Time Waits for Some

There’s a rumor, oft spoken of amongst gossiping housewives, drunken vagabonds, and truant delinquents, that a back-alley doctor operates just out of sight from the public eye, one who performs miracles. The procedure one must perform to find him differs, depending on who you ask. Some ardently claim the doctor lives on an unmarked floor in a hospital, while others believe he resides in a forgotten room within an abandoned crack den.

It’s a story that’s been circulating for decades, yet never subsiding like so many other urban legends. About ninety-five percent of people who know of the story think little of it, just a hoax manufactured to prey on the peoples’ naivete, giving them hope that someone can solve their problems.

Rest assured, though, the doctor is real.

It was in the year 1960, in a nonspecific location, that Elmo Figgis found him. Following some unsuccessful searches, Elmo eventually discovered a lead with enough solid direction to guide him into a nearby forest. From what he’d heard, the doctor had participated in the second world war as an English surgeon, yet for some reason, he vanished, ensconcing himself in the cold and clammy safety of his bunker. Why he’d done so in the states was anyone’s guess.

En route, Elmo took note of the landmarks he needed to follow: an arched rock formation, a sturdy oak bridge across a waterfall, a hole – two meters in diameter and seemingly without a bottom. Just being near that last one gave him a headache.

Most would’ve given up, thinking the whole thing an elaborate wild goose chase, but Elmo was different. He had a mission, one he needed to accomplish, one that was a matter of life or death.

So, he continued, and as if it was a reward for his persistence, he found the bunker – a innocuous slab of concrete with a metal door that stuck out from the rest of the hillside to which it was attached. As per instruction, Elmo knocked on the door – two quick, one long, two quick, one long, two quick, one long, three quick, one long. The whole thing seemed painfully arbitrary, so much so that Elmo felt like a fool, even though he was alone.

But therein Elmo’s error lay. He was not alone. Unlocking the door, it opened with a slight push.

Within the bunker, the first sight that greeted Elmo must’ve been a strange one – a child, no older than ten, sleepy-eyed and clad in pajamas depicting cartoon goats.

“Oh, hello,” Elmo said, stepping in without permission. “Are your parents here?”

“No. Don’t got none.” An awkward silence took over, but just for a moment. “Doc’s at the end of the hall. Can’t miss him.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Elmo simply nodded, flashing a bright smile that probably got him lots of women, then hobbling past into the barren concrete tunnel, only illuminated by dim fluorescent lights overhead.

If appearances were anything to go by, Elmo was a simple man. He had on a pair of long khakis and a plaid button-down with a texture not dissimilar to a picnic blanket. As for his physical appearance, Elmo had a certain leanness to him, no doubt because of his youth. He was probably either in his late teens or early twenties, and his clean-shaven, spotless face supported that image.

The hall went on much farther than it looked, and by the time he reached the door, he began to seriously consider the danger he might face beyond it. Elmo turned back, wanting to gauge just how far he had gone.

No good. He could only see a few meters back. Anything past that was too dark to see.

Had this been a few decades later, or had Elmo been more informed, he might’ve deduced that the lights triggered based on motion, but then again, Elmo was a simple man.

Elmo resigned himself to whatever awaited him behind the door, then entered.

The first thing that hit him was a blast of warmth. Elmo hadn’t noticed how cool it’d been in the hall, since the outside temperature was already quite low, but the new room’s scathing heat nearly pushed him back with its intensity. He wondered how anybody could survive in there. He looked into the room, his eyes still squinting from the initial shock.

Elmo wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a normal operating room with a surgeon’s table seemed incongruous considering the esoteric instructions he’d followed to find the place. He scanned the room several times before crossing the threshold, yet as he did, he noticed something – the low, unmistakable sound of running water.

Elmo turned to his right; just in front of him was the doctor. At least, it was someone who looked like a doctor, albeit one past his prime. Had the man carried any semblance of a threat, Elmo would’ve noticed, but he got nothing from the guy. He was clearly old, white hair taking up more surface area on his face than skin, and what little skin did show was dark and wrinkly. On top of that, his entire body seemed to sag, like his skin was fighting a futile battle merely to hang on.

Elmo couldn’t lie. He found the sight of this man to be a bit pathetic. He failed to notice the quantity of blood the doctor was washing off.

“Sorry,” Elmo said, “didn’t see you there. Your secretary let me in.”

Elmo smiled at the old man, but it seemed like the joke failed to land.

“Heh? Who’s there?” the doctor said with a noticeable lisp. It looked like the very act of speaking pained him greatly. “Oh, you mean Little M. He isn’t my secretary. I’ll be with you after I’m done cleaning up from my last job. No rest for the wicked.”

Elmo was worried. He highly doubted there’d been anyone else there.

