Suddenly, from what seemed the darkest shadow of the room, a doctor figure stepped forward, revealing a uniform less fashionable than that of Mortigus’ doctor, yet more practical for manual work. The stranger doctor examined the side of the table and used their gloves to scrub the rune symbols of the table, then checked the quality of the cables by stretching them. One after the other, from soundless voids of the room, doctors and assistants appeared, dressed in similar uniforms. Tool cabinets would be pushed closer to the table, as Rhit was bringing Mortigus closer to the centre of it all. Mortigus started realising that Rhit’s grip had gotten stronger, much stronger, his body stuck in bench vise formed by the assistant's arms. His attempts of squirming or heavy breathing would arise no one’s reaction, while his body was lowered onto the centre table. Like snakes, cables were constricting his wrists and ankles, imposing him to lay down straight on his back. A needle quickly stung his arm, to which was connected a tube, but from his position the boy couldn’t follow the tube to what it was connected to. The doctors began touching his legs and torso, assessing the skin and the illness’ progression, but despite it all, Mortigus could barely feel the coldness of their gloves, as all his body was beginning to shut down yet again. Hiis skin and limbs started to feel detached from him, as his throat made words impossible to express. A bright light was shoved above his face, his eyes struggling to be kept open, his ears remaining the last way for the boy to perceive reality. In the sea of foregin voices whispering through the thick mask material, he managed barely to single out one of the louder voices.
“ The anaesthetics are showing their effect. Prepare the preservation solution and bring samples number 3, 4, 8, 9 and 10 for the moment. Just in case, bring a spare artificial blood jar.”
“Shall we proceed with the incision on the abdomen?”, came a response.
“Patient is within expected condition, thankfully, you may indeed proceed with the first plan. Now, if you ….”, the blur of sounds and lights overtook Mortigus, sweeping his sense of self. Not even his visceral fear was left once his consciousness faded away.
Slow colours would flow from a cascade, never starting, never ending, a display of unfitting light in a void. There is only one point of view and yet it feels like everything is in focus at the same time. Multiple movements can be felt by instinct, not by sight or hearing. A snap, like a lighting through a young tree, ripping off its bark and leaving a burning scar, but the snap was followed by the colour waterfalls blessing the tree, keeping it alive. The few short branches started growing rapidly and diformed, trying to reach the sky as if to invite another merciless lighting strike. A green spark developed inside an opening in the trunk, attracting the void to devour the tree from the ground up. Another lighting striked, repelling the void enveloping the tree.
A pair of eyes opened abruptly, Mortigus winced as the dream threw him rigidly out into reality. His scattered brain could not collect itself from the overwhelming feeling of vomit and lack of balance, and the nightmarish sleep had left him resourceless as well. After his body forcefully shut down so many times, one would think it was something one could get used to, but for Mortigus was one hell of an awakening, perhaps worse than anything he had ever experienced. In an attempt to get reconnected to reality, Mortigus tried to rub his eyes, his arm rising slowly to the nasal bone. Or so he thought, as a strange, wide hand came into view, with segmented dark fingers with a white, elastic-looking bands in the place of joints. The texture was far foreign from human skin, with lines mimicking the bark of a young tree. The hand would be attached to an arm just as strange, continuing with even deeper bark lines on the inside and a greenish outer side. Another oddity was the angle of this massive arm, as it was directed above Mortigus’ nose yet it was in the focus point of his eyes. Looking to the ground, the boy barely now noticed the slight tint of green covering his vision, and the wild manner in which his eyes would adapt to the poor lighting in the room. Mortigus tried again reaching his nose bone, but the weird fingers came dangerously close to the underside of his eyes. The boy realised he was indeed in control of the hand, more or less, as he sluggishly moved each finger individually. He then moved the whole hand, testing his field of vision, however, something was out of order. He allowed his fingers to get closer and made contact with the eye, despite his body edging to recoil, yet once touched, the eye gave no reaction. Wait, the eye? The boy frantically started feeling his face, searching for his eyes, but he could only find one singular sphere, way larger than just one eye, now resting in the nose’s place. His mouth disappeared as well, its vacant spot having only deep lines like the texture on the arm. While his fear response in the past would often be blinking rapidly, Mortigus came to realise his new cyclop-like eye lacked any eyelids or eyelashes, keeping itself moisturised with a weird layer of thin slime. Too terrified to try to push more against his new eye, his breathing got too sporadic, leaving him with his hands clutching his throat. Indeed the bizarre arm from before was also his now, both bark arms connecting to his now shoulders covered in red protrusions, reminiscent of toadstool mushrooms.
