Mr. Misting's Writing

[Mr. Misting he/him]

I just finished up a short story, and as I think it's fairly good, I guess I'll put it up here for anyone who wants to read it. I'd be very curious what people think, and if anyone has an possible edits, or ways to improve the story, please do tell me.

Anyway:

Spoiler

Practiced Killing

The man in sunglasses raised his gun. With a practiced hand, the restaurant’s customers started dropping. Bang. Bang.

A woman screamed. Bang. She knocked over a table as she fell.

A boy sporting a wispy mustache raised his pistol, eyes wide.

Bang. Bang.

The boy’s gun slipped from his hand as he fell, and the window behind the boy shattered.

The staff was running. Bang. Click. Click. He missed, and the two ducked behind the kitchen door. In one motion he stepped, vaulted over the counter, and kicked open the door. He dropped his empty gun and pulled a loaded one. Bang. Bang. The staff’s footsteps stopped in two thumps.

There was a crackle in his ear, and a husky voice spoke. “Targets eliminated. Countdown started.”

The man moved towards the exit, stepping over the young man’s body. He pushed past the swinging door, the bell tinkling. The air was fresh and sharp, contrasting the restaurant’s plastic warmth. The man touched his ear, moving with calm strides. “Clear.” “Confirmed.” The voice said.

The restaurant exploded in a deep crash of fire. The man didn’t look back.

The man walked to line of cars outside the restaurant and jumped in a dingy blue pick-up truck. He took off his suit jacket and sunglasses, stored the gun in the glove box, the earpiece next to it. He rolled onto the road, leaving the rest of the abandoned cars behind. The restaurant roared hollowly.

He drove absently, taking the road and cars by rote. He fiddled with the radio, until classical music began playing. He turned it off.

He took a right at the intersection and began driving into a residential area. Cookie cutter houses blurred past.

And then in front of his truck sprinted a tan object. The man’s eyes went wide. “Holy--“

Bump. Bump.

There was a visceral thump, and another, as his tires plowed over the thing. The curse died on his lips. He looked into his rearview mirror and saw something squirming in the road. It looked like a dog.

He drove silently for a moment, staring at nothing.

Then he blinked and looked at his wheel as if it was new. Realizing what had happened, he pulled over and ran out of truck.

He could see it laying in the middle of the road, cars swerving past. It looked like a half-made rug, tan fur stretched across the ground. No one stopped.

The man could still feel the sharp thump echoing in his bones. He bounced on his toes, waiting for a gap in the cars so he could run and grab the dog. Not a dog. He could see it was a cat now.

There. A car whizzed past, and the next one was two blocks away. He sprinted onto the road, and grabbed the cat, feeling something shift and crack. Cradling it to his chest, he ran back to the sidewalk. The car honked shrilly as it narrowly missed him.

The man lay the cat on the grass, its chest caved in. It was a poor grave. The man looked around, searching for anyone looking for the cat. There was no one. The neighborhood was silent: empty sidewalks, faceless cars, and no one cared. This cat had died, and it seemed only the man knew it.

He knelt there in the thin grass sidewalk strip, blankly watching the cat, the sky, and his shaking hands. Waiting to see if there was a way to fill this hollow moment.

 

[Edema Rue she/her]

On 2/15/2024 at 12:50 PM, Mr. Misting said:

I just finished up a short story, and as I think it's fairly good, I guess I'll put it up here for anyone who wants to read it. I'd be very curious what people think, and if anyone has an possible edits, or ways to improve the story, please do tell me.

Anyway:

  Reveal hidden contents

Practiced Killing

The man in sunglasses raised his gun. With a practiced hand, the restaurant’s customers started dropping. Bang. Bang.

A woman screamed. Bang. She knocked over a table as she fell.

A boy sporting a wispy mustache raised his pistol, eyes wide.

Bang. Bang.

The boy’s gun slipped from his hand as he fell, and the window behind the boy shattered.

The staff was running. Bang. Click. Click. He missed, and the two ducked behind the kitchen door. In one motion he stepped, vaulted over the counter, and kicked open the door. He dropped his empty gun and pulled a loaded one. Bang. Bang. The staff’s footsteps stopped in two thumps.

There was a crackle in his ear, and a husky voice spoke. “Targets eliminated. Countdown started.”

