Another Mercy

Another hand movement, another subtle twist of the wrist, another mercy. The mind told the spine which told the wrist which moved the hand which held the bending and twisting fingers. Their arms and hands moved together in a quiet and precise concert that could only come with years of practice. There was speed, but not a twisting and jerking kind; it was a graceful movement.

Each movement, another plunge of the needle. Each movement, another small line of silk tugging together two pieces of flesh torn asunder. The only sound was the barely perceptible twang of the silk when Their hand extended to pull it through the wound, and the faint but controlled whimpers of the young boy.

It was a delicate work; it required a careful balance of two extremes. If the silk was too loose, there may as well be no silk at all; but if the silk was too tight the skin would darken and die. But years of practice made the balance easier to find. The hand and fingers knew the melody and motion to follow. They could probably do it with their eyes closed, if They so wished.

Then, suddenly. It was done. Their hands stopped their repeating rhythm. They tied off the silk from the last exit point in the skin, tugged the extra silk upwards, and snipped it close to the knot with another precise motion.  A quick wipe with a cloth later to clear any excess blood and alcohol from the site, and Their work was finished.

“Keep the arm away from water from a few days, then wash it daily after that. Once the wound seems closed, about a month, come get me.” Their voice was flat and matter of fact, They knew this. It was also echoing slightly as it reverberated through their wooden mask and out the sides, muffling them slightly; They knew this too. They turned to the older man sitting a few feet off to the left. “If you feel comfortable doing so, you can also use a knife to cut the silk and slowly pull out the stitches yourself. Just be careful as to not rip the skin.”

The old man, his face one of annoyed concern for the young boy and clearly half listening, nodded. He turned to the boy.

“How does it feel lad?” The older man asked with a small amount of teasing in his tone.

The boy turned to the older man; his face was extremely readable. Children rarely excelled in hiding their emotions. His face was a visage of pain, but also curiosity.

“It kind of itches.” The young boy finally said.

“That is normal, but I do not advise scratching the wound, it could cause infection. Put a clean and dry bandage around it if you cannot help yourself, I’ll leave some with your grandfather.” They said. They began to efficiently clean their tools and put them back in their small black leather satchel.

When They spoke, the child’s face changed. For the wound and his grandfather, the child expressed curiosity and pain. When They spoke, the visage changed to one of fear. It was as clear as the bloody wound on their arm had been. The child did acknowledge the order though and nodded. That was enough for Them.

The older man stood, both he and his old wooden chair creaking in equal measure as he did so. He shuffled over to Them with the mixture of a smile and judgement that only a grandparent seemed capable.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t scratch too much. Thanks for coming on such quick notice Doc.” The older man extended his hand out to Them.

They finished putting away their tools and pulled the satchel back over their neck, so it was hanging loosely at their right side. As they stood from the chair, They moved their head down to glance at their black gloves and black leather robes, checking for blood or gore. In their experience people got upset if they shook their hand with either of those things on their clothing, even if it didn’t touch them.

Once They were sure they wouldn’t cause an upset, They extended their dark leather glove out to the man. He grasped it tightly, as the older generation seemed to enjoy doing, and shook it.

“Also watch for infection, if the skin colors strangely, come find me.” They said.

The older man bristled ever so slightly, nearly imperceptibly. Whatever the older man had expected Them to say, that wasn’t it.

The older man let go of the shake after a moment.

“’Course, I’ll keep an eye on it.” He confirmed.

They merely nodded in return, and turned to the door to leave.

“Why do you wear the black mask?” The child blurted out, presumably emboldened by seeing the back of Their head and Their hair instead of the mask. This was routine from children.

“Hey, its rude to ask that.” The older man scolded halfheartedly.

They let out a small sigh that only They could hear, their breath warming and moistening their face slightly. They turned around.

“Because I am a Doctor.” They said, their tone the same even measure it always was.

That answer usually mollified children who asked it, unless…

“But why does it look like a bird and hide your eyes and face?” The child prodded, braver than 9 out of 10 other children who took this route of questioning.

“Boy…” The older man warned, but his scolding was halfhearted once again.

They considered for a moment. They had a few answers prepared for this particular line of questioning, but they also had other work to do. Keeping to the one that would end the conversation quickest seemed best for the day.