“Slowly inhale, wait, and slowly exhale….just like auntie taught me.” the boy told himself, trying to use a breathing exercise. His blood was already pumping in his fingers and head like a river stream, making it hard to focus on anything but panic. His chest would rise and collapse rhythmically, as he slowly took back control of his breathing. The rush of blood would diminish, and his hands no longer grasped so tightly his own neck. Mortigus started forward, the outlines of dark, thin and long marks in front of him concentrating into clear bars of metal. A poorly lit room could be made out through the bars, with a wooden door sticking out in a far corner. No windows but only a few sewer mouths were letting air in the room. The gloom room was filled with scattered crates of various sizes. Mortigus glanced to his immediate surroundings, what would be inside the three walls and metal bars imprisoning him. A simple, greyish mattress with a rather soft feel, a beige quilt thrown to the side by his sudden awakening, Mortigus was surprised that the coldness of the rocky floor did not bother him at all. The boy took a look to the right corner, where a small table was holding a plate of food, but Mortigus couldn’t tell the ingredients apart too well, except for the carrots and cucumbers. A rather small demijohn, filled with a clear liquid, was resting next to a table leg. Mortigus grabbed the wall, raising one of his knees, attempting to stand up. In the same second, the sound of an unlocked door reached his ear. In the opposite end of the room, from the entrance emerged a familiar face, or rather, mask.
“Mortigus, or more fitting, Cured One! Oh it’s such a pleasure to see you awake again, I apologise I wasn’t here when you woke up. Confusion, fear, maybe disdain, I understand what you might feel.” The doctor was moving towards the bars, casually speaking as if catching up with a recurring patient, the monstrous state of Mortigus being all too familiar for him. Mortigus scurried to the back wall of the cell. He tried to throw out a few words but his throat felt like a musical instrument he’d never played before.
“Oh, that movement around your Adam’s apple, you must still be unable to speak. Despite waking up several times already, you seem unable to let out a word. Do not worry, yours truly, doctor Nostra, is here to simply check your health. Please eat from the plate near you, it should cover most nutritional needs of your new body. And, well, you enjoyed it the last times you’ve tried it. “
Mortigus didn’t know what to make of the doctor’s intention. He could recognise that Nostra was indeed the plague doctor that took him from his parents, but the memories beyond the store-like ground floor of the doctors’ office. If he woke up in this cell before, he couldn’t remember much outside of trance-like states of staring at shadows. His empty stomach did start to make itself noticed, but was it safe to eat from the plate? Did he do it before, did that cause him to lose his memories again and again? Why were these bars obstructing his freedom in the first place? While the boy was lost in his manic storm of thoughts, the doctor took a spoon from his own pocket and plunged it into the plate of food. With a small part of the vegetable dish in his spoon, Nostra pulled it sneakily under his mask.
“Look, it’s still at the right temperature. Try it when you get the courage to do so. If you would please let me, I will examine you now. Though seeing our glorious work, you seem perfectly healthy!”
Mortigus was baffled at the cheerful tone of Nostra, baffled that the doctor could so idly chat with him after turning his body into a surreal experiment far removed from a human. The bewildering atmosphere, set by the casual approach of the doctor, was making Mortigus feel like he misunderstood the tone of the situation, like nothing wrong actually happened. Was this normal in some hellish way? In his inexperienced mind, the boy was dangerously close to justifying Nostra, for he was the adult, the professional, one of the doctors, someone trusted by his parents. Was this body with no more mouth or nose, a cyclop with wood for skin, was it all needed to save him from the plague? Did his parents knowingly agree to this? They must have, after all, they know better than Mortigus, they know more than him.