“I do apologize for the temperature!” the old man said. “However, I have some exotic plants that can only survive at such extremes.” Just then, Elmo was caught off guard by a sharp banging that came from a neighboring room. “I’ll feed you in a minute! Oh, I’m sorry about this… what is your name?”

“Elmo Figgis.”

“Ah, yes, a strong name. I, good man, am known by my sobriquet Doctor Tufas. For the right price, I will give you whatever you wish.”

For a time, the two stared at one another. It wasn’t until Elmo realized Doctor Tufas was waiting for a request that he tried to come up with something. It was funny. He knew exactly what he wanted, but at the same time, he didn’t want to appear foolish if his desire truly was impossible.

Staring into the doctor’s black, beady eyes, he said, “I want to be immortal. Can you do that?”

Tufas raised an eyebrow. “How immortal are we talking?”

Elmo sighed. “I guess I should explain…” Tufas slouched a little. He’d heard thousands of sob stories during his tenure as a surgeon. Nowadays, they all more or less blended together. “…My family, doctor, isn’t wealthy. My old man ditched us when I was still a kid, leaving me to keep things in order at home. I’ve got a little brother and sister, cute as can be. My mom’s great, don’t get me wrong, but she runs herself ragged to provide for us. There’s no way she could handle both work and home life. Up until now, things worked out fine, but…” Elmo paused to compose himself.

Oh, Lordy Lucifer, please don’t start crying, you hickish pillock.

“…I got drafted. Doc, I’m going to be sent away!”

“I’m sorry,” Tufas said, “I don’t keep up with external affairs. Drafted for what?”

Elmo grunted, trying to hide his frustration. He spoke his next words carefully. “The bottom line is this: I am going to war. I need assurance that I won’t die out there, because if I do, I doubt my family could sustain itself. And if something happened to my mom, and my siblings were alone… God, I can’t bear to think of it!”

“Blood contract.”

That was all Tufas said.

“Huh?” Elmo replied.

“You heard me. What, you thought this would be free? You’re not only asking for eternal youth. You’re asking for indestructability. Do you have any idea just how bloody hard that is? It’ll be murder on me, but I can do it.”

“Really?” Elmo said, half surprised, half incredulous. “Forgive me for being skeptical, but-”

“No more ‘but’s’ from you, child. I’ll start with just your arm – no charge. Hell, you can even be awake for it if you’d like. It’ll be a learning experience. If you’re pleased with how things turn out, I will apply the procedure to the rest of your body. The only catch is that it isn’t free. I need your blood – your soul.”

“Yes,” Elmo said. No hesitation.

“I don’t feel that much different…” Elmo said, deflated. He stretched out his arm muscles, and nothing felt especially immortal about him. He was a little upset, considering how he let the doctor jam some tubes into his wrist, infusing his blood with some weird, bioluminescent crap.

“Who ever said being immortal would make you feel any different? Here, allow me.”

Tufas, without provocation, thrust his scalpel downwards, right into Elmo’s palm, piercing clean through, then deftly sliding it out.

Elmo screamed, swinging at Tufas, though the old doctor effortlessly pivoted away from the clumsy swipe. Tufas pointed the knife at Elmo, or, more specifically, Elmo’s hand.

It was fully healed.

“Will you sign the contract now?” Tufas asked. “I see you’ve got a lot of blood ready. Little M already wrote up a contract.” He held out an old piece of parchment to Elmo. “I think he knew you’d be coming.”

Still hazy from what had happened, Elmo didn’t care to read the contract. At that moment, he only knew one thing: His hand felt damn good when it mended itself. With a Cheshire Cat-grin, Elmo pressed his bloody hand against the paper.

Unbeknownst to him, the following words became permanently stitched upon his wrist: Tempus Fugit.

“Let us begin the operation.”

By the time Elmo left the clinic, it was late at night. He thanked the doctor profusely before leaving, his vigor increased tenfold.

The Elmo that left the clinic felt like a wholly different person. Still, one thought nagged at Doctor Tufas. It was regarding the boy’s leg. For someone who got drafted in the army, it was strange how his leg was damaged, likely from some previous injury. Tufas had fixed it, of course, but to his recollection, that injury could’ve been enough to get him out of the war. Curious, the doctor thought, but he couldn’t entertain the thought for long. The next patient would arrive soon. There was work to be done.

From the moment the surgery concluded, Elmo ceased to exist, or to be more accurate, his temporary persona faded away in favor of his true self. Attaining immortality, the first thing he wanted, more than anything else, rang through his synapses at the speed of light.

Elmo wanted to kill.

He considered testing his blade on the old doctor, but no. There wouldn’t be any fun in that. He wanted someone younger, yet still old enough to understand what was happening to them.