“The long nose contains aromatics that protect me from diseases that one may be suffering from, the dark eye shields do much the same.” They said. There was another question that could be asked in response to that answer, one that usually circled back to the first.

Luckily, the boy’s courage faded, and he looked away from Them. The older man noticed as well, he let out a slight grunt.

“Sorry about that, kids…” He said noncommittally.

“It is no problem. You know where to find me if I am needed again.” They said, ending the conversation.

Before They could be dragged into more inane questions, They turned around again and opened the rickety wooden door and exited onto the street, leaving the small brick hut behind.

The door closed behind them, and They let out a quick exhale. This one cooled Their face.

The crowded street, or more of an alleyway, if comparing to the main thoroughfares of the city; was crowded with people going and coming. A crush of bodies, all with their own agendas and destinations.

A petri dish really.

They turned their head upwards to catch the sky through their mask. It looked like near mid-day already. They dug into one of the many pockets on their long dark coat and produced a small silver time piece tied by a chain to the inside of the pocket, it confirmed Their suspicions.

They had several more appointments to keep, and while none were overly pressing, they disliked the idea of falling behind. They returned to the time piece to its pocket and began to walk off towards Ratholm, on the other side of the city. They theorized they could start on the far side and work their appointments backward, ending the day in Their lab.

They didn’t get very far down the street before an appointment found them instead. A young woman, no more than twenty years of age and suffering from beginning stages of malnutrition, was focusing her gaze on Them from several dozen feet away and through a small crowd. Her focus drove her feet, as she clumsily separated the crowd to get to them.

They let out a long breath, and their face warmed and moistened. They worked their way to the side of the street and waited.

The young woman finally arrived after inconveniencing several pedestrians. She wore the tattered outfit of a laborer, probably the factories. Desperation was on her face, as were tears by the looks of it. Exhaustion was also practically diagnosable.

“Uh, excuse me?” She began, equal parts desperation and apprehension. “Are you the Doctor? The one from Middenholm?”

“I am a Doctor.” They confirmed in their even tone.

The woman blinked a few times. That response was typical when They said that. They decided to cut to the point.

“Who is in need of attention and what are the symptoms?” They asked.

The young woman was surprised by the forwardness but responded anyway.

“My sister. She… fell over several days ago. She’s been unable to stand or do anything since.” Her voice was lined with fear. They nodded in return. She was hiding details. They usually did in this circumstance.

“Is she far from here?” They asked.

“No, our house is only a few streets over.” The woman said. A small twinge of hope lining her voice.

The house wasn’t far, and They were confident in how the visit would go. It shouldn’t throw off their timetable too much. Though every hypothesis needed to be tested and confirmed.

“Take me to her.” They said. The woman’s eyes lit up.

“Thank you so much! This way!” She said. Her exhaustion seemed to vanish at the news. Hope had strange effects on the body, no matter how ill conceived.

The young woman led Them through the crowd and toward their destination. She seemed surprised when her journey through the streets was easier than it had been. People on the street barely spared a glance for her, but then looked at Them with much more interest, usually straight to the mask. This did not surprise Them in the slightest, and the people who looked at the mask cleared the way for them both.

After a short journey, they found themselves before another tiny brick hut not unlike the one They had just left. The woman anxiously took out a key and unlocked the thin wooden door, swinging it open.

“Please come in!” She said. Hope still lined her voice, but anxiety had crept in.

She led Them inside. The layout was much the same as the other home as well. A small fireplace containing a large cauldron and few rickety tables for cooking and eating. A small bathroom with a toilet and tiny bathtub closed off with a thin curtain. And of course, a small nook of the house containing two beds and a few drawers for clothing. There was only so much variety to be had in The Bricks when it was essentially the same home copied over and over thousands of times.

On one of the beds was the patient. Another woman, maybe a year or two older than the one that had led Them here.

The young woman made to speak, but They did not wait and merely worked their way over to the woman on the bed.

The other woman was laying on her back, nearly perfectly still. She was staring upwards vacantly, as if taking in the vastness of the brick ceiling. She was mostly naked, wearing only the barest threads over what people considered to be their private body zones. It was convenient in Their case, as it made the bodily inspection for obvious injuries nearly instantaneous. To their expectation, the body looked physically fine.

“What’s wrong with her?” The young woman asked from behind them.

