Wraith
It's going to be bad fucking news.
I know it is.
Because I can feel my heartbeat in my face.
Every pulse of blood through the damaged tissue sends heat straight through my jaw and up into my temple.
Even with the gaiter around my neck instead, just having it on for the past few hours has made everything hurt enough I almost wish I was dead.
Almost.
If I'm dead, I won't be in pain anymore. That's true. Might even get a whole face when I'm a fucking ghost. Maybe. I don't know how that works.
Maybe I'd even look worse.
But if I'm dead, there's no Ivy.
And Ivy is stroking my knuckles through my glove and humming softly, her forehead resting against our joined hands, and the warmth of her breath is the only thing on my entire body that doesn't hurt.
So. Not dead, then.
Footsteps in the corridor make the hair on the back of my neck prickle. I already know who it is because I've heard her unhurried footsteps coming up the hall so many times before.
There's a gentle knock.
More of a tap, really.
The door opens and Dr. Jackson steps in. The knot tangling up my entire fucking ribcage loosens just enough that I can take in a full breath.
Because she's familiar.
Tall and thin, with curly gray hair and lime green cat-eye glasses today that match her shoes. She has a different pair of glasses every time I see her and they always match her shoes.
Her eyes find me first, then Ivy, and a smile breaks across her face. She doesn't react to mine being uncovered. Never has. Probably because she used to be a combat medic.
"Wraith," she says gently. "How are you doing?"
I manage a slight wave and tilt my hand back and forth. So-so.
She turns to Ivy. "And you must be Ivy." She extends her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Ivy takes it, smiling too. "Margaret told you?"
Dr. Jackson laughs. "Oh, Margaret is over the moon. I've heard about nothing else since you came in. I'll have to stop her from throwing a party." She pulls the rolling chair from the opposite wall, settling into it next to me. "So. Tell me what's been happening."
My hands come up to sign. Worse. Getting worse since the fight at my last game. Can't wear a mask without—
I stop because I feel like fucking shit and my hands are shaking.
"Take your time," Dr. Jackson says.
I try again. Constant pain. Can't wear a mask without feeling like my face is on fire.
She writes on her clipboard, nodding, not rushing me. When I'm done, she sets the pen down and rolls closer on her chair.
"Can I take a look? Same as always. You tell me to stop and I stop."
I nod reluctantly.
She stands and angles the overhead exam light toward my face. The beam hits me and my whole body freezes, the brightness burning through my eyelids even when I squeeze them shut. She adjusts it, dimming it as much as she can, but it's still a spotlight aimed at the worst parts of me.
My stomach turns.
"I'm going to start on the left side," she murmurs. "Light pressure. Okay?"
I grip the armrest with one hand and Ivy's fingers with the other, trying not to squeeze too hard.
Her gloved fingertips make contact with the tissue below my left ear.
FUCK.
My whole body jerks sideways. A snarl rips out of my ruined throat before I can stop it and I'm halfway out of the chair before Ivy's hand on my arm pulls me back.
"I know," Dr. Jackson says evenly. "I know. I'm sorry."
I breathe hard through my nose, chest heaving, and force myself back down.
She resumes.
The exam takes fucking forever.
Every touch is its own private hell. She presses along the nerve clusters along my jaw, my chin, the exposed musculature where skin and flesh should be.
She checks the sutures Plague put in on the ice—comments that whoever did them did excellent work—and probes gently along the scar through my eyebrow, which doesn't bother me until she reaches the place where it pulls at the jagged scars just above my gumline.
I hold still through all of it.
Barely.
Every time Dr. Jackson touches a new spot, my knees jerk, my shoulders hitch, and sounds come out of me that aren't words. Animal pain noises that I can't control and can't stop.
The only fucking reason I don't flip the chair over and bolt is Ivy's hands on mine.
I hope to fuck she isn't watching this.
The exam light is too fucking hot on my face and every inch of my skin prickles with sweat. I have to keep my eyes screwed tight because the chrome base of the exam lamp is throwing back a warped reflection.