The man moved towards the exit, stepping over the young man’s body. He pushed past the swinging door, the bell tinkling. The air was fresh and sharp, contrasting the restaurant’s plastic warmth. The man touched his ear, moving with calm strides. “Clear.” “Confirmed.” The voice said.

The restaurant exploded in a deep crash of fire. The man didn’t look back.

The man walked to line of cars outside the restaurant and jumped in a dingy blue pick-up truck. He took off his suit jacket and sunglasses, stored the gun in the glove box, the earpiece next to it. He rolled onto the road, leaving the rest of the abandoned cars behind. The restaurant roared hollowly.

He drove absently, taking the road and cars by rote. He fiddled with the radio, until classical music began playing. He turned it off.

He took a right at the intersection and began driving into a residential area. Cookie cutter houses blurred past.

And then in front of his truck sprinted a tan object. The man’s eyes went wide. “Holy--“

Bump. Bump.

There was a visceral thump, and another, as his tires plowed over the thing. The curse died on his lips. He looked into his rearview mirror and saw something squirming in the road. It looked like a dog.

He drove silently for a moment, staring at nothing.

Then he blinked and looked at his wheel as if it was new. Realizing what had happened, he pulled over and ran out of truck.

He could see it laying in the middle of the road, cars swerving past. It looked like a half-made rug, tan fur stretched across the ground. No one stopped.

The man could still feel the sharp thump echoing in his bones. He bounced on his toes, waiting for a gap in the cars so he could run and grab the dog. Not a dog. He could see it was a cat now.

There. A car whizzed past, and the next one was two blocks away. He sprinted onto the road, and grabbed the cat, feeling something shift and crack. Cradling it to his chest, he ran back to the sidewalk. The car honked shrilly as it narrowly missed him.

The man lay the cat on the grass, its chest caved in. It was a poor grave. The man looked around, searching for anyone looking for the cat. There was no one. The neighborhood was silent: empty sidewalks, faceless cars, and no one cared. This cat had died, and it seemed only the man knew it.

He knelt there in the thin grass sidewalk strip, blankly watching the cat, the sky, and his shaking hands. Waiting to see if there was a way to fill this hollow moment.

 

Ooo wait I can’t believe I missed this, I love that!! It paints a really cool picture, and I love the way he gets emotional over the cat but not the people  

[Mr. Misting he/him]

A very late thanks Edema!

Also, I wrote another thing, that's probably marginally decent! I'm a big fan of it, even if it did end up kind of being a story that exists to support cool worldbuilding. Any thoughts on how to improve would be welcomed.

Spoiler

The line to paradise trailed past the grand white doors. But all still heard the voice, peachy and plastic sweet from the loudspeaker, “Welcome to Paradise, the only place you want to be!”

Those who had already started paying for paradise filled most of the line, surrounding the young man. Anyone who could pay premium had already left. ParadiseExpress had started accepting partial payments, send a part of yourself now and work to send the rest later. The transit soul in front of him was faded gray woman, a flat attempt at a person. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew they’d be empty. The life that moved them was gone.

He’d stood in line for eight hours, all in silence, before he got in the doors. Those who weren’t in transit felt silenced by those who were.

A black board loomed in contrast against the white room. It was filled with numbers next to qualifiers: government official, soul in transit, approaching death -- the young man was none of these, so he only watched the general price with a muted fervor. It was 11:59, and the prices were about to change. No one had ever seen them go down.

The clock flickered, and zeros were added to the board’s numbers. An electric air of anxiety went through the room. He knew what he had scraped together in his bank account, but he checked his phone anyway. He had just enough.

Ahead of him, past the transit, a man laughed.

“Do you still have enough?” the young man asked.

The other man looked back and smiled. He coaxed the hand of the transit woman open and squeezed it. She didn’t respond. “I can just make premium. And my wife will make it too.” He took a shaky breath and laughed again. “Just made it.”

The young man smiled back. That’s great, he thought. He didn’t say it.

The man noticed. “Transit?”       

He glanced at his phone, as if it might have changed. “Transit.”

The man winced. “It’s not as bad as you think. Everyone makes a big deal of it, but hey, you’re on your way to paradise. Why would you want to spend more time here?” He asked, gesturing around. Their voices were loud in the quiet room.

