“I assure you, madam, the problems are entirely biological.”
Bad ballast flourescents flickered overhead and the doctor checked his records. Female. Fifty-nine years old. Stroke. The worst kind of diabetes. He tucked the thin slab of wood under his arm, assessing the woman before him and tugging at the collar of his snow colored coat.
A sister or distant cousin, perhaps, she offered no explanation but disjointed stories, intimate knowledge of identifying tattoos. Resting at her knees, she had a basket of witchcraft.
“That robotic plank will be her deathbed if you don’t let me in. A situation you can neither bend nor mend. One you couldn’t pretend to comprehend.”
She waved her hand from the waiting room chair, silver bangles clattering to punctuate her disdain. The confident doctor faltered. He drew a deep breath and placed a hand on his heart, subconsciously counting the rhythm of his discomfort. He tried to ignore the subtle pulse that seemed to slice through the room, and with a few beads of sweat on his brow, surrendered, his clipboard falling among the empty chairs.
Leaning against a wall-mounted ashtray that hadn’t been used in decades, he caught his breath and let the woman pass, trinkets in tow. She placed a gnarled hand on his shoulder, metallic bands sliding toward the elbow of her outstretched arm.
“A few minutes, it takes. No interruptions, no mistakes.”
She dragged the ragged hem of her skirt toward a set of double doors, her feet obscured by black fabric patchwork. A timid attendant shuffled out of her way, retreating behind a cluttered desk with laminate peeling away its edges. She shot him a glance as the hinges squeaked, and the young man knocked a stack of loose papers onto the floor, sheets fluttering into dusty corners.
The two men stood together without a word, hearing only the diminishing whines of the swinging door losing its inertia. It came to a rest, and in the moment of resulting silence, they heard a quiet click, the mechanical clock overhead striking midnight.
Hushing one another, they gently pushed through the door and slid into the adjacent hall. Creeping across the yellowish tile, they approached the patient’s room and listened intently to the emanating incantation.
“Protection for the poor, and power to the powerless horde. Truth made new with builders’ bones and the blood of the boar. Scorching darkness, prince’s plight. The end begins. It begins this night.”
In a fleeting moment of renewed bravery, the doctor peeked around the doorframe. The aging machines were all turned off, the room’s typical beeps and buzzes replaced with eerie stillness. The patient seemed stable, her chest moving rhythmically with unassisted breath.
The woman in black whistled as she collected items from around the bed, a mirror, a stone, a dried and decaying rose.
She tucked the last of her things into the basket and turned to the unconscious woman beside her. Sliding a ring from the patient’s right hand, she let out a little laugh.
“No more hiding, gentlemen. Nothing to fear. The work, for this auspicious evening, is done here.”
The two men emerged with shaking knees and slowly entered the room. Trying to conjure his courage, the doctor raised his finger to speak. The cuff of his pristinely bleached coat fell back, the harsh light reflecting against the band of his gold watch and into his eyes.
The attendant moved cautiously to the patient’s side and filled the space left by the doctor’s hesitation.
“Is she going to be okay?”
Bolstered by the broken tension, the doctor chimed in, demanding satisfaction in his most authoritarian tone.
“Tell me what you’ve done in detail. Who are you? What is going on here? Damn you, answer me!”
Holding the basket in the crook of her elbow, she hobbled her way past the two men, pausing to address the doctor. She patted his chest, and slipped the silver ring into his breast pocket. With a pointed fingernail, she traced the blue calligraphy of his monogram and smiled.
“Good sir, do not pretend to know what is true. Not a cure for her, but medicine for me, and perchance for you too.”
The doctor followed into the hallway and watched her walk away, a few of the lights flickering in time with her limping steps. As the last wisp of her skirt disappeared between the double doors, the attendant shouted for help.
The machines roared to life and the patient convulsed. She sat upright, clawing the breathing tube from her face and carving deep scratches into her jaw. Gasping, she screamed through the din of howling alarms, above the shriek of her flatlining heart monitor.
The doctor rushed to her side and she clutched at his coat with bloody fingertips, her panicked shouts transforming into words.
“No. Please not this anguish, nor this fate at this hour. Did the beast leave behind the ring, or the flower?”