1452. Awake
“THINGS ARE WORSENING DRAMATICALLY.” The good doctor is speaking in his usual dull monotone. “The frequency of these … curations—” He breaks off. “He’s become very erratic.”
“He’s not erratic. He is blessed.” (He says blessed like it burns in his mouth.)
“Blessed or not, this is the twenty-first century. The condition of that body is out there, in unsparing detail, and the internet can’t be suppressed with a few under-the-table bribes. It’s not the same as cable news.”
“How did this even happen, Hodel? After last time you assured me he was contained. You promised me his condition was managed. Whose job is it to make sure he’s under control?”
A long, pregnant pause.
“As I’ve said. It appears that Jude is beginning to resist his medication—”
A swift, hacking cough interrupts, followed by, “Then upgrade his fucking cocktail, Doctor. Or what exactly do we pay you for?”
“I need you to understand that you are playing with fire.” Hodel’s voice is hushed now.
“Given this potency, at this frequency, he shouldn’t even be alive.
I don’t believe it’s any coincidence that his behavior is worsening.
Raise the dosage any further and he’ll die of blood poisoning, or worse.
Frankly, I don’t think it’s very ethical t—”
“Ethical?” He laughs, coldly. “After all this time, Hodel, you finally manage to trip over your ethics?”
“This kind of treatment was never asked of me before. When Killian first hired me—”
“Keep his name out of your mouth.”
“—he warned me that my work would be unnatural. That I would be asked to look away from darkness the likes of which could not be understood by lesser men. And it is true that I’ve seen darkness, I have borne witness to the uncanny, I have broken my own oaths in favor of upholding his—”
“And have you not been rewarded for your loyalty?” Another cough, and then a sneer. “Do you lack something for your faith, Doctor?”
“Listen to me. You will kill him.”
“You know I won’t. He knows I won’t.”
“Fine. Say that he doesn’t die, or that he can’t—”
“He obviously can’t, Hodel, be serious. You’ve mended every broken bone—you’ve watched him resurrect without a scratch. Even you have no explanation but the one we’ve given you—he’s invulnerable to damage. He’s been chosen. He is blessed.”
This time the coughing goes on for some time, a few minutes. There’s a squelch of something, then the thwack of it hitting the ground.
“Say that he doesn’t die,” Hodel repeats in a stiff tone of acknowledgment, once the room is silent again.
“He still feels pain. He is obviously the victim of some agenda that isn’t his own.
And more to the point, things can’t go on like this forever.
If you no longer control the source of the ritual because Jude himself has lost control, what will you do then?
No law of nature is without some semblance of a cost, or else your own sickness would not be—”
“This isn’t about nature, Hodel—Christ, get ahold of yourself. You said so yourself, you were invited to tread the unnatural, to witness the divine. Now that you’ve seen true sacrament, it troubles you?”
“You know, you sound like him.” The doctor’s voice is thoughtful and faraway, although still banally monotone. “I wonder if you’ve noticed. You seem to have given up your own natural patterns of speech.”
“Given up? Given up?”
“Calm down.” Ova’s voice slides in coolly, like a dream.
“I don’t have time for this.” He turns to her. “We don’t have time—”
“I know, I know. Shh.” Ova is comforting, soothing. Lying, but it always works. At least, it has so far, but he has other influences now. Other voices in his head, other surfacing desires. I wonder if she realizes …
No, but of course she does. She arches toward him now, restrained but pliant, as if a lifetime of no might soon become a yes. (But it won’t, and Hodel is right—what then?)
“You already know the course of treatment,” Ova continues in a different tone. “You also know that we can replace you.” She’s talking to the doctor now, of course. “And you know what will happen to you, Hodel, should you break the vow you made to Killian all those years ago.”
“I don’t intend to break my vow. Just to speak my mind.”
“Heard, understood, disregarded.” I can see my so-called father now, curled like a child in Ova’s lap while she strokes his hair and whispers how precious he is, how blessed.
We are all so very blessed. Me most of all.
“Hurry up,” Ova says impatiently to Hodel. “People are coming over. The actress will be here soon.” Daddy dearest makes a noise like ugh. “Administer another dose before he wakes.”
Ova bends over me then. I can smell the fruit on her breath, a perfume of sweetness to mask the deadness.
“Darling,” she says, and kisses my lips lightly. “I promise. We’ll be together again soon.”
I struggle not to react, to feign as if I’ve spent the whole time sleeping. She hovers, stiffly, while I attempt to control my breathing.
In, two, three. Out, two, three.
“He’s awake,” she says. Her voice is cold again. “Better go with an injection.”