Fleischer slowly blinked his eyes. It was hard to force them open – to wake from his drugged sleep. He couldn't count the number of times he'd been dragged to the operating room in the last several weeks. He didn't want to, either.
His days had been set into a routine that never seemed to change. Wake up, exercise, take a shower, eat breakfast, and brush his teeth. The days were starting to blend together, and he was utterly helpless to stop them. Even his meals were starting to lose variety – raw or barely-cooked meat. Fleischer had surrendered his meals to the part of his brain that craved the way they were being served.
Fleischer had received a blank journal from Doctor Davis a few weeks ago, to 'write his thoughts in.' It was entirely possible that it was the younger doctor's only solace. Writing and sketching on its pages was a reminder that he could still think, and had served as a useful, if fleeting distraction from th