He continued. “I’m the one who volunteered to stay behind, actually. I wanted my wife to enjoy it with the kids.”

The young man nodded slowly. “Is…she ok? Like that?”

The man squeezed the woman’s hand tighter, pulling her closer. She shifted silently, like she was sleepwalking. “It’s different, definitely, but I’m about to be with her again. It’s funny,” he went on, “before, she used to hate gardening, but she told me to do whatever got the most money. When my neighborhood started to empty out, everyone on their way to paradise, no one was taking care of the homes. I got hired by the government to keep everything looking civilized. She helps. Hasn’t complained once.”

“Who are you keeping it nice for?”

“Don’t know!” He laughed. “But I’m not questioning it.”

There was a lull -- eventually the older man broke it. “You’re young. Where do you work?”

“I was in college when ParadiseExpress opened. All the students started leaving. The school pretty much shut down, so my scholarship ended. I stumbled into a job at McDonalds. Since I’ve had some higher education, and I’m not a transit, I got promoted to regional manager in two days. It has paid just enough to start on transit.”

“Don’t you have parents? Can’t they help you pay?” The man winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “No, I don’t. Not really. My dad’s always been dead. Well, since I can remember. And my mom was dying when ParadiseExpress opened. She got in on a subsidy, because of it.” He took a long breath. “She was pretty senile when they took her, but she told me to follow her. That’s all she could say, before she was gone.”

The older man stepped forward in line. They were nearing the front. “That sucks.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that sucks.”

His heart beat hot and loud in his ears. “Do you wonder about it? Paradise?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I wonder about it.”

He had opened some wound in his mind, and questions began to spill out. “Like, how do we really know what’s on the other side? People have been through, but do we really know if it’s better? What if people still die? Will I go over to my mom dead? Will-“

The man reached over and grabbed his arm, trying to ground him.

“Hey! It’s better! Why else would everyone be going through? Do you remember when Taylor Swift went to paradise? Her contract said she only had to come back for five minutes, which she said was a stupid stipulation, but she went back to paradise as soon as the five minutes ended. Even the feds have been. Of course it’s better. It’s natural to doubt, but you’re about to go to paradise.”

They were nine, maybe ten people away from the front. What had been slow now seemed monstrously fast, as each employee smiled, peeling away another person from the line.

His jangled thoughts kept sliding out. “I saw a cloud when driving here. I don’t know when I’ve last looked at the sky. It was beautiful. Will they have a sky in paradise?”

The older man shook him. “Hey, hey, kid. You’re going to paradise. Paradise.” He looked near to crying from joy. He shook the younger man again, trying to impart the feeling. “You get to go to paradise.” He turned his head to a noise, and then the man and his wife were gone to a kiosk, and from this world.

He was alone and bare at the front of the line. He felt a sudden yearning to run, to break out of the lines and crowds and walls, to tear off the roof and drink in the sky until he was full, get away, to say goodbye to the grass and sky –

“Sir. Sir!” There was a smiling woman, waving at him from an open kiosk. “Right this way please.”

He walked forward with jolted breath. He couldn’t see anything but the kiosk and the woman, his vision contracting down to the end of his life, of this life.

He closed his eyes. I’m coming Mom. He thought. I’m going to paradise.

[Edema Rue she/her]

1 hour ago, Mr. Misting said:

A very late thanks Edema!

Also, I wrote another thing, that's probably marginally decent! I'm a big fan of it, even if it did end up kind of being a story that exists to support cool worldbuilding. Any thoughts on how to improve would be welcomed.

  Reveal hidden contents

The line to paradise trailed past the grand white doors. But all still heard the voice, peachy and plastic sweet from the loudspeaker, “Welcome to Paradise, the only place you want to be!”

Those who had already started paying for paradise filled most of the line, surrounding the young man. Anyone who could pay premium had already left. ParadiseExpress had started accepting partial payments, send a part of yourself now and work to send the rest later. The transit soul in front of him was faded gray woman, a flat attempt at a person. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew they’d be empty. The life that moved them was gone.

He’d stood in line for eight hours, all in silence, before he got in the doors. Those who weren’t in transit felt silenced by those who were.

A black board loomed in contrast against the white room. It was filled with numbers next to qualifiers: government official, soul in transit, approaching death -- the young man was none of these, so he only watched the general price with a muted fervor. It was 11:59, and the prices were about to change. No one had ever seen them go down.

