"Doctor Berwin."

Who said that?

The black smog of oblivion thinned imperceptibly, thinned gradually, sluggishly allowing the faint realization of existence. Everything felt... heavy... lethargic, all senses dimmed to a darkness darker than black. It felt slow, and it felt... uneasy.

"Joan."

I'm not supposed to be here...

From the recesses of the haze, a distinct, high-pitched tone rhythmically beat into focus. It was slow, steady, and calm. With each pulse, red light softly simmered in the dark peripheries. Throbbed and disappeared. But with a sudden impulse of dread and fear, the linear glow flatlined and the tone erupted to an unrelenting screech.

What happened?

A murky image burst into view. Open hands. Gloved hands. Bloodied hands. The pale, dusty blue extended from hands to the ruffled folds of scrubs extending up the arms. A foggy apron. And before the hands and arms, a body. Stripped of clothes but covered in a pale blue cloth. Blood everywhere. Welling up from the crimson cavity of the chest, rib cage forcibly cracked and spread apart. Blood flowed. Unstoppable. Frantic hands moved without bodies, pulling, pressing, working. But the first pair hesitated. Trembled. An open hand holding a red coated scalpel. Breathing rapidly. Warm air suffocating. A mask covered the face. Eyes widened. Need to focus. Breathe? No breathing. No air. Nothing. Just fear.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

Joan gasped, sucking in a lungful of cold, crisp air. Her eyes opened painfully, desperately clawing onto consciousness, dragging herself away from the thick, sticky entrails of the dream. The accusation reverberated in her mind, slowly dimming but still lingering in the background. Her body felt cold and damp as she laid in her bed, and a viscous weight sat in her abdomen, nauseating her.

Joan's head lolled to the side as her blurry vision focused on the room before her- her room, and not the rustic bar she last remembered from the night before. It was a small room with a slanted wooden ceiling, located above the town's sole potionary known as "Prickle's Potions." The room was sparsely furnished, with a small bed pushed up against the two windows looking out onto the town below, a creaky bureau, and a pile of old, dusty boxes stacked in the corner with questionable objects inside. Clothes scattered around the small attic, unavoidable from trampling, and a thin, wooden ladder led the way down to the rest of the quaint building.

She turned her head back to stare up at the slanted ceiling so that she could stabilize the slightly spinning world around her. As the view aligned, she noticed a sleepy numbness in her left arm held above her head and the tug of her fingers in her greasy morning hair. Against her better judgement, Joan sat up, feeling her limp arm fall and her black hair brush against her face. The details of the dream mostly faded by now, but the feeling of nausea remained. No, it's getting stronger. Joan threw the bed sheets aside and sprinted to the ladder, bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor. She put a hand to her mouth, trying not to slip on that one wrinkled white shirt that's been crumpled on the floor for the past three weeks, and descended the ladder to the first floor bathroom. She just narrowly made the toilet and vomited.

A meager feeling of relief washed over Joan, and she shakily stood up to look at last night's damage on her face in the mirror. Her face was pale, well, paler than the usual cool, jewel undertones, with dark bags underneath eyes that were still glazed with sleep and the pervading effects of drunkenness. It's a look she was all too familiar with: messy hair, a face that looked like it wanted to die, and last night's clothes that completed this morning's 'look of shame.' But something in the mirror caught her attention. On her shirt, a red stain streaked across the mid-torso. It looked relatively fresh, but had dried within the last several hours.

"What...?" she mumbled to herself as she pulled and twisted the shirt to better inspect the stain. "Is that... blood?" She couldn't think. No train of thought could sail in her mind. Joan inspected her face in the mirror again. She studied her face, forehead, and nose, but no blood. She attempted to remember what happened the night before, but no memories surfaced. She couldn't recall anything besides drinking at the bar. A minute passed, and since no reasonable conclusion came to her mind, she ultimately deemed the blood stain as unimportant. It remained an afterthought as Joan showered and changed, getting ready for her job at the potionary below the lofted room in which she lived.

Potionaries came in all shapes and sizes, some immaculate and some as disorganized as a quirky biologist's lab, but all basically function as a magical pharmacy. Wizards running the potionary would mix together herbs, gemstones, animal parts, strange liquids, and anything else with magical properties together in order to synthesize useful products for their customers. These potions could range from greatly enhancing physical abilities, to granting sweet dreams, to making the wearer smell nice while sweating- all useful in their own right. However, no potion was capable of healing the human body.

The lone potionary in Euless, 'Prickle's Potions,' could only be described as a forest. Green plants crept upon each shelf and bookcase built into the walls of the potionary, bursting out of control. Flowers bloomed widely with colors of sunlight, fuchsia, lavender, and the sky. Clay pots scattered with wildly overgrown plants, and wooden tables disappeared under tangled ferns and vines. Joan walked into the shop room from the back, carrying a gray mug of steaming water in her now clean hands. She sat down at the counter, not glancing at the familiar vials of potions, stored herbs, ground gemstones, and dried reptilian body parts on glass cased shelves behind her.

