"Jimson!"
"Jimson!"
"JIMSON! Wake up. Talk to me!"
What to do, what do I do.
I remember.
Danger!
Danger!
Where art thou Danger!
Cupping my hands around my eyes, I scan towards the distance.
My body stiffens stumbling upon that scene again and I let out a choking cry.
Still eating?No, don't look at them. Behind they are, safe we are now. Mmm.
"Thanks brain," I mutter to myself before moving on to look down at the unconscious Jim.
Still no response, let's just hope for the best.
I tap his face and poke his chin. My fingers pinch his nose shut, blocking it momentarily.
Not even a peep. Damn.
I force his jaw open.
Airways—that's always checked first, right?
I look within his mouth, gripping hard as I pull my torch closer.
His teeth are all crooked and discolored, that doesn't matter now though.
I peer deeper down his throat, past the tongue to where his uvula hangs. It twitches faintly with each breath.
It looks clear. He's breathing too.
What next?
Compressions? No no, he's bleeding, not choking. Stupid.
The pendant. That must be the key.
My grubby hands reach down, grabbing at the pendant around my neck.
I tug, pulling it up and over the base of my stubby beard.
Wet, sticky strands still clump to my fingertips in ragged desperation.
Tearing through the foliage, I retrieve the item and lean over Jim's body once more.
Please work.
I work the strap around his tangled hair, threading carefully as I move around the knotted catchments.
My fingers all fumble in ill-practice.
After using my knuckles to lift his head, I support the base of his hanging neck.
Like this, I easily guide the amulet to its final resting place and hope. Taking in the scene for a passing moment.
Adjusting the pendant to the middle of his chest, I admire my work with a sense of somber finality—like dressing a corpse in a coffin for theatric display.
NO! Don't think in such ways again. That is a man's life. I grimace.
"Dad, Daddy, I'm here for you. You'll get better, I know you will, you always do. Just speak, please, say something for me." Tim's desperation is contagious as it draws my attention over.
"Dad, please!"
My heart aches for him, truly. I need to cheer him up, make his smile pure again.
"Hey! Wake up! Wake up, stupid teddy bear oaf! You've got a cute baby boy right here to cuddle and pamper up. You can't leave him behind just yet." I only cringe after saying this.
But it somehow worked, as a faint mumble escapes the dead man.
Thank Jeebus, he's alive.
Ok, now that I've confirmed he's alive and breathing, I have to deal with the blood.
Blood? I don't have any experience with that.
Fine It all relies on me then.
I lightly chuckle to lift my spirits.
Tim's eyes glisten up at me in pleading request.
My stomach clenches.
So embarrassing, but I must endure.
After putting a set of imaginary gloves, I snap my fingers in Tim's direction.
"Fear not my child, for I will save him," I declare in a mock-heroic voice, slamming my chest with macho confidence.
"Scalpel?" I hold out my left hand, voice-box cracking turning my ears red.
Tim stares at me confused.
"Forget it. Just toss over the bag."
He nods quickly, throwing it over.
After catching it I dig my way through: Rope, cloth, stitching kit, after preparing these things I inspect my patient.
New silver froth is bubbling at the tips of his lips. His chest is slightly twitching too, though his body remains very still and growing cold.
Look who's wriggling now, Jimmy.
I hold both hands down and bind their wrists in coarse rope. Wrapped tight around the hollow of Cindy's meaty rib-cage, I make sure any further resistance is futile.
Tearing away his jacket and shirt, a large purple gash reveals itself across his chest.
This isn't normal. Right?
After probing around for inflammation and finding naught, I bend over and dive my nose into his wound and sniff.
Not bad. Tasty even. Who am I even kidding, this shit is so disgusting. Doesn't smell infected though. Is this how they do it back before technology? Not very impressive but effective.
Taking a sip from his hip flask, I pour the rest in.
After letting the hot, sharp burn flood the wound with a searing hiss, I clear away both mud and stone, picking away at the wound.
My chapped nails finish spooning away the debris, collecting the filthy things as they crawl free on my palm.
Clutching my hand into a fist, I toss them aside before continuing.
Once the worst is scraped bare, I press my rag against the gash and cinch tightly the belt around his chest.
This should hold his wound in place.
I take a second and observe.
His pulse sadly only slows down, half-pumping in its throb.
