discussion, and now that it was here, it felt strange. Something was wrong, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

  “The reason I came to see you today is that I have some bad news about the piece you gave us to value.”

  Potrevski waved him off.

  “Yes, I know. It’s gone.”

  Patrick stopped, confused. “Pardon?”

  “The cross, it’s gone, it’s not important.”

  “What?! How… how did you know that? Did the police call you?”

  “No.” The answer was brief and final.

  “Then how did you know that it was stolen?”

  “I don’t think you are ready to accept the answer to that question, so for now it is enough to say I know what I know,” the old man replied.

  The tone of his reply was sane, but the words together made no sense, and Patrick couldn’t accept the answer.

  “Did the museum call you and let you know what had happened?”

  “So stubborn.”

  Mr Potrevski rose from his seat and walked back over to the tray sitting on the TV cabinet.

  “I don’t blame you. I truly wish I could help, but things are what they are. You should know that the Cross is irrelevant. If you choose to continue, I’m sure it will show up again before all this is through; it seems to be a recurring motif. But for now, you and I have more important things to discuss.”

  “The cross is worth nearly three million dollars. The police are looking into it; I’m sure they’ll be contacting you soon for more information.”

  Patrick strained to see what it was that Potrevski was doing with the contents of the tray, but he couldn’t see past the man’s back.

  “I am only just beginning to coalesce, but, unfortunately for me, one of the first things I took in was the truth. The truth — and the question. And the truth is lonely. All you see around you is worthless, Mr Wilson. I don’t just mean things like that cross. I mean, the very stuff of life is worthless. The rising and setting of the sun, the wind in the trees, a mother’s love for her child, a lover’s sweet embrace, friendship, compassion — all of it is worthless. Nothing more than an illusion.”

  Patrick rose slowly to his feet, his head swimming a little with the effort, but despite the dizziness, he somehow managed to keep his balance.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know how you knew what happened at the museum.” …yes, you do… He thought for a moment that it was Potrevski who had spoken, but the words weren’t spoken; they were a thought.

  He pushed it aside and continued, “But I can assure you that the police are doing their best. And if you know anything about the people who stole it, you should tell me now. I may be able to help and keep you out of trouble.”

  Potrevski lifted his head and looked over his shoulder at Patrick with a small, patient smile.

  “You really aren’t listening to me, are you? The things we feel in our hearts, the things we believe others feel in return. Things like love and compassion, hatred, anger, and fear. They’re not real. They don’t exist. It’s all just an illusion.”

  Patrick had no response.

  “There are still many pieces of the truth that are scattered,” continued Potrevski. “I only know the larger truth. I have just a single piece; for all I know, the question has been answered. Maybe that’s what this is all about, maybe I hold the truth and the question, and you hold the answer. You’re different. I don’t know why, but you’re more real. I feel like I could stand alone in a dark room, and no matter where you are in the world, I could raise my hand and point to you. I wonder if you hold the answer? Because if you do, I need it. Because the truth is lonely, Patrick.” It was the first time that Potrevski had used his first name. It felt personal, intimate. “The truth is lonely, but the question… the question fills me with rage.”

  He turned to face Patrick.

  “And now we come to the point of our discussion, where I want to become a part of you, Patrick. I want us to be one.”

  Patrick was trying to make sense of the words when he saw the scalpel in Potrevski’s hand.

  He raised his hands defensively, palms forward.

  “Put the knife down. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m sure we can talk about this.”

  Potrevski held up the blade, as if it were a question. “This?” he asked. “This isn’t for you.”

  As though demonstrating his sincerity, he lifted the scalpel to his own face and sank the blade deep into the flesh.

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  His eyes never left Patrick’s as he dragged the blade down through his cheek and didn't stop until a gash opened up in the side of his face that stretched from just beneath his right eye to the curve of his jaw.

  Blood flowed down his face and neck as though from a faucet. His eyes never wavered.

  He dropped the scalpel on the carpet and held up his empty hands as though to reassure Patrick that he was, in fact, harmless.

  “See, I have no intention of harming you.”

  Seemingly satisfied that the message had been received, he resumed his progress across the room, each step bringing him closer to where Patrick had now backed himself against the wall.

  Patrick reached onto the table beside the couch, grabbed a lamp, and swung it as Potrevski came within range. With a casual swipe, Potrevski slapped the lamp out of Patrick’s hand.

  The man's reflexes left Patrick in shock; it felt like someone slapping a toy out of a child's hand. Potrevski paused long enough for Patrick to see the look of disappointment crossing his bloodied face, then, with unexpected strength, he grabbed hold of Patrick’s shoulders and slammed him into the wall.

  The plaster cracked beneath him, and he felt the air being pushed out of his lungs. Winded, his legs began to buckle. But before he could fall, Potrevski grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him up.

  Patrick tried to push himself away, but with a firm yet gentle intensity, he was pulled toward the mangled flesh hanging from the madman’s face.

  The expression on the undamaged half of Potrevski’s mangled face was gentle and kind.

