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The March Records

March 5th, [XXXX] 

Twelfth entry. I heard back. In my personal email I received a new message from who I assumed must be the person who commented on my thread. They said that they preferred to be anonymous, but that they had attached pictures I were to look at urgently. This person had managed to decode the brain activity into an image.  

The image was grainy, no doubt, but I could make out definite shapes. There were trees, and grass, and rushing water, and what looked like a swirling hurricane up above. Whatever was happening, Ms. [XXXXX] seemed to be in danger.  

I rushed to send an email back to this person asking if they could meet in person. I needed more information.  

March 13th, [XXXX]

Off the record entry. This is my personal journal. Today I went to the park where the accident happened.

It was a chilly day, especially for March. Not particularly conducive to investigation, but I needed to know. Needed to know just what had happened to her to put her in that coma. Maybe that was the key.

I walked up to hill to the tree that the jogger had found her at. The rock had been removed, no doubt. I don't believe it was the head trauma anyway.

I started searching around the spot, seeing if there was anything there that could help. Anything at all. It was a perfectly normal tree, with perfectly normal soil around it. Nothing there.

I looked up at the cityscape in the distance. I couldn't help but wonder how she felt right before it happened. Couldn't help but wonder what she was doing here. What this spot meant to her. 

My foot sank into the ground. I had missed a spot, the soil was weak here. I got down on hands and knees and dug into the earth. It wasn't long before I hit something synthetic.

I pulled it out. A bottle. Zolpidem tartrate. Sleeping medication. Was this the cause?

The bottle was unlabeled. In fact the identifying sticker belonging to the owner had been ripped off. Not any conclusive evidence. It could have been buried even after she was in her accident. The bottle wasn't even open anyway. 

I left that park with answers to questions I didn't know I had, but no answers to the ones I did. As a doctor, and as a man who has come to care for the well-being of this patient, I cannot rule out the possibility of suicidal ideation. Even if the bottle was not hers. Make a note to prescribe psych evaulation following her recovery from the coma.


Assuming she ever does. 


March 22nd, [XXXX] 

Thirteenth entry. Mr. Davis died today. Another doctor was his primary care-taker, but I still felt the impact. I had seen so many of his family walk through, but I was so focused on Ms. [XXXXX] that I didn’t notice how dire his situation was. 


I’m supposed to be protecting life, I’m supposed to be healing. What am I even going to do with the information that Ms. [XXXXX]’s decoded brain activity will give me? Not like it will help with anything. Not like I can do anything to help with whatever she’s going through. I’m powerless ultimately. Whatever she is going through, she is the only one who can make herself better.  

I never received a response from the person who sent me the images. I don’t know what happened. I shouldn’t have sent them out in the first place. My job is most definitely in jeopardy because of that. I can't show these to anyone. No would believe me anyway. I can only hope these records can help justify or elucidate the actions I’ve taken in jeopardizing my patient's confidentiality. If you ever read this [XXXXXXXX], know that I am sorry.

I cannot stop thinking about her. About this place she is in. The storm in those images seems to crackle off the pages, burning itself into my mind. I do not know what it means.

My bosses mentioned they are giving Ms. [XXXXX] Until the end of April, and then they are moving her to a more long-term facility. 

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