I've done my best, Tim. Don't judge me. Don't you think I know how bad and unsanitary this is. Every second, blood is lost, threatening to undo all my efforts.
But what else can I do?
He. Must. Live.
"Hold on," I scream my thoughts at him, though my words have no weight.
Turning around, I scramble further into the sack looking for anything to help.
My fingers brush against the leather stitching kit bag and I smile.
When the blood dries, I will sew him back together, mending him back to the man he once was.
But I only know a few styles, which will I choose:
Back stitch - Can't bring out my creative potential.
Running stitch - Too simple and ugly. Maybe for the foundation.
Cross stitch - This, this is the one. If I thread over the running stitch like this, it'll lock the flesh together while still looking more magnificent. He'll love its design too, I'm sure of it.
I pull out the needle and wipe away its rust in alcohol.
Then I thread its eye. The weave glistens in the dark, like silk spun from a nightshade leaf.
All mauled and cut-up like that, he's now just a fabric for me to fix. A worn and torn handkerchief, it's simply not that strange that it's breathing hahaha.
If only I knew how and had the practice.
With needle ready, I move.
Applying hard pressure, I count.
Five. Ten minutes pass.
If this hasn't been enough time for the bleeding to slow, I don't know what will.
I undo and remove the cloth to expose his wound.
Let's begin.
My demeanor changes, morphing into a competent character's.
Operation 'Stitch the bitch' commences… now.
'Doctor's Log – Treatment 1:
Suturing him is a slow, grueling process. Ugly. Gross. Forceful, like a beer-battered bastard.
My methods thus far have yielded little effect. Crude. Disfigured. A hodgepodge, if you will. My alignment is off. My measurements askew. Thankfully, the blood flow has slowed.
This device around his neck does work incredible wonders indeed. If anyone else were to see the gallons of blood, they would not be too incorrect to think an elephant was gutted and hung up to dry.
However, this is still not enough. He lies before me still struggling and wounded. However, with all my wealth of medical experience, I see a way.
The patient must persist… He has a dependency, one that cannot be burdened with the ill news. That—that can never happen. Children must have parents. Mustn't be like me. No, no, no. That is the purpose of a guardian. These things drive me forward. I am a healer now and I must fulfill that purpose.
Live! Live you bastard.' I plead as hard as I pull, set, and knot this new section.
Heavy pained breaths not of my own shudder across my face.
Now for the finishing touch.
Under cruel strain I draw together the edges of flesh. When they kiss, blood spurts from the wound, warm but still insistent, splattering across my pale cheek of uncoloured canvas.
You're lucky I'm me, if I were one of the hags of Fate your life would already be so very cursed.
I lean back and breathe.
Tim looks at me worried.
More mumblings interrupt us from below.
"Patients should learn to articulate their needs properly." I pronounce viciously, looming over his limp frame with ominous grace.
My throat hums a melody, its cadence sways me in metronomic rhythm, as I rock from side to side.
Taking another sip of the hard liquor, my index and thumb begin to ache.
"Who're you calling a teddy-bear?" he finally manages to sputters with clarity, struggling his way upright.
Those hard-boiled eyes finally roll forward to reveal their yoke once more.
I must say, a bit delayed but timely.
Spit interrupts me as it lands across my face.
Letting it stick to my nose I continue. "I've completed the suture now, so sit still. I also put the necklace on you, but it has only barely kept you alive. What more must be done. How does one activate it? Ritual? Sacrifice? Speak."
"No use. Not enough mana remains in it to fix me."
"Ah, I considered that, that's why I sutured you. Fewer wounds to repair, so theoretically there should be just enough resources left to stabilize you."
"That's not how it wor—"
"Shhh. Speak, only when necessary. I'll stabilize you further."
My heart aches for him too.
I look down with pity as I slowly, against light resistance, press his spine back down into the recovery position.
To help him keep calm I hold a bloody finger to his lips while reapplying treatment to the sutures he just tore.
His face tightens in a scrambling blush as he wriggles.
He bit me.
Amusing.
"The patient is resisting. More forceful suppression is required. Timothy Wood, hold him down. Over" I talk into my left pec.
Staring headlights, Tim regains his composure before nodding quickly. Turning from the front of his yonk he slows down riding closer as he grips his father's shoulders with careful strength.
"Harder, boy!" I command.
