Dr.West scribbles – he doesn’t nod, doesn’t hum nor speak – and Rebecca, strangely enough, gets it. Once upon a time, she would be the same about the stars and the Universe. Had life been good to her instead of abandoning her, Becky would be an astrophysicist by now.
The other man, Dan, is more human in his assessment: asks questions in a softer manner. ...Did you say you stabbed through your hand with a pen? She shrugs and nods. Because her story, in reality, sounds like a schizophrenic episode without it – she knows, realizes it. When outside the mall, she doesn’t appear so different from the heart beating people. She doesn’t find the time to respond verbally as Dr.West interrupts: By substantial, what do you mean? I would like to begin recording and categorizing data points to see if I can identify a rate of regeneration and type of regeneration as it relates to the source of the injury.
“I mm-mean... If the wound is bigger, it’ll take longer...? Like... if I lose a limb, it’ll regrow but it’ll take time and it hurts... But I’ve been shot in the head and I woke up seconds later.” With a toothache headache and blood and grey in her hair.
Tell me, does this apply to other medical phenomena as well?
“Uh... like....?” ...illnesses “Oh...” Did you have any chronic conditions that have changed since this happened? Or old injuries that have repaired themselves? Can you still get sick- “I don't... think so?I haven’t been ill since. Nn-not even a scratchy throat. I can get cold or hot, but it doesn’t really seem to muh-hatter... ”
And, if you don't mind...have you always had that stutter, or is that a more recent development as well?
Rebecca pinches her lips, leaning back in her chair. Odd question... But Dan seems genuinely uncertain when asking, like he knows this could be a difficult boundary to get passed. She promised to be truthful to help her case, however, so she is: “Sort of... when I was a kid I had the stutter. It was fixed by the time I started high school... but it resurfaced... Um, just before I uh – died the first time.” Her complexion, already rather pale, turns an odd ashen color: “I don’t remember mm-much of that time... Just when I first woke up in the mm-mall. Someone... really hurt me.” The trauma of it had broken the living woman. Left her in reconstructed, but all wrong: body and mind.... Her eyes fall back to the tools on the table. Teeth bite into her bottom lip, the glock staring back like a bad omen. “You’re... gonna use that...?” She attempts. Already, she knows the answer.
