The Ghost

23 February 2016, day three of treatment

I feel hollow. The kind of hollow you get in films, where when they walk into a large, empty room, their voices instantly become large, echoing and booming. As for me, my own thoughts are large, echoing and booming, and it's all but driving me insane.
It is this drug, I know it. It is eating me from the inside, leaving me but a shell of the man I used to be. Although I can hardly remember being anything else than this; the drug even takes my memories.
But as much as it is destroying me, it is also what's keeping me alive. It is the only thing that can fight the disease that struck me about a year ago. I need it to survive.
At least, that's what they told me. At times I'm not so sure it's the drug that's keeping me alive. Often it hurts more than when I was still sick. But they say that good remedies are always unpleasant.
And I trust my doctors, John Mangus and Emilya Jones. They have worked very hard to create a drug that can fight my disease, and, as I've been told, without much funding. I owe them my life, that much is sure.

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24 February, fourth day of treatment.

Doctor Mangus came to visit me this morning. He was glad to hear I was feeling much better than before the start of the treatment. It was only a small lie; it would have been more truthful to say I was feeling different rather than better, but at this point I figure that any difference must be an improvement.
After all, it couldn't be any worse than it was before.
While we were talking, dr. Mangus noticed my journal, and with a rather strange look at me, asked me if he could read it. I said yes, and he took it up and read yesterday's entry. He nodded his head thoughtfully, and then looked from the journal to me, and back to the journal again. Then he said, without looking at me:
'I'm curious. How did you write this?'
I was surprised, and a little bit confused; what a strange question.
'The normal way,' I said. 'How else?'
'Hm,' he answered but didn't say anything else, putting down my journal. Then he left, saying that dr Jones would visit me tomorrow, and that I should get plenty of rest in the meantime. I've noticed that doctors say that a lot, even when you're not feeling tired.

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26 February, sixth day of treatment.

Something is changing inside me. Both yesterday and today, I have not felt hungry for even the slightest second. Before, when the nurses brought my food, they were surprised that I could eat at much of it as I did, probably reasoning that I wouldn't want anything because I was sick. Or it was that I could eat by myself, which I hadn't been able to do for almost a year. It was only small proof that the treatment was working, but it was proof.
But now, I'm not hungry anymore. The sight of food even made me nauseous. I did feel thirsty, though and drank more than I've ever drunk before - or at least that's how it felt.
The strange thing, however, is that not eating isn't weakening me. I feel like I don't need food, and never will. The concept is somehow rather freeing; I don't really know why.
Dr. Jones was very pleased with my progress when she came yesterday. She said I looked even better than they had expected, and when she, too, had seen my journal, added that I apparently was stronger than expected, too. I didn't really know how to interpret that; though my ilness had indeed rendered me incapable of delicate movements such as writing, that improved immediately after the start of the treatment. I really don't know why this journal is so important to them, but if it pleases them, I'll keep writing it.

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1 March, eleventh day of treatment.