Timothy's shoulders tense further, pressing down with increased force.
He holds his father down in forceful submission, looking away from the patient's snapping mouth with evident regret.
I pull out a small chunk of wood from the sack and shove it into his father's mouth.
This should prevent any self-inflicted harm.
"Now that we have some silence. Tim. Speak. Tell us, inform the medical board on how to use the forbidden art of this magical tool?"
"It needs something from the wearer. Like a live-blood source, I think. 'Something that the pendant recognises'. I've only seen him place his bloody thumb on that indent in the middle before. You see it. Just please, be careful.."
"Good. We can now proceed."
I grab onto his hand, but he tucks his thumb inward in defiance.
I narrow my eyes. Old memories echo in my skull: 'At least you tried your best...' 'Yes, they died, but there was nothing you could have done...' 'Our statistics show we've saved many more...'
No. Your people's words no longer mean anything to me.
This is my life, and I demand results.
"Stupid man, where are your papers? You are in too much debt to leave me behind just yet. Your life belongs to me."
He muffles out a grunt of displeasure before he manages to spit out his gag of wood.
"You're crazy. Sadistic fuck. I don't owe you shit. Son, look at him. I was wrong, he's actually demonic. You can't trust him and his kind. He's enjoying this. Stop Tim! You're hurting me, Tim, baby, if you ever loved your old man, please, just please let me die. I don't want you to see me like this. I don't want to die like this." His mouth quivers in a pleading motion as his writhing continues.
"Don't listen to him Timothy. I know it hurts. I know your pain. I know you want to help, but are too powerless to do so. This decision, this regretful mistake is one you can only make once and never again in the entirety of your life.
He is not in a stable state of mind to consent to give you his permission, so It's on us, on you:
Leave him to die and end his momentary pain, or prolong his survival so with whatever chance they have, no matter how small it is, when we reach camp the others can use the time we buy to help him recover and see you again.
I can't decide for you. Ultimately it is your decision that will define the outcome at the end of this day."
Tim's eyes flick between us, trembling. I press my hand to his shoulder and force a happy smile.
"I'm with you all the way, whatever you choose."
He swallows hard, then nods. Our fists meet in a quiet bump.
"Okay. I need your verbal consent."
"Yes. Anything. I'll do anything for him." His response is immediate.
"Give me your thumbprint here in acknowledgment of our verbal agreement, so that the terms can be applied in the appropriate manner."
Tim hesitates. His thumb hovers over my hand. Every second stretches into an eternity.
I understand what you're thinking. I've been there too. The crippling doubt: 'What if it goes wrong?' 'What if I make it worse?'
Then the self-loathing: 'I'm a monster for even considering this.'
Then questioning everything: 'Do I have the right to decide?'
Even I'm having doubts now. 'Am I just outsourcing my moral responsibility to that of a child so that I feel less burden in case of a bad outcome?'
But somehow, ignoring all that noise—all the fear, all the cultural rules about what's "proper"—there's something else.
This new feeling of control.
It's Intoxicating.
He eventually relents, of course, placing his thumb in my grasp. I rub it tenderly and after pricking it with the sewing needle, we place it atop the pendant together.
Jim's body flares, green light turns to purple as his screams momentarily falter beneath the shock of rapid change.
Flickering black veins crawl through his body, siphoning off the surrounding light. Steam radiates from his skin, animating him into a gaunt, anorexic but ghastly figure.
The procedure has malformed him into something terrifyingly inhuman, but undeniably alive. The remaining aura left in the necklace pulses before turning to ash; though his form is monstrous, it manages to hold.
His mask of face twitches alive as it frantically blinks.
What was once yolk has long since festered, beaten, scrambled, and poached into a viscous purple concoction that now resides within his staring gaze.
He sits up, opening his mouth again as he usually does but this time it feels indescribably uncanny.
"Why? Why can't a man die in peace? Don't I deserve that much dignity? I'm already gone, why! Why do you drag this out further? Desmond. Timothy, my boy, we all know how this tale will end, none of us will be happy, those moments we shared.
GONE.
My memory.
GONE.
Is this how you want to see me?" his body language laments further, all drooped in self-despair.
"But Dad, I love you." Tim pulls him from my horse with little effort before they collapses into each other in a sorrowful embrace. Their foreheads touch in the most intimate form of contact.