  From this close, Patrick could see the wound went right through to the inside of his mouth.

  "Just a taste for now, we'll take it slow." Potrevski spat into Patrick’s face, covering him with blood.

  Patrick turned his head, blinking the blood away. He tried to struggle against the grip, but the hands clamped around his shoulders felt like a pair of vices closing around him.

  “Such a clumsy metaphor, the consumption of another's flesh as a mechanism for unification. But we work with the tools that we have at hand."

  Blood dripped from Potrevski’s mouth in long, drooling strands. Each word caused a spray of it to fly out and splatter against Patrick’s face.

  "Time to speed things up a little."

  Potrevski lifted his free hand to the gash in his face and, without a moment’s hesitation, buried his fingers into the wound. Patrick could see the tips of his fingers poking through to the inside of his mouth, wiggling around between his teeth as he forced his hand deeper.

  With three fingers buried up to the last knuckle, he made a fist and pulled his hand forward.

  Flesh tore, and tendons snapped. Blood cascaded down his face, but he continued unrelenting until the entire right cheek ripped free.

  When the last sinews of meat had snapped, most of his top and bottom lip and a section of his nose had been torn away.

  He waved the chunk of flesh in front of Patrick’s face, dangling it from his fingers.

  On the right side of his face, both rows of his teeth were left exposed in a horrifying smile.

  A fresh spurt of blood gushed out over both men as he spoke.

  “Tine to eat, 'atrick.”

  Potrevski shoved the chunk of meat forward and tried to jam it into Patrick’s mouth. He thrashed, and the warm meat slipped back and forth across his mouth as he twisted his head from side to side.

  “Oh shto' 'eing so di-icult.”

  He spoke as though his words were a reasonable suggestion and that it was Patrick’s resistance that was madness.

  “All 'inds contain a little 'adness."

  His bloodied teeth moved up and down with each word. The missing portions of his lips distorted his speech, but Patrick understood every word.

  “Without madness, there can be no free will. Without it, they'll trundle along like the predictable little automatons, never deviating from their paths. Madness is part of the Answer.”

  He pulled the torn-off cheek away from Patrick’s lips and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

  “You can fight me now if you really want. But no matter what you do, the end is inevitable. Better to just end it now.”

  He held up the meat again for Patrick to see, not forcing this time, just offering.

  “Eat it now, and maybe together, we will know.”

  Potrevski pushed the meat back into his face harder this time. Patrick held his lips tight, but on the tip of his tongue, he could taste the blood seeping in.

  The blood spread across his tongue with a warm, coppery tingle. He could feel it spreading through him, infecting him. Something in the blood was trying to force its way into him — not through his body, but through his mind.

  He recognised the sensation. It was just as Potrevski promised. He could feel madness infecting him; beyond the edges of his thoughts, he felt the truth.

  Potrevski leaned in closer and licked the back of his own hand.

  He brought that terrible grin to Patrick’s ear again and, like a lover, whispered to him.

  “You can’t stop it. It’s all going back.”

  At these words, something cracked inside Patrick.

  He felt himself beginning to tear apart at the soul. He felt, he felt, he felt—

  No! stop.

  I felt waves of disorientation rippling through me. I didn't want the truth; I knew I had to fight with all the strength I could summon. And The Question? Whatever it was, I was certain I didn't have the answer. Yet I was forced to engage with this insanity, all I had to do was let a single drop of the metaphor of blood flow down my thoat and it would all end. No! I summoned all the strength I could and pushed back—

  The world lurched. For a moment, Patrick felt as though he had been somewhere else — someone else.

  Somewhere inside him, he felt an unstoppable scream of rage and defiance.

  The grip that held him faltered. The unnatural strength in those hands was gone. "It's mine now." The thought was not his own, but he had no time to dwell on it.

  He swatted Potrevski’s hands aside with ease. He suddenly found himself fighting an old man. Potrevski tried in vain to get hold of him once more.

  With a single strike to the chest, Patrick lifted the old man off his feet and flung him halfway across the room.

  He landed with a solid thud on his back.

  It should have been enough to end it. But some strength still remained in the old man. In a fluid movement, he flipped over onto his hands and knees and tensed, like an animal ready to leap across the room.

  When he sprang from his crouched position, it wasn't at Patrick; it was toward the scapel that had fallen to the floor.

  Patrick tried to beat him to it, but Potrevski reached it faster. Patrick grabbed the man's wrist and tried to shake it from his hand.

  The strength that had drained away a moment ago had come back, and Potrevski was again an unnatural force. But this time, Patrick was equal to it. The two blood-soaked men kicked and punched at each other as they rolled around on the ground, struggling for possession of the weapon.

  Patrick managed to roll on top and drive his forehead down into Potrevski’s face. The hideous grin took on an even more terrifying aspect with shattered teeth.

  Potrevski groaned and momentarily went limp. Patrick seized his chance and slammed the hand holding the scalpel hard onto the floor, sending it flying into the air.

