Page 41 of Possession

They’re busy, I try to explain to Aris.

Not anymore.

The patient, a young woman in her twenties, suddenly explodes. Where there was once a person are bits of blood, brains, and bone. About every inch of the once-sterile room is now covered in chunks of meat, including the doctors, who now look like movie villains with their tainted scrubs and sharp, tightly gripped instruments. As is to be expected, they start screaming.

Several run to the door, which I’m surprised they didn’t do before, but everyone who gets close to the exit collapses on the floor, either unconscious or dead. In a matter of seconds, only the doctor who fell and the one originally operating on the woman are left, staring at Aris with blatant fear.

I should be reprimanding him. I know I should be appalled, and I am, but there’s a part of me that recognizes the inevitability of this scene. I can’t stop Aris’ reaction right now. I can’t rein him in. And maybe it’s being at death’s door, but I’ve been hit with a sudden lethargy. I don’t have the energy to tell him to stop; I don’t have the energy to argue anymore.

“Well?” he snaps. “Get to work!”

Without further preamble, Aris sits himself on the operating table and stretches out, keeping a critical eye on the doctors. They stare at us for a second neither they nor my body can afford to waste before finally setting towards me. I’m not sure what inspires them to get to work. The Hippocratic Oath, maybe.

Or maybe they realized who they’re treating.

The doctors make quick work of cutting the dress off, asking Aris questions in shaky voices as they do. What happened? How long ago was this? What are you currently feeling?

Aris surprises all of us by answering truthfully and politely. I don’t think he can feel the wound, but he tells them how I was feeling minutes ago, and it seems to be effective enough.

They start working, remarking on things together as they observe the gash in my side. More people come in with different things in their hands. There are nurses with blood bags and shots, pills and tools. An armed guard also enters, though he looks more terrified than the medical staff. So long as he doesn’t raise his gun, I know Aris that won’t bother him.

A rhythm sets in, broken only when a nurse tries to put an IV in. Aris grabs her by her shirt and snarls in her face, “Mary doesn’t like needles!”

“We—we have to put it in,” the nurse says, shaking. “To give her blood!”

It’s fine, Aris. She’s right.

Slowly, one finger at a time, he releases her. But his glare is fierce.

Once again, the lot of them crowd over me, and I’m content in the background. Aris is looking out for our body—I know that for certain, so most of my anxiety fades. I start to fade, too, exhaustion creeping up on me. It’s slow at first; I don’t even notice. One moment, I’m in the backseat, watching the driver merge through traffic, another moment I’ve realized the driver knows what he’s doing, and I relax into my seat. I start to look out the window, watching the trees flash past, and this makes me sleepy somehow. I shut my eyes, knowing that the driver will get me to our destination, even if I’m not there to see it.

Chapter nine

I wake in a hospital bed in a private, well-lit room. Beige curtains shield me, though there are gaps between them allowing me to look around. In the corner are windows closed but unbarred, and out them I see the tops of nearby buildings. Not on the ground floor, then. In front of me is a tray of nearly inedible food, and a sitcom plays on the TV on the wall. The laugh track sounds as I remember what happened:the gala, Dominachion, his knife, and the pain.

I feel like I’m partially submerged, but this time in something heavy, with resistance to my every movement. I’m faintly aware of what’s going on around me, but it’s like there’s a barrier keeping me from fully waking. I’m about to succumb again when something jerks me up, pulling me forward and out of whatever trap I was in.

With a spur of quiet affection, my name is said.

Mary.

My body returns with a gentle nudge forward, and I immediately want to retreat back to the dark. After feeling nothing, the pain is unreal. I’ve been scraped up before, but never like this. Even laying completely still, there’s a dull throb that makes me doubt the accuracy of the clean, white bandages—I have to be bleeding. There’s no way I’m feeling this and not bleeding.

I grunt and try to sit up to look at my stomach, but that’s a mistake. Agony shoots through my core at the movement, and I collapse against my pillow with a gasp. The dull ache has now become an inferno, and tears of pain and frustration come to my eyes. I try to look for someone to help me, but the door to the room is shut.

How long was I gone for? I ask to distract myself.

A day. The surgery was long.

Will I live?

Yes. They have come in several times to look us over.

Has anyone else come looking? I think of the mages, who have no doubt been alerted to our presence by now. The Following surely knows, too, and I don’t know what that means. Are we in danger? Did the doctors say how long I need to stay here?

A few days.

From the ache of my body, I’m sure they aren’t exaggerating, but is it safe?

---