Charlie
The thing about medical testing is that after a while, it stops feeling scary.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as the town car pulls up to the curb outside a large glass-and-steel building with a name that sounds like it was generated by a committee.
The birthday balloons are still floating around the penthouse, even though my birthday was three days ago. I saw them this morning when I came downstairs, and just thinking about them now makes me feel all warm inside.
“You’re smiling?” I can hear the humored disbelief in Niko’s voice.
I turn toward him. One hand hovers on the open car door. His dark eyes are gentle, watchful; the corner of his mouth quirks up.
“I was thinking about the balloons,” I confess.
He lets out a short, affectionate breath.
I swing my legs out of the car and press my hands against the door frame.
My knees wobble for a heartbeat before my muscles decide to cooperate.
The increase in my muscle relaxer dose has definitely helped some, but nothing ever completely helps.
I’m used to it. But maybe one day, we’ll find out what’s wrong with me, and there will be something that completely helps.
That’s why I’m here today.
Without a word, Nikolaus rests his hand on my lower back—steady, unintrusive, a quiet promise of support. Always there.
The building’s mirrored facade reflects clouds drifting across a pale-blue sky, and meticulously trimmed shrubs line the walk.
Somewhere inside, specialists are waiting to poke, scan, measure, and analyze me.
I should feel that old fear, but right now I’m just tired.
Honestly, I think I stopped feeling that old fear after my first MRI.
“Charlie.” His voice pulls me back, and I look up at him. His brow is knit with concern, the expression that settles on his face whenever my health is involved.
“You don’t have to keep looking at me like you’re leaving me to die,” I joke, trying to lighten him up.
He sighs, shakes his head, then lifts an eyebrow in mock offense. “I am not.”
“You totally are,” I say, watching the tension ease a little from his shoulders as a reluctant smile flickers across his lips. “I’m just getting blood drawn and shoved into machines. Nothing new.”
“A Daddy has every right to worry about his boy,” he counters, and I snort at the seriousness of his tone.
For a moment, we stand in companionable silence. Then Nikolaus glances at his watch—a subtle movement, but one that catches my eye. He frowns.
“Your meeting,” I say softly, and he grumbles, looking guilty.
“I hate leaving you.”
“I know,” I reply, catching his hand in both of mine. The gesture feels braver than I expected. “But I’m really fine. For most of the tests, you wouldn’t even be allowed in the room with me anyway.”
His eyes flicker with protest.
“I’ll be okay,” I promise, my voice gentle.
He closes the distance and presses a feather-light kiss to my forehead. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.” I squeeze his hand.
“Anything,” he repeats, then hesitates, leans in for another kiss, and then another. By the third, I’m laughing, the sound bright against the clinical chill of the day.
“Go,” I tell him.
He takes a final, reluctant step back. “Call me when you’re done.” His eyes never leave mine. “And remember, Constantine will be here in an hour, so if there’s an emergency, he’ll be able to help.”
“I will, and I remember,” I say.
And then he’s gone, the town car pulling away from the curb. I watch it disappear into the distance, then turn and enter through the sliding glass door at the center of the building.
Four hours later, I’m sick of doctors. I’m exhausted from the relentless questions and invasive routines.
My blood has been siphoned off. My reflexes poked and prodded.
I’ve been X-rayed, scanned in MRI and CT machines alike, weighed on scales that measure more than just your weight, and bent into positions I personally feel victimized by.
A perky neurologist spent twenty minutes making me track a pinpoint flashlight beam, back and forth, until I wanted to launch it through the window.
I’ve had an ECG, EKG, and several ultrasounds, ending with the good ole’ urine sample.
At checkout, the receptionist smiles. “You’re all finished. Your results will be available online. You obviously had quite a few, so just keep an eye out. They won’t all be uploaded at once.”
“Okay, thank you,” I reply, giving her a responding smile as I gather my paperwork. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, my neck is protesting every movement, and my stomach is grumbling.
I push open the door to the lobby. A few people recline in armchairs, and a television murmurs in the corner, images flickering from slide to slide. I look around for Constantine, expecting him to notice me and stand up, but there’s nothing. He’s not in here.
I thought he was supposed to meet me in here.
I frown, then dig out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans—the one Nikolaus got me the day after my birthday as a “birthday week present.” The model is the latest and most expensive on the market, and it still feels absurdly extravagant in my hand.
A notification glows on the lock screen.
I pull up my messages and see one from Constantine that came in five minutes ago.
Had to step outside for a call. Parked on the left side of the building. If I’m not back when you finish, come out to the car.
Makes sense. Business intrudes everywhere in Nikolaus’s world. I send a quick thumbs-up, tuck the phone away, and step through the doors into the warm afternoon light.
I head left, following the line of the building. The cultivated shrubs give way to a narrower service road. A few nondescript cars are parked near the curb, but I don’t see Constantine yet. I keep walking, expecting to see him leaning against a car any second.
Everything happens too fast.
An arm snakes around my throat, fingers digging in and restricting my air. Another crashes over my mouth and nose.
My mind shuts down for a second, refusing to process what’s happening, but then I’m thrashing, kicking, trying to bite at the hand suffocating me. I scream, but my voice is stifled and hardly loud enough to draw attention to this corner of the lot.
My attacker hauls me backward, grip tightening like steel bands. Pressure blooms behind my eyes, my ears ringing. I claw at the arm choking me, my feet scrabbling for purchase on sunbaked asphalt.
No—no, no, no—
My lungs burn. Dark spots blossom at the edges of my vision.
I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die. Please, I—
I—
Ni…ko.
…I promised.