Video Electroencephalography to read his brain waves, his innermost conclusions, questions and deductions, displayed as black zigs and zags on a white monitor like a polygraph. Would his mind lie? Was he still an epileptic? Or was he simply losing his mind? Seventeen electrodes covered his head, one more on each trapezius muscle. Wrapped in gauze. Tightly. The pressure was suffocating.
Two twenty in the morning. He was standing in the shared hospital bathroom, facing the mirror. Concave piece of shit made him look fifteen pounds thinner than he already was. A cruel joke to play on a patient. A handicap elevated toilet seat behind him. A shower stall in the corner. He laughed at the plausibility of showering with the ludicrous voltaic contraption glued to his thoughts. After five days confined to a bed, a doctor had spoken. Four hours, twelve minutes prior. "We've found no epileptic activity." The results were in. Colm was losing his mind. The anxiety attacks that had been mistaken as seizures had taken hold of his life, squeezing every drop of normalcy from it.
He was connected to his station by the VEEG cord, a bastard child of a television's S-cable and a quarter inch guitar jack. Out of habit, he had wrapped it methodically -- from palm to elbow. Twenty-two feet of Colm's brain electricity curled neatly into an oval, one foot in diameter.