  A distant sound penetrated Patrick’s concentration — the sound of someone banging loudly on the front door, followed by a muffled voice.

  “Hello! Is anyone there? This is the police!”

  Relief surged in Patrick’s chest.

  “Help in here!” he cried out.

  On the floor, both men reached for the scalpel once more. It was Patrick who was faster this time, and as the sound of the door being smashed in reached them, he snatched up the scalpel and held it to Potrevski’s throat.

  “Hold still, you old fucker. It’s over.”

  At the sound of footsteps behind him, Patrick looked up to see two policemen entering the room.

  “Drop the knife!”

  In an instant, Patrick saw the situation through their eyes — a thirty-two-year-old man holding a scalpel to the throat of a man in his sixties who was already disfigured beyond recognition.

  It was at that moment that Potrevski grabbed hold of Patrick’s hand and, with his remaining strenth strength, pulled it down into his own throat.

  The scalpel sliced deep, the flesh giving way beneath the blade. Desperately, Patrick tried to unclench his fingers from around the handle, but the old man held his hand in place and dragged the blade across his neck, severing the arteries.

  “No!” screamed Patrick.

  It was too late.

  Long streams of blood erupted from opened arteries.

  Patrick turned to the policemen and saw their hands reaching for their guns.

  “No, wait!” cried Patrick, his free hand held out in a halting gesture.

  As their guns pulled free of their holsters, he finally managed to wrench his hand away from Potrevski’s dying grip and release the blade.

  “Please don’t shoot!”

  Blood covered him from head to toe. He could feel it dripping from his face and chin.

  He had always expected gunfire to be explosive, a loud, deafening roar that would ring in the ears. What came from the barrels of the guns was a flat popping sound — no reverberations, no sense of menace, just a loud pop.

  The first bullet thudded into the carpet next to him.

  He rolled away from where it landed just in time to avoid two more shots that struck where his torso had been.

  He spared a moment to marvel at the fact that he was still alive; at this range, it was almost impossible to miss.

  He scrambled to his feet, a bullet whizzing past him, and sprinted through the archway into the dining room. With each step, he expected one of those insubstantial pops behind him to be followed by searing pain in his back. He could feel the breeze from the bullets as they whizzed around him, one even close enough to ruffle his hair with a gentle puff of wind, but nothing hit him.

  He made it through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  He ran through the kitchen and into the laundry. He took a few steps toward the back door, then stopped.

  He could see the yard through the window — big and empty, no cover to protect him from gunfire. He would make it halfway to the back fence before the cops would reach the back door and start shooting. But they missed, every shot missed. If I run, they'll still miss. The thought was almost ethereal, not quite his own.

  The thought was a death sentence. Luck had brought him this far. To trust in luck again would mean death. Desperate, he searched for another way out, but it was too late. One of the cops burst through the open door of the kitchen and into the laundry.

  Before he had time to aim, Patrick barreled into him. Both men tripped, and as they landed, Patrick heard a loud crack as the man's head hit the tile floor.

  Patrick pushed himself up and hovered above the man for a heartbeat. Looking down, he saw the cop's eyes struggling to focus.

  He pushed himself to his feet, expecting the second uniform to be just an instant behind the first.

  He sprinted back through the archway between the dining room and the lounge.

  The cop kneeling over Potrevski’s dying body looked up in surprise. Before he could react, Patrick had covered the distance between them. He planted his knee into the cop’s face as hard as he could. He felt a solid connection with the man's face. He didn't know if it was enough to knock someone out, but he had no intention of waiting to find out.

  Without slowing, he leapt over both the men sprawled out on the floor. One surely dead, and the other unknown. He made it to the archway on the other side of the room and glanced back.

  For a split second, the room was empty — no dying old man on the floor, no cop clutching a broken nose.

  Just an empty room.

  He shook his head, and the moment passed.

  The policeman still lay on the ground, and Potrevski was still dying in a puddle of his own blood.

  Patrick turned and ran from the house as fast as he could.

  From behind him came the sound of Potrevski’s voice, thick and heavy as he tried to speak around the blood and shredded flesh in his mouth.

  “It’s all going back.”

  Patrick ran down the hall and out the front door, which hung broken in its frame.

  The last thing he heard from inside the house was Potrevski’s taunting shout.

  “You’ll have to face it eventually. It’s part of what you are! It will find you wherever you go!”

  He pulled out his keys and kept running. Within seconds, he was behind the wheel of his car and turning the key in the ignition.

  The engine roared to life. He slammed the car into drive, wheels spinning, he accelerated down the street.

  The sound of metal pinging against the side of the car made him look up at the rearview. The cop he had knocked down near the kitchen was now on the front step of the house, shooting at him as he drove away. Patrick ducked his head down as the front passenger-side window exploded.

  At the intersection, he turned left, not knowing or caring where the road would take him. He turned again and again, winding his way through the suburban streets until he reached the main highway, where he pulled out into steady traffic.

  There was no sign of pursuit.

  He was clear.