1 The Doctor: Chapter 1

House calls are my specialty. It's hard to do what I do in a formal setting, with cameras and all that paperwork. It's messy work. Nobody wants to talk about it afterwards. Normal doctors get little crayon drawings from children, thank you cards from parents, the whole lot of it. But nobody ever wants to look me in the eye when I'm done, let alone thank me. They push their sweaty cash into my hand and usher me out the door, eyes tracking my heels the whole while. It's like they think I might stay behind and haunt them.

There was only one call today, south of the city. The streets narrowed and became overgrown with weeds the closer I got to the address. Probably a lot of people in need of my services in this area. I pulled up in front of the house and shut the car off. Sometimes I just need a minute to breathe before I start a new case. I know the looks I'm going to get, people keeping watch on me out of the corner of their eye, even though they invited me in themselves.

I finally prodded myself out of my car, grabbed my bag and my cane, and started up the gravel path. The cane is just for looks, really. It's important to keep up appearances. There were three front doors on the house, three families splitting up one home with makeshift walls to separate them. If they have to rent a room or two in this place to scrape by, it's no wonder they can't afford health insurance. No one who calls on me ever does so as a first option. Most of them have tried everything else already.

I swung my cane against the middle door a couple times, making a muffled tapping noise. A tall, lanky man answers the door, running his free hand over his thinning hair. His head and sparse beard were completely gray, even though he couldn't have been more than middle-aged. His impossibly tired posture slumped even further at the sight of me, but he retreated to let me in all the same. They always do.

"Mr. Garner?" I tried to keep my voice low as I asked. The gloomy air of the house demanded silence. He nodded.

"Dr. Naustus," Garner replied solemnly.

"Where is the patient?" It was hard to see anything in the room, between the clutter and the dim lights.

"Down the hall, this way." He turned into the dim house and led me around boxes of medical supplies mixed in with miscellaneous trash. The stench began to overpower my nose and made my eyes water. I coughed and quickly wipe my arm on my jacket. The room I found myself in is dark, despite the tiny window. The curtains were already open, and Garner pulled the broken and bent shades up and out of the way as best he could. It helped only mildly to illuminate the pallid, empty face that was wheezing at me through an oxygen mask. She looked as though she may only have lasted another few days without me. Maybe I should have waited, then. But was already there, so I did what I do best.

I pulled on my latex gloves to swipe away the used tissues and fast food wrappers, adding them to a pile of less-than-fresh diapers made for people with these types of terminal illnesses. When I pulled my first tool out of the leather sack at my side and sat it down on the bed, Garner winced.

"Are you sure this will work?" He looked panicked, like maybe everything he's heard about me was concocted by some malicious prankster.

"I've done this hundreds of times. Now stand back, Garner, I don't want you to get hit." I cracked my knuckles and picked the instrument up again.

"Doctor, this seems a bit extreme. Maybe some morphine first, or a-"

"I said stand back, Garner, and stop calling me that! I didn't get my medical license revoked for nothing," I snapped at him, cocking my gun. Before he could interject again, I pulled the trigger.

Bang.

Garner gasped. I froze. This is the part where some people freak out. I didn't want to deal with it again. But after a tense moment, he slumped down to cry. Perfect, I think, letting out a sigh of relief. I can get to work now.

I removed my gloves and used them to dab some of the blood away from her forehead, then I swiped my index finger around the edge of the little bullet hole and stuck it in my mouth. My eyes started to glow immediately. It made my eyes water a little more because I can see it, kind of. Everything looks a little blurry and a little darker. Garner was still crying, hugging his knees and dragging his sleeves across his running nose. At least he wasn't freaking out.

The patient's oxygen mask started squeaking a little as it struggled to release air into her still lungs, and I yanked it down and off to the side. It dangled loosely off her neck. Reaching one hand under it to cup the back of her head, I laid my other hand on her still-warm stomach and started the chant.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Garner's eyes finally open at the sound of the guttural Latin rhythm. His face twisted and he shakily dragged himself backwards towards the door. Good. I love the cowards. It's always the brave ones who try to be a hero and get in the way. After panicking for a few more moments, he seemed to determine that covering his eyes with his hands was the best protection from me, and finally stilled again.

The patient's muscles started to contract, which pulled my attention back to my task. I was still chanting softly, the words I've said a thousand times and will say a thousand more in this lifetime. It doesn't need to be dramatic, or loud, like in the movies. Most of the power comes from my intent. The words remind me of my goal, keep me focused.

Blood started to dribble down around my wrist as the bullet hole in the patient's head started bleeding again. Her flesh convulsed and squeezed together, pushing the bullet out like an unwelcome guest. It rolled down her brow and tinkled to the floor. Her atrophied muscles started to swell as blood returned to them and new muscle knotted itself around her bones and tendons. Her pale face blushed and, though she'll need some time in the sun to restore a healthy glow, began to round out.

The choking noises she started to make warned me of what's coming, but I didn't dare take my hands off her. I must complete the ritual. Blood and puss and chunks of infected flesh started to bubble out of her mouth, as her lungs finally began to rid themselves of impurities. I used my forearm to roll her face to the side so the grime could expel itself properly. It poured out slowly, with no help from its host.

Her feet started to bleed beside me, dripping out from under her nails. She must have had another illness she wasn't aware of. Blood clot, maybe. To my relief, Garner was still shivering under his hands, as though mid-way through a riveting game of peek-a-boo.

After a few more minutes of what I can only describe as oozing, I finished the closing lines of the chant. I was left looking down at a healthy, kindly looking, absolutely puss-covered woman. I felt her chest start to rise and fall as her heart started beating to a steady rhythm. I slid my hands away, and her eyes fluttered open. Quietly, calmly, she looks around.

"Mrs. Garner?"

Mr. Garner snapped back to attention at the sound of my voice.

"Matilda?" He asked, voice cracking.

She lifted her head up, slowly, carefully, and slid her eyes over to him.

"George?" Her voice was clear and strong.

"Oh, Tilly," he sobbed, tears starting anew. Even in his hurry, he gave me a wide berth as he rounded his way to the bedside. She looked shocked, but seeing him cry, she started to sob as well.

"George? What's happening?" Their arms were wrapped around each other, rubbing Tilly's blood further into their clothes.

"You're okay, Til, everything's going to be okay now." He kissed her forehead, where there was a dime-sized hole mere minutes ago. He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her hands. You'd probably think that this would be my favorite part, but it's not. It feels like I'm invading a deeply private moment, witnessing a new life begin that has no consequence to my own, past this moment. It's like being in the room when a stranger gives birth.

I slid quietly out the bedroom door and down the hall, wiping my bloodied hands on an afghan thrown over a chair as I walk. I had everything I needed to clean myself up back at the car, of course, but it was a very ugly afghan. At least now it will get thrown away when they purge this house of everything that was stained today.

Shoving the front door closed with my cane, I coughed into my sleeve again and swung my bag over my shoulder to stroll out to the car. No thank-yous, no handshakes, just messy work.