The clock flickered, and zeros were added to the board’s numbers. An electric air of anxiety went through the room. He knew what he had scraped together in his bank account, but he checked his phone anyway. He had just enough.

Ahead of him, past the transit, a man laughed.

“Do you still have enough?” the young man asked.

The other man looked back and smiled. He coaxed the hand of the transit woman open and squeezed it. She didn’t respond. “I can just make premium. And my wife will make it too.” He took a shaky breath and laughed again. “Just made it.”

The young man smiled back. That’s great, he thought. He didn’t say it.

The man noticed. “Transit?”       

He glanced at his phone, as if it might have changed. “Transit.”

The man winced. “It’s not as bad as you think. Everyone makes a big deal of it, but hey, you’re on your way to paradise. Why would you want to spend more time here?” He asked, gesturing around. Their voices were loud in the quiet room.

He continued. “I’m the one who volunteered to stay behind, actually. I wanted my wife to enjoy it with the kids.”

The young man nodded slowly. “Is…she ok? Like that?”

The man squeezed the woman’s hand tighter, pulling her closer. She shifted silently, like she was sleepwalking. “It’s different, definitely, but I’m about to be with her again. It’s funny,” he went on, “before, she used to hate gardening, but she told me to do whatever got the most money. When my neighborhood started to empty out, everyone on their way to paradise, no one was taking care of the homes. I got hired by the government to keep everything looking civilized. She helps. Hasn’t complained once.”

“Who are you keeping it nice for?”

“Don’t know!” He laughed. “But I’m not questioning it.”

There was a lull -- eventually the older man broke it. “You’re young. Where do you work?”

“I was in college when ParadiseExpress opened. All the students started leaving. The school pretty much shut down, so my scholarship ended. I stumbled into a job at McDonalds. Since I’ve had some higher education, and I’m not a transit, I got promoted to regional manager in two days. It has paid just enough to start on transit.”

“Don’t you have parents? Can’t they help you pay?” The man winced. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugged. “No, I don’t. Not really. My dad’s always been dead. Well, since I can remember. And my mom was dying when ParadiseExpress opened. She got in on a subsidy, because of it.” He took a long breath. “She was pretty senile when they took her, but she told me to follow her. That’s all she could say, before she was gone.”

The older man stepped forward in line. They were nearing the front. “That sucks.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that sucks.”

His heart beat hot and loud in his ears. “Do you wonder about it? Paradise?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I wonder about it.”

He had opened some wound in his mind, and questions began to spill out. “Like, how do we really know what’s on the other side? People have been through, but do we really know if it’s better? What if people still die? Will I go over to my mom dead? Will-“

The man reached over and grabbed his arm, trying to ground him.

“Hey! It’s better! Why else would everyone be going through? Do you remember when Taylor Swift went to paradise? Her contract said she only had to come back for five minutes, which she said was a stupid stipulation, but she went back to paradise as soon as the five minutes ended. Even the feds have been. Of course it’s better. It’s natural to doubt, but you’re about to go to paradise.”

They were nine, maybe ten people away from the front. What had been slow now seemed monstrously fast, as each employee smiled, peeling away another person from the line.

His jangled thoughts kept sliding out. “I saw a cloud when driving here. I don’t know when I’ve last looked at the sky. It was beautiful. Will they have a sky in paradise?”

The older man shook him. “Hey, hey, kid. You’re going to paradise. Paradise.” He looked near to crying from joy. He shook the younger man again, trying to impart the feeling. “You get to go to paradise.” He turned his head to a noise, and then the man and his wife were gone to a kiosk, and from this world.

He was alone and bare at the front of the line. He felt a sudden yearning to run, to break out of the lines and crowds and walls, to tear off the roof and drink in the sky until he was full, get away, to say goodbye to the grass and sky –

“Sir. Sir!” There was a smiling woman, waving at him from an open kiosk. “Right this way please.”

He walked forward with jolted breath. He couldn’t see anything but the kiosk and the woman, his vision contracting down to the end of his life, of this life.

He closed his eyes. I’m coming Mom. He thought. I’m going to paradise.

Wait that was so sweet!! I want to see more of this world!