Joan fixed her black tea, the warm wafting of steam and the bitter taste working to clear her foggy brain. Her whole body hurt, though, and the nausea persisted to a faint, but just noticeable level. But that blood... It wasn't Joan's blood- she didn't have a scratch on her, which was somewhat reassuring, but whose blood was it? Did someone get hurt? Was there a bar fight? Most everyone in the small town was close so that didn't make sense. Unless an outsider came and caused a ruckus? Ha. Shouldn't use the word 'outsider,' since Joan still very much felt like one. You'd think that after living in a place for a whole year, even in a town as small as this one, you'd start to feel accepted, or at least welcome. Maybe the circumstances will never allow for it.

Anyway, the blood. Whoever it was, she figured that they'd make their way to the shop eventually, since it's the only place reminiscent of a medical clinic for miles. But there's nothing that could be done for them now. All she could do was sit there and hope that it was nothing serious...

. . . . .

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Joan stood behind the counter, attempting to suppress an extremely exasperated look on her face with a forced smile, but ultimately not trying that hard at all. A large, middle-aged woman stood in front of her, fiercely holding the wrist of a small, chubby little boy. She had large, wiry blonde hair that cut off just below her shoulders and bangs that bridged across her forehead. She wore vibrant, light blue eye makeup and magenta lipstick, colors that a little kid would choose for themselves for dress up, thinking that they were the epitome of fashion. This older woman apparently never grew out of this phase. The puffy-cheeked young boy with her- no older than six or seven- looked almost like a carbon copy of his mother with a smooth, blonde bowl cut and without the makeup. He occasionally gave a small cough, ultimately unphased at the loudness his mother boisterously yelling at Joan. 

"My little boy has been suffering from a cough for the past two days, and you're telling me a bottle of strength isn't going to help him?"

It's not.

"I'm his mother!"

Poor kid.

"I know what's best for him!"

If you say so.

"Strength always makes him feel better, who are you to tell me I'm wrong?!"

My ten years' worth of medical knowledge.

Joan sighed, not knowing where to start with the heinous misunderstandings this woman believed. It wasn't surprising, though, that this woman, let alone the entire town, believed that magic potions were heaven-sent cure-alls, considering its remote location and pride for home remedies passed down multiple generations. The townspeople had cultivated such an unbreakable trust in magics and potions, that outside information based on research, science, and chemicals was blacklisted as heretical. 

It's surprising though, their devotion. For the past century, magic has been on the decline, rapidly being replaced by technology that was easier to use and less convoluted. To find a town that still fully believed in a dying art such as magic was rare. In her early days at the potionary, she tried to educate the townsfolk and turn their sights to modern medicine. She tried to explain diagnoses and recommend simple medications, but inevitably decided to keep her mouth shut after quickly realizing that no one was interested and everyone was obscenely opposed to her and her words. They didn't listen, so what did it matter? She just reservedly followed instructions and kept customers satisfied.

But today was different for some reason. Maybe it was the intense hangover from the alcohol, who knows, but Joan decided to retort.

"I'm not saying you're wrong, ma'am," she tried to explain herself, "but strength will only help to make the muscles of the body stronger. It might make your son feel stronger, and consequently better, but if he only has a cough, maybe some cough medicine would better help take care of his symptoms." The woman's face distorted in shock and horror, as if Joan had suggested that the mother and her child skip to the cliff naked and throw themselves off.

"Medicine?" She stressed. "You want me to pump my baby full of drugs? I've heard cough medicine makes kids retarded!" Oh wow. Joan couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"That's not true at all--" She tried to rebut, annoyance increasing with her previous comment.

"I've been coming here for potions my entire life and Mr. Prickle has always been good to me and my family! His potions always work, and you come here and tell me I don't know how to take care of my son?" Her face steamed to a bright red as her usually sweet and airy voice grew exponentially to a harsh, throaty yell. "I have never been so disrespected in my entire life! I might as well never come here again if I have to suffer through this--"

"Mrs. Linda, it's very good to see you this morning!" The full sounding and upbeat voice of an old man called calmly from the doorway at the back of the shop. The women turned to look at the wizard, Mr. Prickle, who finally made his appearance. He was layered from head to toe in deep blue robes that dragged behind him on the floor, embroidered with royal purple and silver thread stitched into celestial shapes. He had a long, white beard, small rounded glasses, and a pointed conical, indigo cap with white stars. He was, quite literally, the wizard from numerous fairy tales. His face expressed a serventile smile, ready to placate his loyal customer. 

"What seems to be the problem?"

(continued in Hungover Regrets II)