“Well, ether or not—down the hatch!” And taking a deep breath he swallowed.
The nurse steadied him once more and he pressed his head into her breast, breathing sharply, like a man struck in the throat. He allowed himself to tremble. His feelings changed from sick horror to quietude and a faint elation. He let his head drop on the pillow. This time the paraldehyde brought relief, but no immediate sleep. Words kept ringing in his mind and he talked on, without cessation. The nurse listened to him, laughing occasionally. In the morning’s light, Martin slept.
When he awoke, the nurse was gone. He was alone on a bridge with madmen. He was afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of fear. A word sounded in his mind—phobiaphobia, fear of fear. Nothing tangible to fight. The deep-seated root of the worm in his imagination. His feeling of isolation became complete, unbearable. He got out of bed and walked into the hall. A student nurse looked warily at him as he approached—unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, his unfastened robe trailing.
“Where’s the head nurse?” he asked. “Where is she?”
“Here I am.”
Martin turned on her, white faced and trembling.
“For God’s sake, nurse. Is this a hospital? Get me a drink. Get me something. And don’t leave me alone.”
She helped him into bed and brought the same medication. Sober, terror-stricken, Martin could not face the shock of the incredible drug. The nurse held him, and again Martin drank, feeling the same shudder and movement of the deep-seated tissue. He reached out and felt the woman’s arms. A sharp, sweet odor in his nose prolonged his trembling. The nurse wrapped a blanket around him, leaned over and kissed his damp forehead. Martin rested, watching her move quietly around the room. Was her kiss a gesture of sympathy? He met her gentle brown eyes and knew she understood.
The greater part of the next two days and nights he slept, only awakening to drink the bright, relieving poison. The third day he remembered Deane—her laugh, the surge of her skirts; and each thought was a torment.