[Ookla she/her]

Ooohh! Intriguing! I really want to see what's in Paradise! (Y'know... what if it's like in Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars trilogy, where the supposed "Paradise" is actually a place full of carnivorous plant people that eat you? So when you go, you expect something good, and then it's really, really bad. Only, in your case, it sounds like it at least looks good, even if it's actually something nasty.) When you write more, I'd definitely love to read it!!!!

[Mr. Misting he/him]

On 4/25/2024 at 7:48 AM, Edema Rue said:

Wait that was so sweet!! I want to see more of this world!

Thank you much! I don't have any intention to continue writing in this world, but I'm really glad you enjoyed it. 

On 4/25/2024 at 8:26 AM, Ookla said:

Ooohh! Intriguing! I really want to see what's in Paradise! (Y'know... what if it's like in Edgar Rice Burroughs' Mars trilogy, where the supposed "Paradise" is actually a place full of carnivorous plant people that eat you? So when you go, you expect something good, and then it's really, really bad. Only, in your case, it sounds like it at least looks good, even if it's actually something nasty.) When you write more, I'd definitely love to read it!!!!

Thank you also! I've never heard of, or read that series. Would you recommend it? Also, the plants are fascinating as an concept. Yeah, paradise would probably have to seem good in my story, or it wouldn't work, but I certainly thought about if I could pervert the concept. If I ever wanted to write more, I'd probably do it where the world is "perfect", whatever that means, and the humans makes it a crappy place to live by being the worst and whatnot. Because what's even the point of speculative fiction if everyone's not depressed and or dead by the end?

[Ookla she/her]

2 hours ago, Mr. Misting said:

Thank you much! I don't have any intention to continue writing in this world, but I'm really glad you enjoyed it. 

Thank you also! I've never heard of, or read that series. Would you recommend it? Also, the plants are fascinating as an concept. Yeah, paradise would probably have to seem good in my story, or it wouldn't work, but I certainly thought about if I could pervert the concept. If I ever wanted to write more, I'd probably do it where the world is "perfect", whatever that means, and the humans makes it a crappy place to live by being the worst and whatnot. Because what's even the point of speculative fiction if everyone's not depressed and or dead by the end?

... Personally, I think the movie John Carter is much better than the books it was based on. The Mars trilogy is weird. I think I made it through two and a half books before giving up, because I couldn't figure out what the heck was going on. Honestly, I'd say to watch the movies first before reading the books, because the movie will give you at least some sense of the overall plot before you start.

Also, if you do ever decide to write more in this world, I'm 100% there for it!

[Mr. Misting he/him]

Another somewhat good thing I have written! The idea of it was to explore a character that I would use in a series, but I'll probably never get around to doing that. 

Warning: a bit o' murder. 

Spoiler

Doctors and Graves

“Henry’s right this way. Oh, he used to be such a lively boy.”

Alice ignored the pattering conversation and followed the mother down the hall. The mother opened a door, apologizing about the smell. Inside the room lay a boy in bed. His face was taunt and pale, eyes closed. Sweat stained blankets came up to his face and rustled with labored breathing. He looked asleep. Alice was glad. Sleep was always better. He didn’t look like he would make it.

“When did you start noticing symptoms?” Alice asked. The mother paused. “Sorry?”

Right. Alice had interrupted her. “When did you first see symptoms?” Alice repeated.

“Oh, well, yes. I’m not quite sure. He always been one of the weaker boys, but nothing looked wrong until two weeks ago. He’s been bed ridden since.” Her hands fretted about her dress.

“Weakness? Do you mean slowed maturation? Has he had trouble sleeping? Did you notice any changes in his diet?” Alice said. Before the mother could respond, Alice started violently coughing, nearly doubling over. Collecting herself, she looked back to the mother.

The mother stared at her with large eyes. “Doctor miss, are you sure you should be helping Henry?”

“Yes. He’ll obviously die without me.” Alice stared back at the mother. Was she going to let her operate? It was so hard to read her face. Was she worried for her son, about the coughing doctor or about catching the disease herself? Alice always found it ironic that she found it impossible to read expressions, when she was the one wearing a literal mask.

“All right.” The mother replied weakly. With a sudden desperation she stepped forward. “Please, just help him get better! There’s nothing that works, the herbalist’s potions were useless, the priest only said that God would do as he pleased, and I just want Henry to be…” She became unintelligible as she broke down sobbing.