A monster under a spotlight.
The side where the sutures are is even worse. When her fingers press against the junction behind my right ear, my vision goes fully black for two seconds and my ears ring. A growl tears out of me so loud the tray rattles against my arm.
"Almost done."
One more probe against that spot.
One more white-hot burst of agony through my skull.
Then she steps back. The exam light swings away and the relative dimness of the room rushes in.
I'm panting like a beast.
Sweat is running down my scarred throat, soaking the collar of my hoodie. The hand Ivy's clutching in both of hers has gone numb from how hard I've been squeezing, and when I try to ease up, I realize my fingers don't want to cooperate.
Did I hurt you? I try to sign with my free hand, but I can't, and my quivering, twitching hand drops uselessly into my lap.
Dr. Jackson sits back down, pulls her glasses off, and cleans them with the hem of her coat. She takes her time putting them back on.
Not a good sign.
"You mentioned in your email a packmate brought up BioMuzzle," she says.
I nod, still trying and failing to sign.
"Plague sent some research," Ivy says quietly from beside me, rubbing the back of my hand, massaging the bones until my fingers flex. "I read it and watched some videos, but Wraith has been too out of it to read much."
"Is he the one who did the sutures?"
"Yeah. He went to pre-med."
"Well. He should go back. He clearly knows what he's doing," Dr. Jackson says, picking up her pen again.
"BioMuzzle is a stabilizer. It targets the neural pathways responsible for feral dissociative episodes and aggression.
It won't cure anything. But it can keep those pathways from deteriorating further. "
"What are the side effects?" Ivy asks for me.
"Dulled scent perception for the first couple of weeks while your system adjusts.
Fatigue, mild nausea during the adjustment period.
Anxiety. All temporary in the reported cases.
" She checks her clipboard. "Compassionate use protocols were just approved in Canada.
You can bring it into the States through the program.
I've already started the paperwork on our end, just in case.
Given your profile, I'd recommend an injection every month.
You can pick it up from a compounding pharmacy and self-administer them at home.
I'm sure whoever did those sutures can manage that. "
Ivy's hands go still. She's listening carefully.
"The injections will help stabilize the feral regression," Dr. Jackson says. "Considerably. But…" She hesitates, her eyes going to my face, and her mouth tightens into a firm line.
Oh gods.
"They're not going to do anything about the nerve damage in your face," she continues, softening her voice. "And that's getting worse on its own."
The room tilts.
"The compression is exacerbating the nerve damage.
Every hour you spend with fabric pressing against these nerve clusters, you're undoing whatever progress we make on the pain management side.
" She sets the clipboard down and looks at me directly, her dark brown eyes steady behind the lime green frames.
"I'm telling you—and I say this as someone who has known you for a very long time and cares deeply about you—you cannot wear anything over your face anymore. "
My heartbeat fills my skull.
I stare at her.
She stares back, her lips tightening into a sad smile.
"I understand what that means for you," she says quietly. "I do. And I'm sorry."
You don't understand.
My hands don't move to sign it.
Nothing can fucking move.
Not even Ivy is breathing.
"Now, separate from BioMuzzle. The nerve damage." She reaches for the tray to pull it closer. "These are the injections you were supposed to receive on your last visit. They won't fix the underlying problem, but they'll take the edge off the pain while we get you started on the BioMuzzle program."
She pulls back the blue paper covering the tray.
Four syringes pre-loaded, lying in a neat row on sterile gauze.
She picks up the first syringe and checks it. "It's going to hurt more than they usually do. I won't lie to you about that. But the pain relief should kick in within a few hours."
Ivy leans forward. "Is there anything I can—"
"Hold his hand," Dr. Jackson says to her. "That's the best thing."
Ivy's grip tightens. Her eyes meet mine.
You've got this, they say.
I don't.
I really fucking don't.