They unslung their leather satchel from their shoulder and knelt beside the simple bed.

“I need to do an inspection.” They said as They began to unpack their tools “How long has she been in this condition?”

“Um. Two days.” The young woman said. There was more information on the tip of her tongue, but she clearly bit it back.

They let out a breath, and their face warmed and moistened again.

They began their basic inspection, confirming no obvious wounds all over the body. They moved the body when needed and could feel warmth even through Their gloves. They used scissors to remove what barely constituted for clothing to inspect the private zones as well. They heard the young woman behind Them suck in air. But if they she was planning on saying something, she wisely decided to let Them work instead.

No obvious external injuries, or even minor ones beyond the normal bruises that accompany labor work in the factories. Signs of long-term malnutrition, one fused rib that felt like it healed many years ago, and one long scar along the body’s back. Nothing that would cause the catatonic state.

Their hypothesis was correct.

They took out a long needle from their satchel and made for the body. This time the young woman spoke up.

"What...what are you doing?" She asked apprehensively.

"Gauging nerve reaction. Let me work.” They said. The woman silenced.

They took the needle and pressed it into the sole of the body’s right foot. The body did not move. They repeated at the thigh, again with no reaction; then at the stomach; and finally, very lightly into the ear. No movement at any time.

Another breath, warm and moist.

They sat back on their heels and began to put away most of their tools.

“By “fell” you meant that she fell over and convulsed for some time, before stopping and then entering their current state. Correct?” They asked without looking up from their satchel.

The young woman was silent for some time. They turned their head after a few moments to view the young woman. Her eyes were red, and tears were forming. But Them looking back had halted the tears, and now she wore a visage that reminded Them of the scared young boy. She wasn’t looking at Them, not really, nor her sister, but the mask.

“Y…Yes. That’s what happened.” She admitted finally. They nodded in response.

“They had a stroke; the cause is unimportant. There is no cure or anything anyone could do now.” They stated.

The young woman let out a gasp twinged with a sniffle. They rooted through their satchel for a moment.

They found the subject of their search, and pulled out a long, narrow knife with a simple handle and a blade that tapered into an extremely sharp and thin point. It looked more like a spike than a knife.

“What are you doing!” The young woman cried, a mixture of anger and fear.

“There is nothing anyone can do.” They repeated, not looking back.

“That’s…no. There’s something. Other Doctors in Hocholm, or one of the Magier.” She grasped.

“The Doctors will say the same no matter their cost, and you cannot afford a Magier.” They said.

“I…I’ll save money! I can-“ She began, They cut her off and looked back at her.

“The stroke has, to simplify, killed your sister. She is merely warm now due to the base parts of her mind running the base functions of her body. She will continue to do so until another stroke kills that base part of her mind, or another complication arises and does it. If you are lucky, she may exist in this state for years. Never moving, needing to be changed and taken care of constantly.” They said, their tone never changing from Their normal even keeled one. Their voice one of impassivity from behind a dark mask.

The young woman halted, and stared at them. Her voice conveyed a range of emotions, changing moment to moment. They never bothered to catalogue them, experience informed their contents.

After many silent moments and many emotions on the part of the young woman, she settled on a mixture of resignation and distaste.

“I guess this is easy for you, since you clearly don’t care.” She said, lashing out.

“I need your permission to continue since you halted my procedure.” Was all the dignity They afforded her statement.

Several long moments passed. The young woman began to cry again, and looked away. She let out a weak nod.

“I need an audible confirmation.” They said.

“FINE KILL MY SISTER YOU-“The young woman shouted. She caught herself before finishing.

They merely nodded.

“In your emotional state, it is my recommendation you look away.” They said.

The young woman stared, going through every human emotion once again with much more rage mixed in than earlier. Finally, she looked away.

They turned back to their satchel and grabbed some alcohol and wetted an unused cloth, using it to wipe down the blade. They would need to grab more cloth before the day was out it seemed.

They pushed up, off of their heels and over to the body. Its eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.

They positioned the knife right above the left eye, careful to make sure the point wasn’t making contact with the eye itself, but close enough that the motion would be quick for both Them and the body.

Even with a knife centimeters away from them, the eyes did not move.

Their face warmed and moistened slightly underneath the mask, despite them holding their breath.

Another hand movement, another subtle twist of the wrist, another mercy.