It’d been a day since then, and he’d gone to great lengths to scope out his next victim – a boy, age seven, a member of the upper-middle class, a decent home in the suburbs, addicted to some new cartoon about cavemen. Oh, how he relished the thought of taking all that away, and with the kid being both an only child with workaholic parents and his primary caretaker being a granny pushing ninety, it was as if he was asking for it.

When it came time to put his plan into action, it was almost midnight.

With a smug confidence brought about by his newly acquired immortality, Elmo vaulted over the rear fence, then picked the door’s weak lock. He had broken into the living room in less than a minute.

Elmo was greeted by a room swathed in darkness, the only light coming from a staticky television set playing a sitcom. The boy’s grandmother slinked back into a couch, only briefly turning her head to acknowledge Elmo’s presence, but she didn’t seem to think much of him. Elmo smiled at the woman’s senility.

“Your boy asleep?” Elmo asked.

“Gregory is napping,” she said. “You shouldn’t wake him.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Elmo stifled a laughter, but as he turned his back on the old lady to climb the stairs, he heard two distinct, heavy clicking sounds. He looked back to see the granny, standing with her legs far apart, aiming a shotgun right at him.

Before he could say anything in his defense, the old woman shouted at him:

“Rot in hell, motherf-”

The rest was cut off by an explosive sound.

The shotgun pellets must have already passed through his body. The shot should have killed him, but no. Something wasn’t right. He could feel the incessant, searing pain as the lead tore through him, yet their velocity seemed to dissipate the further inside him they traveled.

Simply put, he was stuck, and the pellets had stopped moving.

His first instinct was to move. When that failed, he tried to speak, and when no sound came out, he tried to breathe. It was then that he made another realization: Everything aside from his consciousness was immobilized.

Every minute sensation – from the bullets ripping through his guts to the fly on the back of his neck – was crystallized in place. No matter how much he tried to will out the feelings by ignoring them, they remained. It was a strange experience, panicking so intensely with a heart rate of zero. In his mind, he called out to someone, anyone, to help him, his fear reaching a startling peak.

It was then that I decided to speak.

“I’d say it’s a definite improvement – your appearance, that is.”

On instinct, Elmo attempted to turn his head to get a better look, but nothing came of it.

“Of course, that was sarcasm. In truth, you look like a man close to death. Sorry to be so blunt.”

I though my nonchalance would’ve put him at ease, but really, it did the opposite. He wanted answers.

“But enough beating around the bush. You seem to want an explanation as to what is happening.”

And then it clicked; he remembered me.

Why is that boy from the doctor’s bunker here? he thought.

“Oh, you remember me. That’s good, less explaining that way.

“You see, the good doctor was determined to fulfill your desire, though your wish for eternal life was quite difficult. It’s an operation that is impossible for a mere human to perform in a traditional sense, yet despite that, my master was able to give you limited regenerative capabilities and cease the aging process within your body.

“Still, there was the dilemma of physical injury. You can’t crush someone’s skull with a cinderblock and expect them to walk away like nothing happened. When severe enough, there isn’t anything you can do about injuries to vital organs.

“So, that’s when my master came up with the brilliant idea to change your perception of time. It took quite a bit of doing, since it called for plenty of manipulation in each of your lobes, then connecting specific nerves from your heart to your brain. However, he succeeded beautifully.

“Now, whenever your heart rate drastically plummets, your brain senses the imminent death and slows down your perception of time – not time itself, of course. For again, that would be impossible. Now, the pellets are in a perpetual state of getting halfway closer to your vital areas, yet they will never truly reach them.

“Congratulations, you’re immortal.”

As I finished speaking, I could sense that Elmo wanted nothing more than to leave – to run out of the room and escape from the nightmare. In his thoughts, he begged me for a second chance. I didn’t reply. After several minutes of unbearable silence, he mentally requested a release from his contract.

“Oh? You want to hand over your soul already? Are you that dissatisfied?”

As if I’d make it that easy.

“Well, I’m afraid I must refuse. I won’t allow you to die at this moment.”

He asked me why.

“Call it a whim. I find a bit of morbid humor in letting you experience this sensation for a while. I’d love to see how much your demeanor has changed by then, yet for me, the time will be instantaneous.”

Slowly, I moved into his central vision. As I did so, the man wished for nothing more than to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. My true form was so vile, so ungodly, that had he not been paralyzed, he would have collapsed on the spot in abject disgust.

Elmo knew with absolute certainty what was before him – a demon.

I smiled. Then, still mimicking the voice of a child, I spoke one last time to him.

“I also find you a tad on the pathetic side, so I believe that by breaking you down a few times, it could make your personality more palatable. It’s not like you have much else to look forward to, aside from a stretch of nothingness followed by eternal damnation.”

My form dissolved before him. It might have been horrifying to look at, but as I faded before his eyes, I could tell he wanted to scream, to force me to stay and to release him. But when I wholly evaporated into an ethereal void, all I could tell him was, “Thank you for your patronage.”