At that small gesture, Jimson's face crumples like I've never seen before. Contorting and knotted slack, a small flash of clarity ignites in his empty gaze of cosmos.
A burning star. His resolve has returned back to us, my work here is done. Breathing out, I wipe my forehead with my right palm, and then rub my palms on the leathery fur below.
"Okay, fine, I can do that, for you, son, but only for so long. Tim, I need you to be strong for me, alright? Can you do that?" His voice, although sounding different, remains deep and considerate.
Tim's face also breaks down; a wet, sputtered sob escapes from him.
"Stop. Don't look at me like that. I—I can't take it. No good-for-nothing father wants to see his baby, look at him like that. Turn away. Keep riding. Do that much for me, yeah?" He laughs a brittle rattle, hand shaking as he squeezes his noticeably thinner arm around Tim's shoulder.
"How Dad, how can I look away now when you're so still, my very handsome and caring father?"
Pealed lips chafe, teeth grind against each other, all attempting to let out a tiny smile.
I can see that for Tim, at this very moment, no matter how fleeting, no matter how grotesque, that pained look through gritted paternal dedication his father gave him means the absolute world to him.
"How could I forget? I had such a lovely child. My boy, he takes after me. I'm truly proud of you." Jim's other arm reaches behind him, looking for a loving embrace until it finds its destination.
"But Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm almost twelve." Tim's laugh is now short and bitter. But this irrelevant, and who am I to judge. To him, this is the same person and that's all that matters.
His tear ducts clamp down, bursting at their seams. He's clearly holding back just like his father for him.
Then I notice that behind Tim's backs Jim's nails pry into each other, levering them up and off of his red skin. They flutter to the ground, our gazes catching for a moment as we watch their descent.
He gently shakes his head at me and I nod back, staying silent.
Before long he continues, indifferent despite also witnessing what happened.
"I know your twelve, but you'll always be my boy." he continues making that smiling face before it suddenly hardens and he speaks up.
"Now daddy has something really, really, serious to say, can you listen?"
"Of course father, what is it."
"Just know that the only thing that matters to me is your heart. When the world lets you down and it will, you can't let it down in return.
Be the best person you can be, like I know you can. Don't let pain own you. Take it. Become it. And move forward." His breath stumbles, the light fading, but he stares the lesson into his son's eyes, unblinking.
Tim presses his head into his fathers chest and squeezes so weak, but so tight at the same time.
"But Dad, you are my world. I don't know how to move, I don't know how to breathe, I won't be able to laugh or look up again without you. I can't leave you. I-I love you." He stares into his fathers eyes with full attention.
"I wish you'd said that sooner." A broken but long wheezing laugh. Then a cough.
"Funny? Took me almost dying for my son to open up to me again."
"Well… it's just… When you did that to me, I was lost. Angry. I understood, but I hated you for it. And now… I just want you to live. Please. Dad, I forgive you."
Jim bites down, tearing off part of his lip. He tries to swallow all the blood, flesh and shame but then turns his face in an act to hide away.
But Tim caressing his fathers cheek, pulls him back, refusing to allow his fathers gaze to go elsewhere. The surprise causes Jimson's nose to flutter in shrinking embarrassment.
"Please let go now. I need to say something to Desmond for a moment. Please? On Sophia's name, I promise you it's the thing of most importance to me"
Another crooked smile bridges across the ruined landscape of his face. Tim stares back at me, lips pressed chubby together, pouting in reluctant acceptance.
"…Fine."
He murmurs softly, his fingers finally let go placing him back on my horse as he slowly turns back to face the front of his mount.
I lean over Jim as he takes a deep breath, whispering under low breath he cranes his neck upward. I put my ear to his mouth and listen closely.
"The fact is… I should already be dead. This trick… this moment, it's all just an illusion. An after-image, nothing more. Truth is, Desmond… I feel it. I should already be dead. This relic wasn't designed for reanimation. It's a miracle it's even working right now," his dry breath tickles for a moment.
"Puts things into perspective. The knowledge that you're about to die… good thing we managed to help you. It was really fun chatting with you, Des."
Urea scent slowly permeates the cold air as wet liquid seeps soaking his pants warm. His face scrunches in embarrassment.
"Sorry… I just couldn't let him see that from me," he whispers. "My piss… it'd haunt him. Piss trauma who wants that. Heh, I'm such a hopless father."