Alice looked at the boy, and again towards the mother. She wouldn’t give Alice any more useful information. And either way, Alice always felt more comfortable asking the source.

Mechanically patting the mother, Alice led her to the door. “He’ll need an operation. It will be risky, but at this stage it looks like the only thing that might save your son. I’ll need to be work alone, in complete concentration.”

The mother sniffled. “You’ll really try to save him? He’ll live?”

Alice paused. “I’ll do what I can.” She closed the door.

And if there was a chance of making him better, Alice would have tried. But he wouldn’t, so why waste such a good opportunity?

First, she pulled a syringe and bottle out of her tattered black coat. A congeleant to lessen the blood flow, mixed with a temporary muscular paralysis to prevent any unnecessary noises. Screaming had caused issues. She unscrewed the bottle and placed it on a bedside table. Carefully, she filled the syringe to the top with the amber liquid.  

Stabbing towards his chest, Alice pressed the liquid into his body. She laid the empty syringe aside. Back into her coat she pulled out a pair of scissors, a scalpel and a notebook, laying them all on the bedside table.

She pulled the sheet back until his upper half was revealed. He was awake at this point. His fingers were twitching, and his breathing had quickened. She met his eyes, which were flitting about manically. Alice was trying to help him. She almost said it. He looked at her like she was a monster.

Alice began unbuttoning his shirt until she could she his entire chest. Grabbing the scalpel, Alice started counting ribs. She didn’t want to look at his eyes again. With two precise stabs, she punctured his lungs. There was a pained whine, and a bare trickle of blood.

Then Alice began the real work. She quickly collected a sample of the boy’s spit, mucus and blood. To further study the disease, she would need firsthand experience. As soon as her pneumonia petered out, she would administer the boy’s disease to herself. This allowed for much more accurate understanding of the symptoms and effects, than trying to parse out anything useful from the mother.

Alice needed to understand the human body, and to do that, she needed to experiment. She cut and prodded and examined, becoming that much closer to knowing how a human could live and die.

After a long and silent time, Alice stepped back and wiped her bloody hands on the bedsheets. Once they were relatively clean, she began cataloguing her findings, adding rough sketches of his organs and their supposed functions.

Alice looked back at the body and paused. It was unpleasing, the limp body splayed across the blood-stained bed. The skin curled back to reveal a squirming mess of tubes and pipes and bones. It was horrible, to most, but Alice saw something else. The body was a grave, a monument to what would soon be a forgotten problem. The face was serene now, and free. It was almost angelic, the lips parted slightly in prayer, face white, eyes to the sky. The body was a great tree, its arms spread wide. It had fallen to the earth and would become the ashes for new trees and discoveries. And then no one would have to die. To Alice, the body was beautiful.

Coming out of her thoughts, Alice became of aware of the creaking door and a pregnant silence. She turned slowly to find the woman at the door, petrified at the sight of the body.

“It’s dead.” Alice said pointing. “The surgery…failed.”

The woman began stuttering, just edges of words. Hysteria and grief warred across her face. 

This was bad. Alice looked towards the window, judging if she could jump through it. It seemed an uncomfortable exit. Wait! There was a thing she was supposed to say, when people saw the bodies. She flipped towards the front of her notebook and hacked out another cough.

Woodenly, she recited. “He died peacefully in his sleep.”

The woman screamed.  

[Edema Rue she/her]

21 hours ago, Mr. Misting said:

Another somewhat good thing I have written! The idea of it was to explore a character that I would use in a series, but I'll probably never get around to doing that. 

Warning: a bit o' murder. 

  Reveal hidden contents

Doctors and Graves

“Henry’s right this way. Oh, he used to be such a lively boy.”

Alice ignored the pattering conversation and followed the mother down the hall. The mother opened a door, apologizing about the smell. Inside the room lay a boy in bed. His face was taunt and pale, eyes closed. Sweat stained blankets came up to his face and rustled with labored breathing. He looked asleep. Alice was glad. Sleep was always better. He didn’t look like he would make it.

“When did you start noticing symptoms?” Alice asked. The mother paused. “Sorry?”

Right. Alice had interrupted her. “When did you first see symptoms?” Alice repeated.

“Oh, well, yes. I’m not quite sure. He always been one of the weaker boys, but nothing looked wrong until two weeks ago. He’s been bed ridden since.” Her hands fretted about her dress.

