I am hallucinating. That's the only possible explanation for the vividness of the voice I hear. I am not drunk; it has been hours since I stumbled home from the wake, my steps faltering for reasons other than alcohol anyway. I have never had a very strong imagination, so this experience terrifies me. The impossible, the absurd, the fantastical... happening before me with the same prosaic reality of the rest of my life. I hear the voice now just as I've always heard him when we were melded--inside my head, with that surprising lack of the echo one expects when hearing someone speak from inside your skull.
I wonder if this will pass or if instead I will be forced to turn to Christine and have myself declared medically unsound. Unbalanced--my life, my practice, my career--I see them all misting away before me, fading away before the fantasy my mind insists is a reality.
It cannot be his voice. He is dead.
"Leonard, I wish to see you. I must... see you."
"So look at me, Spock. I'm right here. Where are you?" I ask the room aloud, throwing up my hands in frustration.
"Go to the mirror," he answers. I'm surprised when he does. So even a hallucination has an internal logic. I didn't realize--I've never had one before.
"The mirror," he repeats. "I will see you through your own eyes."
With a deep breath I contemplate this invitation. Do I stand, and commit myself to the fantasy--and a mental ward? Or do I ignore the voice, ignore its pleading, and try once more to sleep?
Could I ever ignore him?
Can I bear to deny this voice anything it asks?
Never. Trying not to consider what bridge I have now crossed, I leave the bed and order the lights on, but only barely. Then, unclothed, I stand before the mirror. I hardly even notice my own reflection.
"Your eyes," comments the voice, softer now, with the emotion he long since gave up denying, "are torn--from weeping. But they are still beautiful."
I look at the mirror and see nothing beautiful. "Was it that bad up in Heaven, Spock, that you decided to come back down and spend your time botherin' me?" I kid the fantasy gently, swallowing uncomfortably.
"This is my place," he tells me, and I know exactly what he is talking about. This IS his place, with me. I suddenly grow fiercely possessive of my little fantasy, or whatever it is. I have had too much. Now I hope it never leaves.
I return to the bed, and with my eyes closed but my hands active, I give in to everything he asks.