Chapter 20 The Doctor
The Doctor
Sighing to myself, I look at the bodies laid out in front of me. This year has had more patients than any past festivals. Broken, bloody bodies are sprawled out below me, their dark crimson liquids seeping into the dirt.
After dropping my little raver off at her campsite, I realized I would need to take care of her ‘neighbors’. Working quickly, I dragged each of their bodies from their tents, two men and two women. All infected with the pestilence.
They tried to run, tried to put up a fight. But I wasn’t allowing any games tonight. I moved quickly, slicing into them with ease. Their bodies sprayed me with that delicious red liquid.
Once I was satisfied, and their bones were perfectly malleable, I brought them back into the forest, lined them up next to the others, and began to dig.
With each thrust of the shovel, images flash through my mind. Tommy is rushing toward us, knife glinting in the moonlit forest. Eyes feral, wild like he’s been infected by the pestilence.
The wet dirt cracks beneath me, the tool sliding in with precision, like the way I cut through my patients. Another memory. I spoke. She heard, as my body crashed into Tommy. My need to protect her outweighs the safety of my silence.
My palms begin to sweat, and my breathing becomes labored. It didn’t hit until now. My promise. My loyalty. All broken.
Echoes of my past shatter around me.
You’ll never be good enough.
Your silence proves your loyalty. Keep your mouth shut, or I'll throw you in the graves with the others.
You think you're a doctor? Ha. You're nothing but another infection, feeding off of everything around you like the leech you are.
My blood boils as the voice swirls in my skull. I grip the shovel harder, the cool wood splintering slightly under the pressure.
I hate them. I hate this.
You miss me? My touch? The feeling of me crawling up your skin. Fucking dirty.
The voice continues throwing insults, each one hitting me like a hot knife. I can feel them here, running their hands across my shoulders, pushing me down to my knees, all for the name of ‘research’.
I knew it was all a lie, but I had no family, no one else to turn to. So I continued to allow it. For years, they molded me into their perfect assistant. They taught me everything I knew, and took advantage of me every second they could. I was never paid. Never thanked. Never respected.
When they died, I believed I was finally free. That the chains they had on me were finally gone. But I was so fucking wrong.
I had never realized they had been poisoning me. That little pink liquid. Their essence. A piece of them inside of me.
Unknowingly and willingly, I drank it every night, like the way you take your medicine before bed. Each dose solidified their home in my head.
It only took hours after their death for them to weasel their way back into me. Their sultry, smooth voice filled with rage, poisoning my thoughts until I was just another version of them.
I’ve been hiding behind this mask ever since, too scared to allow the world to see the broken man underneath.
I fall to my knees as rain pours around me, and the sound of water hitting the leaves echoes hauntingly through the forest. Dropping the shovel, I bury my face in my dirt-coated palms; the rough feeling of them is almost too overstimulating.
I let out a silent sob, pointing my mask toward the sky as the tears flow as freely as water. The distant thumps of bass flow with the voice in my head.
Worthless. Thump.
Useless. Thump, thump.
Incolent. Thump.
Devil’s child. Thump, thump.
My composure takes a back seat as I throw my arms up to the sky. The rain falls on my mask, blurring the forest’s night sky above me.
I let out a scream, filled with pain and poison. Sleeping birds wake, flying from their trees. Dropping my masked face back into my palms, I let out a breath.
The small sound of a twig snapping causes me to glance over my shoulder, following the sound.
A small figure stands in the treeline, barely close enough to see. But I don't need to have eyes to know it’s her.
She moves slowly, walking toward me with the reservation someone would have when trying to mount a feral horse. Each step she takes, every crunch of the leaves, causes my heart to race. Within moments, she’s in front of me, her eyes are swollen and red as if she’s been crying as well.
I reach out toward her. My worry for her being hurt overrides my problems, but she shakes her head as she pushes my hand down gently. I drop it back down to my thigh, kneeling below her like I’m ready for worship.
Dropping to her knees in front of me, she reaches toward me, palms shaking. Her fingers graze my mask, and I freeze, my breath hitching in my throat.
Instinctively, I move my hand to hers. She shakes her head again and mouths, “I’m so fucking sorry.” She places a palm on both sides of my mask. My fingers follow, grazing along her knuckles as we sit there.
She doesn’t push, doesn’t even move an inch. We just sit there. In silence. In the pouring rain, music thumping around us. She’s giving me the space to be seen. A luxury I’ve never experienced.
My mind becomes silent, the voices no longer assaulting me, and I smile as I realize it’s her, she’s my cure.
She’s the one who can save me. The one who brings silence.
My angel of death.