I have finally rediscovered how to put my thoughts in this journal. For three days, I have not been capable of anything more complicated than simply exist. The reason for this happened four days ago, when my doctors judged me fit enough to leave my bed and take a walk in the garden.
It was wonderful; I had been inside for so long, and to finally see the sun, the sky again, to feel the wind on my skin... it was absolutely wonderful.
I did get a lot of trange stares from other people, most of them looking they had seen a ghost. Now, I understand why; they probably did see a ghost.
After a while, I felt I was growing tired, and sat down under a tree near the left wing of the building. One of the windows on the ground floor was open, and it wasn't long before I could hear voices.
'I must say, I am impressed with the progress Connor is making,' said a male voice I did not recognise. 'Good work, doctors.'
'Thank you, sir,' responded, to my slight surprise, dr. Mangus. 'Though I must admit I did not expect him to be able to do all this so soon.'
'Neither did I,' added dr Jones. 'But if I must be honest...' she trailed off.
'Yes?' the man whose voice I did not recognise said to encourage her.
'I don't think he is aware of what he is doing,' dr Jones admitted. 'I mean, he doesn't seem to be consciously doing it. John, you must have noticed it as well. You asked him about the journal, tell dr. Craven what he said.'
'I asked him how he had written the journal, and he said, "the normal way, how else?"'
'See? That's exactly what I mean. He obviously thinks he wrote the journal. And have you seen him walking just now? He walks like a man who still has a tangible body. I'm telling you, he doesn't know.'
It was silent for a while, but inside my head the noise was only starting. They were talking about me, but why would dr. Jones say I didn't have a body? I lifted my hands and looked at them. Percectly normal hands, though my sickness still showed a little. What were they on about?
'Do you think we should tell him?' the unidentified man said.
'Actually, no. At least, not right away. I think we should break it to him slowly. I'm afraid that if we simply tell him he hasn't got a body anymore, provided of course we can break through his illusions, all his progress will have been for nothing. He has been able to write, to eat, to walk, because he is convinced he has a body. Once he realises that he hasn't...' she trailed off again. 'I'm afraid we might lose him.'
'Alright,' the man said. 'Do you agree, John?'
'Yes, I believe she might be right. Though I am not sure how we can break the news to Connor gently. He has to either realise, or not.'
'Do what you can,' they were ordered. 'We have spent too much time and money in thos project to see it all go to waste now. Not to mention what harm it would do to Connor.'
I did not stay any longer. Instead, I got up and stumbled away from there. It must have been a dream, a hallucination, I told myself. Me, not having a body anymore? That was ridiculous! After all, how else would I have been able to breathe, eat, write, let alone live all this while.
But a tiny thought, a memory, sneaked its way in; He has been able to write, to eat, to walk, because he is convinced he has a body. Once he realises that he hasn't... Dr. Jones had sounded so convinced, what if she was right? I was sure I was still whole, as much as the drugs were eating me up inside, but what if that really was an illusion?
No! Don't think of that! I must keep to what I knew, or else I would really lose my mind. I was alive and getting better. My body had been through a lot, but I definately still had it.
Or did I?
Was it fate, cruel fate, or simply coincidense that I saw my reflection in one of the windows at that moment? I saw myself, as I know I would look, but there was something strange about it. And against better judgement, I stopped to take a better look.
And realised that I could see the garden, the building, behind me, through my eflection.
I shut my eyes against the frightening image, sank down on my knees, and tried to block it out. It had just been some strange effect of the light, and of the imperfect reflection of the window. I was real. I had a body. I was alive. I was real.
But when I opened my eyes, I saw my hands, lying on my knees, and while I was looking, everything seemed to fall apart. Within heartbeats, I could see the grass through both my hands and knees. I tried to close my eyes again, but somehow I couldn't; or I could see right through my eyelids. My breath was coming raggedly, and then suddenly it wasn't coming at all. I gasped and gasped, but it didn't feel like I was getting any air; in fact, it didn't feel like I was moving my mouth at all! I felt lost, empty, thin, and in a terrifying moment, I realised they had been right. I had no body! And I had been lying to myself all along, that I did have one.
But how was I able to live, to think, to exist, if I had no body? How could it be that my conviction of being real, of having a body, could have resulted in me being able to eat, to write? After all, if I had no body, I wouldn't be able to do anything but...

And that's where I finally fully realised how thoroughly I had been fooling myself, and for days I was trapped inside my mind. I do not know how Jones and and Mangus found me, but they did, and took me back to my room. And slowly, I let the world back in, and they showed me how to create an image of myself, like I had been doing before, only subconsciously.
They have not yet explained just what has happened to me, or why, but they will. I will ask them once I am ready. I am not so sure I will like the answer though, so it could take a lot time before I decide I am ready.
Also, I have no idea what to do with my new self. There is no way I can ever lead a normal life. But my doctors seem convinced I will find a purpose in life, and I have to say, that despite of resulting in me being disembodied, their treatment did safe my life.
Now it's up to me to decide what to do with all this.