Ill Doctor

Raindrops battered the stone-cold gravel as the tired tires tore through the ragged roads, tirelessly. My heart slammed against my chest; the leather beneath my claws blunt and the air filled with anticipation, sweat. 

Looking through my rearview mirror, headlights burned along the pavement, the steam smoked the surrounding air. 

My eyes flickered left and right, the veins in my hands blue with tension. Just then, one boot, then two boots slammed against the slippery road as tiny droplets clung onto the car door.

Jet black hair, black long coat slightly hovering the ground, white shirt stained with blood and moisture paired with dark tailored trousers, white lining only illuminated by the shine of the moon. The bridge of his sharp nose crinkled with strain.

My heart stuck in my throat; I struggled to breathe.

Click, seatbelt undone. Click, door opened.

The first time my foot gripped the pavement gave me a shock of fresh air, immediately burning through my throat. I glanced sideways, hastily, still not taking my eyes off the soaked road.

One step and I turned around, only the swift sound of my heavy breathing filled the crisp midnight breeze.

“You didn’t wait too long, before you came crawling back again, did ya?” The damp strands of his hair swung softly, briefly touching the tip of his chin as he spoke, only the slight shine of his teeth reflected off the car door.

I remained silent.

“You’re just as I remember you, you know?” He chuckled for a moment, bringing his hand to slightly skim the top of his lip; his smile broad and his teeth bright. He stepped forward, determined. 

This time, I glared at him straight on, our eyes locked desperately. I spoke, softly, yet filled with force. My jaw was clenched, my eyebrow arched. 

“How many minutes until I get to the interesting part of this conversation?” I swiped my finger across the handle of my car as I swiftly walked past.

“Still got that excruciating sense of humour,” he stepped to the side, avoiding a large puddle that had been accumulating for some time.

“What the hell do you want? I gave you what you wanted; there is nothing else that I have that you haven’t already taken from me. I have nothing else.”

He laughed, not chuckled this time, his mouth opening wide, his dimple sinking lower into his left cheek.

“I thought you were the smart one,” a sharp shriek of laughter erupted from his mouth as it exploded into the surrounding air.

“You know what though?” he paused, catching his breath, “You’re right.”

Just as I had raised a brow in confusement, he noticed my sudden slouch of the shoulders, catching me by surprise. 

Suddenly, he pulled out a metal case of cigarettes, engraved with his initials: L.P. 

Click, box opened. Another click, it was shut.

Once the cigarette was ignited, his eyes remained closed, breathing in until his cheeks sunk into his cheekbones, resembling the appearance of a ghastly skull. His eyes flickered open like a dummy, until they finally settled upon my shoes, climbing up till they reached my eyes. I craned my neck upwards slightly, looking down upon the beast that I once trusted, my father.

“Like father, like son, I’d say. You’re just. Like. Me.” He leaned forwards, his words almost a whisper in the bitter winter air. A grim smile sweeped upon his face, merciless. His words were a punch. He knew what he was doing. What he always knew how to do best. His eyes suggested he was waiting for a reaction, anything that could express my discomfort, my anger that burned through my past like fire through paper. I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction of causing me more pain, not again.

“Do you have a point you want to make here? So that’s why you’re here, to bore me to death with your ‘like father, like son’ speech?”

“For god’s sake, why do you have to be so difficult? We’re a team, me and you, until you had to screw it up as you always did, as you still do. God, that’s why you need me, to stop you from screwing up your life. You’re nothing without me, heck, you’ll never be anything.” He lifted up, the wrinkle of his scar slightly illuminated, contrasting with the darkness of his eyes. The eyes are the window to your soul. Yet he has none.

“Thanks for the inspiring story, old man, but if this is why you followed me here, it’s an awful way to get some quality time with your son.” This time I laughed. I laughed loudly. It felt so good to get rid of some tension that bare weight on my shoulders, only to be replaced with something heavier, anger.

“Old man, is it?” He stepped closer, the tip of his nose only centimetres away from mine. From here, I could see his face clearly now. He was older, as I had imagined, yet he still looked as strong and powerful as ever. The cigarette barely clung onto the edge of his lips. The smell of blood on his shirt stung through my nose. It was hard not to feel small standing next to him, as his broad shoulders made mine look scrawny and minuscule. He always had a way of making me feel small, feel worthless. That’s what he did best.

“You better watch your tone, because the way I see it, this ain’t looking good for you.” Slithers of his southern accent bled into his voice occasionally. I stared down at him, my eyes unable to blink, unable to look away from the monstrous being that stood in front of me.