Yet the doctor put him in this room with bars. That could not be good, why would he not be allowed to walk around? He was too weak to run anyway. No matter the lack of worldly knowledge could make Mortigus forget all his unease about the situation. The doctor transformed his body with no further notice, if this was the cure, Mortigus didn’t know how to refuse it. Mortigus pushed his thoughts together, trying to squeeze out his decision whether to trust the doctors or not.
While the boy’s body was paralysed by indecision, the doctor tilted his head, observing his subject with a bit of confusion. Nostra let out a sigh, with a hint of regret and tiredness, as he proceeded to open his coat and brought out a few metal utensils, between which a thin, short, yet seemingly threatening knife, wielded well by the doctor with his index finger and thumb. The doctor approached the cell door and made a hand sign, asking Mortigus to come closer to him.
“The world is full of necessary evil, my boy. But it also has goodness in it, even when we can’t recognise it. Now please, follow my instructions, for your own good.“ Nostra’s voice had reverberated with a solemn authority and a fake sincerity. The tone was truly intimidating and commanding, igniting any semblance of obedience left inside Mortigus, who made a few steps to the doctor.
Swiftly, Nostra grabbed his forearm and pulled a bit closer, his right hand hovering prepared with the knife. The sharp knife would quickly slice a part of Mortigus forearm, leaving slight signs of blueish black like a vivid ink drop on his cut. Nostra slid the cut part into a jar and closed it, while keeping an eye on Motigus’ surface wound he just made.
“A yellow cap reaction, perhaps? Interesting, it may have merged with your skin layer.” muttered Nostra, as if there was someone who was supposed to take notes next to him. With another slick move of the wrist, the doctor also cut a few small fruiting bodies of oyster mushrooms, letting them fall into a separate container. These didn’t leave much of a trace or gashing wound, as if superficially attached to the shoulders way before developing properly. The knife was covered in dots, spores released through pores as if they were sweat. Nostra shook the knife before taking out a water flask and pouring it over the contaminated knife. Nostra then put away those instruments with his left hand, while his right reached deep within a lateral pocket. A couple of injections followed on the other arm, Mortigus barely recoiling from the needles intruding his new body, hardly any nerve endings being active. After the injections, Nostra wrapped a clean-looking cloth around the wound he created on Mortigus’ arm. Then, with the same air of nonchalance of coming in, Nostra exited the cell, closing and locking the door of the cell. The shoes hitting the cell floor felt like mockery, walking on Mortigus’ disoriented heart. Nostra raised his hat as a salute, while the room’s door was slowly opened, yet the hallway behind remained maksed in darkness. The doctor stepped outside, closing the door and leaving Mortigus in the cold solitude of four rock walls.
For the rest of the day, Mortigus contemplated whether to risk eating the food or not, weighing the lack of trust for the doctors against the nonnegotiable need for food. After an hour that far too long, Mortigus grabbed the utensil on the table and took a filled spoon to his mouth, or where it used to be. From pure instinct, the chin suddenly started to detach from the upper jaw area, fleshy columns forming in the place of the mouth, trying to make place for the spoon to enter. As he dropped the food almost directly into his throat, his body shivered, especially his chin. The food’s taste and texture were almost impossible to perceive beyond the strange feeling of eating with no teeth or tongue, his sense of taste being dreadfully dead. Though in all honesty, he preferred not having to feel much the food from the doctor, being able to treat it as simply sustenance. Mortigus reluctantly finished the meal, unable to distinguish much of the food’s properties beyond exterior appearance. He never imagined the impact behind the texture of meat, the squishiness of boiled vegetables, how lacking any tongue or even teeth would detract from the enjoyment of eating. The only evidence of him eating was the empty wooden bowl on the table and the feeling of his stomach now half-full. Mortigus stared at the table, expecting something to happen for some reason, for any reason. For a proper thought to form in his head, for a proper reaction or emotion to come forth but even his mind already was less human than when he entered the doctors’ inn. He sat back in the simple bed he was given, feeling a slight familiarity in letting another plague ravage his body and mind. Unable to blink nor close his eye, Mortigus simply picked a spot to gaze at, hoping to fall asleep like he usually does.
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