“Weakness? Do you mean slowed maturation? Has he had trouble sleeping? Did you notice any changes in his diet?” Alice said. Before the mother could respond, Alice started violently coughing, nearly doubling over. Collecting herself, she looked back to the mother.

The mother stared at her with large eyes. “Doctor miss, are you sure you should be helping Henry?”

“Yes. He’ll obviously die without me.” Alice stared back at the mother. Was she going to let her operate? It was so hard to read her face. Was she worried for her son, about the coughing doctor or about catching the disease herself? Alice always found it ironic that she found it impossible to read expressions, when she was the one wearing a literal mask.

“All right.” The mother replied weakly. With a sudden desperation she stepped forward. “Please, just help him get better! There’s nothing that works, the herbalist’s potions were useless, the priest only said that God would do as he pleased, and I just want Henry to be…” She became unintelligible as she broke down sobbing.

Alice looked at the boy, and again towards the mother. She wouldn’t give Alice any more useful information. And either way, Alice always felt more comfortable asking the source.

Mechanically patting the mother, Alice led her to the door. “He’ll need an operation. It will be risky, but at this stage it looks like the only thing that might save your son. I’ll need to be work alone, in complete concentration.”

The mother sniffled. “You’ll really try to save him? He’ll live?”

Alice paused. “I’ll do what I can.” She closed the door.

And if there was a chance of making him better, Alice would have tried. But he wouldn’t, so why waste such a good opportunity?

First, she pulled a syringe and bottle out of her tattered black coat. A congeleant to lessen the blood flow, mixed with a temporary muscular paralysis to prevent any unnecessary noises. Screaming had caused issues. She unscrewed the bottle and placed it on a bedside table. Carefully, she filled the syringe to the top with the amber liquid.  

Stabbing towards his chest, Alice pressed the liquid into his body. She laid the empty syringe aside. Back into her coat she pulled out a pair of scissors, a scalpel and a notebook, laying them all on the bedside table.

She pulled the sheet back until his upper half was revealed. He was awake at this point. His fingers were twitching, and his breathing had quickened. She met his eyes, which were flitting about manically. Alice was trying to help him. She almost said it. He looked at her like she was a monster.

Alice began unbuttoning his shirt until she could she his entire chest. Grabbing the scalpel, Alice started counting ribs. She didn’t want to look at his eyes again. With two precise stabs, she punctured his lungs. There was a pained whine, and a bare trickle of blood.

Then Alice began the real work. She quickly collected a sample of the boy’s spit, mucus and blood. To further study the disease, she would need firsthand experience. As soon as her pneumonia petered out, she would administer the boy’s disease to herself. This allowed for much more accurate understanding of the symptoms and effects, than trying to parse out anything useful from the mother.

Alice needed to understand the human body, and to do that, she needed to experiment. She cut and prodded and examined, becoming that much closer to knowing how a human could live and die.

After a long and silent time, Alice stepped back and wiped her bloody hands on the bedsheets. Once they were relatively clean, she began cataloguing her findings, adding rough sketches of his organs and their supposed functions.

Alice looked back at the body and paused. It was unpleasing, the limp body splayed across the blood-stained bed. The skin curled back to reveal a squirming mess of tubes and pipes and bones. It was horrible, to most, but Alice saw something else. The body was a grave, a monument to what would soon be a forgotten problem. The face was serene now, and free. It was almost angelic, the lips parted slightly in prayer, face white, eyes to the sky. The body was a great tree, its arms spread wide. It had fallen to the earth and would become the ashes for new trees and discoveries. And then no one would have to die. To Alice, the body was beautiful.

Coming out of her thoughts, Alice became of aware of the creaking door and a pregnant silence. She turned slowly to find the woman at the door, petrified at the sight of the body.

“It’s dead.” Alice said pointing. “The surgery…failed.”

The woman began stuttering, just edges of words. Hysteria and grief warred across her face. 

This was bad. Alice looked towards the window, judging if she could jump through it. It seemed an uncomfortable exit. Wait! There was a thing she was supposed to say, when people saw the bodies. She flipped towards the front of her notebook and hacked out another cough.

Woodenly, she recited. “He died peacefully in his sleep.”

The woman screamed.  

That was super cool!! I loved it!