His hand slid down, stumbling until he found his coat pocket. His arm clenched for a second, just for a second, as he gripped on something tightly, firmly. He saw me staring, so he glared at me, his smile friendly but his eyes cruel. My eyes reflected nothing but resentment.

“You gonna shoot me again?” I raised my brow, a smirk slowly appearing across my face, unamused.

“No. You should’ve no better than that, son.” He spat out the word ‘son’ like it was poison to him - his tongue burned like acid. “No,” he whispered slowly, handing over an envelope. His eyes hovered over the envelope proudly, then up at me.

“I’m not taking orders from you again,” I huffed as I stepped back, my hands drawn to the front of my chest as a signal for me to back out.

Suddenly, he grabbed the collar of my soaken shirt, grasping it so tightly that I gasped, drawing in the little air that was still between us. His eyes swallowed me up in their darkness, darkness because there was nothing there. He turned his face so that he could whisper in my ear, he said, “You might wanna rethink your decision, son. You don’t wanna do anything…” He puffed a cloud of smoke into my face, to make me flinch. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“...stupid.” He felt almost relieved to finally get to finish the end of his sentence, something that he always seemed to do when he was trying to prove a point. I never got the point.

“You have never and will never hold your ‘old man authority’ over me. I chose myself to get in. And I chose to leave. You had nothing to do with anything that ever happened to me, ever. You are just as significant to me as the old tree in my backyard. Well, at least the old tree doesn’t have the decency to talk.” I emphasised the last two words, causing the old man to flinch. Anger burned through every part of his veins, just for a second, before returning to a state of calmness, or so I thought. I caught him off guard, just for a second. So I continued.

“All you are is an old man, and that is all you will ever be. An old man. With nothing left but his old mercedes.” 

What happened next shocked me. He remained silent. No hot-tempered words slipping from his thin lips. No bulging eyes escaping from their sockets. No, in fact just the opposite. He did nothing. Nothing but hung on to that envelope, his eyes were nothing but calm. That should have been the sign. The warning.

He sucked in a quick breath of the still air, for there was no wind to blow away the tension that still resided in the air. That’s when I realised, we were all alone. Here.

“In this envelope,” he sighed, looking extremely composed. He continued, “is the list of men that ruined our lives, both of our lives. I want them treated; they're our patients after all, they need us. You need to cure them, son, for good this time. Last time wasn’t good enough. I want them to feel… safe, safe in our hands. Everything that you need is in here, son. Don’t you want me to treat them the way I had always treated you? You’re ill son. It’s time for you to come with me and we can cure you. Together.” 

His eyes flickered shut for a brief moment as he tilted his head up towards the sky, the memories of those he tortured danced in his mind like a lamb prancing in the spring fields. 

“I’m not doing that anymore, I said I’m out.” 

That was when I realised that I’ve been done entertaining this conversation, so I began to walk away, first mistake. 

As I turned around, I could see hell blazing in his eyes. They seemed calm, as before, but something was different, a switch had turned up the crazy in those eyes. I wished I had picked up on that then, but I was too ignorant to realise who I was talking to. I thought I knew him, but he was worse than my deepest fears. He was truly a monster that I helped build, and now, he is out of control. 

The look on his face looks somewhat disappointed and almost surprised that I would, or anyone would, ever dare to turn my back on him. The deep wrinkles sliced his forehead in three parts, the skin dry from many years in the sun. I thought I heard a click, yet I didn’t turn around. In a way, I was afraid, but I was too proud to acknowledge that. I would never let him treat over me again. Not again. Second mistake.

And that’s when it hit me. Again, again, and again. Or should I say he hit me. Again, again, and again. First, it was a blow to my head; again, again, and again. I stumbled onto the ground, the tiny pebbles digging into my palms. Second, it was a blow to my back; again, again, and again. What made it worse is that he actually waited for me to get up, made me face him so he could see the blood trickling from the back of my head to the back of my neck. I craned my neck so I could see what he was hitting me, and how he was able to hit me so hard. But he wasn’t hitting me. He was stabbing me, quite hard. Again, again, and again. 

I was on my knees by now; his smile stabbed me harder than the blade he was using. He swung his arm back high above his head, stronger and harder; again, again and again. He puffed his hair out of his face, which was going red, no purple, with determination and effort. But that didn’t stop him, he kept going. He didn’t stop until I was ready, ready to give up, my face slumped on the gravel, the soaked pebbles pinched my cheeks. I lay there, now my shirt covered in blood, slowly making its way towards my face. If I heard muffling, it was probably him swearing, yelling, laughing - I wouldn’t be surprised. 