"It's all right. Just say what you need to say. I'm all here for you." I say back to him.
His face finally caves in, crumpled, breath shaky. Eventually, he nods.
"Sorry about that, earlier too. I was just desperate, my mind just isn't what it used to be. But now that I've had some thinking about it. Truth is… this world is tough. Tougher than my boy, even. But I don't want him to go through what I did. I'm scared of death… but more than that, I'm scared of leaving him. He has no one left. He'll be angry at the world, and I. No, we can't let that happen." He pauses to regain his breath.
"I need someone to guide him… to care for him… to teach him the simple things. How to cook, grow a good beard, even flatter an angelic-beauty. He'll be an adult soon, but he's too young. Too young. Others exist, yes, but. Others ain't you. I feel in the short time we got to know each other, only you, can do this."
"Me? Why me? I'm just your sadistic healer, remember. We just met. It would be improper. I know I'll make mistakes, hurt him, teach him wrong." I choke out my reply.
He laughs, a weak but pained sound. "My friend, snap out of it. That insincerity… it doesn't fit you well. You're here right now with me, don't act like you're not. And mistakes, you think I haven't made any? What I want… is not perfection. I want your best. Can you promise me that much Des?"
"I-I a." I stammer out but then my right hand suddenly grows noticeably cold.
I look down.
It's covered in blood, his blood.
My thread..
I hold my hand against his barely beating chest. However, the blood only continues trickling out and after every heartbeat I feel it as it slips between my fingers. It never ceases, no matter how much force I apply.
With this eventual realisation I begin to deflate over him.
"You think I couldn't tell why you did all that. I can see it in your eyes and actions. You love, empathise and care about that boy just as much as I do. Regardless, that is what matters most to me. As for the other stuff, you didn't really think you could convince me. Look at me!"
I turn my head away, cheeks burning unable to face his sincerity. My chest buckles under his anxious burden.
"I said look! I'm covered in piss here. Do you think I have the qualifications?"
I manage to look back.
"But… why me? I don't deserve Tim's love, nor am I strong enough, loving enough, caring enough for the responsibility." My reply is desperate.
"We all have secret powers in this world. If you want to hear mine… It's empathy. That's all. Helped me plenty over the years, and it's telling no screaming at me right now that there's only one person I can trust in the entire world to protect and raise my boy properly. This is you!" His finger digs in my chest.
He leans up. The purple light has completely vanished now. His lips whisper in gentle tones as he grabs onto my hand,
"I leave him to you. Take good care of him" His fingers trace along my palm.
'One wish'.
His last nail scrawls the words in sloppy, bloodstained handwriting that carves a bruised black on my palm.
"But… this responsibility… fine. I'll do my best. But tell me one thing—"
"..."
No response, his weight feels almost none-existent now.
A body then slumps into my arms—limp, boney and discolored.
Only Tim's wails from ahead and the last glint of a tear on the old man's cheek dare to break the silence.
Just like that? He's dead?
No… it can't be. He's tricking me. Any second now, he'll laugh, sit up and say, Gotcha.
I wait in suspended motion as the world moves ahead.
The dead facial tissue relaxes. Skin—epidermis taut once over the skull becomes loose, ready to fall of in a moment.
He's really gone.
Tears.
They slowly fill my eyes up, burning too.
Two trails sizzle and streak down cold glacier-like cheeks, evaporating before they reach my jaw.
I pull out the remainder of the rope.
This little noose goes around the arm,
This little noose goes around the head,
This little noose goes around the body,
And this little one sleeps on his bed.
My hands finish tying the knot.
Tightly around Cindy's waist they bind, holding together a most precious cargo.
Breathe. / Can't be sad. / Can't cry. / Must persist. / Protect the boy.
I slap myself—Hard.
Readjusting my vision, my purpose clear once more.
Glancing back one last time, I blow out my nostril, letting both my snot and blood fall.
They drip and soak into the rocky ground.
Aching from head to toe my body is, but still. Still, I press on.
From the swampy midlands to the canyon's entrance—an archway overhung by floating rock formations that stretch endlessly towards the sky.
Beneath, bioluminescent moss glows in a cold fluorescent glare.
Bugs, flies and small critters are all illuminated under its veil, singing at us as we continue riding this sordid path forward.