But I lean my head back against the headrest and tilt my jaw to expose the left side.
"Good," Dr. Jackson murmurs. "First one. Small pinch."
Small pinch is a fucking lie.
Always is.
The needle slides into the tissue behind my left ear and liquid fire floods that entire quarter of my face. Every muscle in my body locks up, the heel of my boot digging into the floor where my leg slipped off hard enough the chair slides backward an inch.
The snarl that comes out of me is subterranean and I shove it down hard, terrified I'll scare the doctor or Ivy or some innocent person in the hall who has no idea what they have in this room.
Ivy's hand is crushing mine.
Or mine is crushing hers.
"Halfway," Dr. Jackson says calmly.
The plunger depresses further and the fire spreads, branching like lightning along the nerve pathway from my ear to my chin. My vision whites out completely and I'm gripping the armrest so hard the leather splits under my fingers.
She withdraws.
I gasp.
One down.
Three to go.
The second injection goes behind my right ear and this one is worse, so much worse that my body bucks involuntarily and Dr. Jackson has to pause and wait for me to stop shaking before she can finish.
Tears are streaming from my eyes and I can't stop them.
I don't cry. Never have. This is just my body's last-resort response to pain it can't escape without lashing out and hurting someone.
Ivy's forehead presses against our joined hands. I feel her lips moving against my knuckles. Words I can't hear through the roaring in my skull.
Third injection.
Along the left jawline, directly into the exposed muscle.
My teeth snap together so hard they catch my tongue and my own blood fills my mouth.
Dr. Jackson pulls the needle free and sets it on the tray. "One more."
Please…
The needle enters and the pain crests into something beyond pain, beyond fire, beyond anything I have a word for even if I could speak. My whole body lifts off the chair and it's over, and I'm sitting up, legs off the exam chair, Ivy halfway in my lap because I pulled her with me.
"Done," Dr. Jackson says. "You did well."
I'm shaking uncontrollably. I'm so fucking dizzy I almost pitch forward and end up on the floor. Ivy's behind me now, rubbing my back, and I bend all the way forward with my free hand digging into my hair and the other still wrapped around Ivy's.
Dr. Jackson says something to Ivy about prescriptions and a follow-up appointment but the words pass through me.
No masks.
Ever.
No. Masks.
By the time I come back into my body and stand up, my doctor is gone.
The room swims and Ivy catches my arm, steadying me, but I'm already reaching for my throat with my other hand.
My fingers find the gaiter bunched around my neck and I pull it up in one motion, settling it over my nose, over my jaw, like I've done a thousand fucking times.
"Wraith…" Ivy says softly.
I'm already at the door.
My hand hits the handle and I pull it open, ducking through the frame and into the bright white corridor. The light sears my retinas and I yank my hood forward, head down, moving fast. My boots eat the linoleum in long strides.
Ivy's footsteps are right behind me, quick and light, almost jogging to match my pace.
The sliding doors open and the cold air hits me and I keep walking, around to the side of the building where there are no cars and no people, nothing except a dumpster and cracked concrete and weeds pushing through.
I stop, panting.
Every breath feels like hot lead's being dumped into my face. My vision swims. A snarl, a dangerous one, rumbles through my aching jaws.
My knees buckle and I rip the gaiter off, the seams tearing.
I drop into a crouch against the brick wall, my huge body folding in on itself, and both hands come up to cover my face, the torn fabric hanging uselessly. Scarred palms pressing against exposed teeth, against exposed muscle, against everything that's wrong with me.
Hiding.
All I know how to fucking do.
The sound that comes out of me is nothing I've heard before. A wrenching, shuddering racking spasm of a roar that comes from somewhere so deep in my bones it feels like it's tearing loose from the fucking marrow.
Ivy sinks down in front of me. Her arms wrap around me as far as she can reach, which isn't far. Her face burrows into my neck and I can't hear what she's saying over the guttural sounds tearing out of my chest.
I'm going to die.
I'm going to fucking die.