My eyes began to close, slowly my surroundings became distant, like looking at a painting. My breathing changed from heavy, raspy quick breaths, to slow calm breaths. The blood steamed from my wounds. One, two, three - at one point I lost track. It just all became a numbing pain. I couldn’t feel my hands, my feet, my back - only the pounding agony of my head. It was weirdly peaceful, yet horrifying.

“Uh, uh, uh, big guy, you’re not going anywhere yet,” I heard him say, pulling my eyelid back open - my sudden peace disrupted.

I looked back into his eyes, but I couldn’t see anything. He was transparent, only the shine of his smile creeped back upon his face, his nose still sharp, his hair still damp, but it was drying. Then I noticed the knife: it was red, with my blood I guessed. His laughter stung my eardrums, his smile blinded my vision. That’s when everything went dark.

But I wished it would have ended there, like that. But it didn’t. This wasn’t the first time. Wouldn’t be the last time either. 

Dragged by the ankles, my face felt sore, my head smashed repeatedly against the stone cold road like a lifeless dummy.

I heard the car door open. I heard the sound of the tires shriek against the damp pavement, complaining. I peered around me, it was still dark but I could still make out my dad grabbing the steering wheel, the lights pierced through the windows. 

Then, there was a sudden stop. A slight jerk of the car as we came to a halt. My dad grabbed me, more carefully this time, lifting me up by the shoulders, then trying to get a good hold of my arms, my heel of my shoes still dragged along the road, towards a bright building. I’ve seen this before. I think we went inside, I started to cry, no my dad started to cry. He was crying out to the woman closest to him, to get help. She rushed away, called some more people over. I remember being picked up by more people this time, my body still limp, like they were holding someone else because I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel their hands, like I was made out of rubber. That’s when I realised we were in a hospital. Nurses were trying to lift me up onto a bed. A doctor and a surgeon were talking, but they were moving. I guessed I was moving. The doctors were going to take care of me, just like they always did, just as dad had always said.

Lights stung my eyes, they were so bright, but my memories were just so dark.

That’s when I woke up. Visions of the hospital sprung from my memory, as it disappeared all around me, as if it was never really there, because I was never really there - I was never really there. I wished I was there, but I wasn’t.

Instead, the feeling of my head being strapped down into the leather chair, haunted my senses, again. My legs tightly strapped far apart from each other. No shoes. I notice my shoes are gone.

My eyeballs slightly dipped into the bottom of my eye to properly see the room. My hair felt wet, my mouth tasted like chemicals but my body felt great. My arms were strapped as well, but twice: once at the elbows and another time at the wrists. Dad had always said that I was a fighter. The room seemed just like before, dim, with no windows, only the one old swinging light that slowly tried its best to illuminate the rest of the room. The room smelt damp, like mould, but metallic. In the corner was an old set of wooden stairs, no railing. I heard a noise to my right, my eyeballs refused to stretch that far up my forehead. I heard something that sounded like cutlery being smashed together, and a sigh - that was dad’s sigh.

“You’re alright there son?” He peered over so he was just in my view, his smile seemed to have lit up the rest of the room. 

“Yes dad,” I replied, a grin appeared on my face as the chin strap that I failed to notice had gotten tighter, digging into my skin.

“That’s good to hear son,” he smiled back, but bigger. “The doctor said that you need some rest for now, son, to let the…” he cleared his throat and scanned over my body briefly. “...medicine do its thing.”

I glanced over my previous wounds, and they were still there. Then the pain came back, all at once. The agony, the torture, the bloodloss, all came back to me. Dad said the doctor would make me better, but somehow I feel worse than before. It stung, it felt sore, everywhere, it throbbed - let’s just say it hurt, a whole lot.

“Dad… I’m not sure the medicine is working. Could you call the doctor, please?” My throat felt dry, as it feels when you haven't drinken in days - I wouldn't be surprised if it was years.

Dad leaned in closer, so his face was close to mine.

“The doctor says it will get better in time, son. How about you take a quick nap son? It sure looks like you need one! And a long one as well! Can you do that for me son? Let the doctor do his…” he paused, for effect I presumed. “...magic.” Dad grinned again, this time it felt forced, not like the ones he used to give me, before.

As I closed my eyes, the swinging light still tormented him, I glimpsed my dad walking over to the chair, my chair, that I was sitting on, or should I say strapped on. Scurrying quickly out of my sight, he came back. Back with the envelope. Doctor had always kept all of his medicine recipes in there.