"Jimson!"
"Jimson!"
"JIMSON! Wake up. Talk to me!"
What to do, what do I do.
I remember now.
Danger! Danger… where art thou… danger?
Through fingered binoculars I scan around, searching.
My body stiffens as I stumble upon the scene again behind, flesh rips and is chewed upon. I let out a choking cry.
No, don't look. Behind they are, safe you are now. Mmm.
"Thanks Yoda." I mutter.
He didn't respond before — but now let's just hope for the best.
Tapping at his face, I poke his chin. Fingers picker at his nose, blocking it momentarily.
Not even a peep. Damn.
Airways, check his airways. Pinching his cheeks together, I pry. Thumbs force entry upon his mouth, holding it open.
Pearls. Gems. Ulcers. Plark. Buried and tucked beneath the rough. Crooked, glossy and discoloured, carved by serrated gums.
I lean forward. Eyes planting over the cavern of his mouth.
Their roots dig in, burrowing long; Past teeth and humid breath, I explore, excavating further.
I look onward; past the canals and ravines in their crumbling decay. I listen. A faint, gurgling sound echoes from the back of his throat. Gliding over the sodden marsh of porous tongue, I approach closer, drawn into the further darkness.
Too dark. No light. Can't see.
This won't work. My hand twitches. Wait. Maybe just maybe.
My hand carves, whittling at the opening. Wider. On the other hand, fingers sharpen to triangular points; aimed and released in a piercing kinetic blur, penetrating past the toothy blockade.
My wrist is sealed in by his cavernous lip as the payload is released. Then — I feel it, hanging wet and stiff against my feelers' touch, a cocoon that rhythmically sways in the recesses of his mouth. It twitches, a suction emerges gasping in tepid breath. Slowing. Becoming weaker with each passing second. Yet his airflow remains unobstructed. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe.
Good. What next?
Compressions? No he's bleeding, not choking. Stupid. Stupid, idiot.
Pop. My hand uncorks from neck. Bottled tight air releases in a resounding plump, convincing my uvula to gag in urgent revolt. Jets of rancid spewdom burst past half-swollen lips; the warm, spoiled kind of fatty lard that gushes just before you heave. With it gurgling, I gulp, swallowing down the regurgitation whole.
Wiping froth from my goatee, I let out a sour yet satisfied burp.
My grubby hands reach down, grabbing at the pendant around my jugular. 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 it leaning over Jimson once more.
I work the strap around his tangled hair, threading carefully, around the knotted catchments as my fingers fumble in ill-practice. I lift his head. With my knuckles supporting his crane of lifeless neck, the amulet finally finds its resting place. I stop. Admiring my work with a sense of somber finality — like dressing a corpse in a coffin for theatric display.
My nose flares in grimace. NO! Don't think in such demonic tongues again. That is a man's life.
A voice interrupts me out of trance.
"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."
"…"
"…"
"Dad, please!"
My heart. It aches for him. I want 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."
A faint mumble.
Thank the shadows, he's still alive.
Ok he's alive, breathing too, but the blood. I don't have any experience with that.
Where's a hot nurse when you need one. No they don't exist, I refuse it. I have never seen one; it must be an old drunk's wet dream. Fine It all relies on me, and this hot doctor needs his tool.
I lightly chuckle to myself.
Tim's glistening eyes look upward to me. In pleading request.
After putting on my invisible gloves, mask and goggles I snap my fingers pointing directly to him.
"Fear not, my child, for I will save him," I rasp in a deep voice, slamming my chest with macho confidence.
"Now. Scalpel… pleeeeaaaase?" I hold my hand out in open gesture, my voice cracks in mocking but clear instruction.
Tim's nose still follows my gaze, but his brown eyes dimmer in clouded confusion.
"It's pronounced 'yes, and,' Tim. Next time be sure. Immersion is ruined — forget it. Just toss over the bag, will ya."
He nods to himself through laboured breaths and finally tosses the sack over.
I mumble, "Thanks." Catching it, I scrabble around its insides. Behind the lump of driftwood, I pull out a coil of rope and a crumpled pile of cloth.
I inspect my patient, silver froth bubbles at the tips of his lips as his stomach begins to shimmer slightly, though his body remains mostly still and cold.
Look who's wriggling now, Jimmy.
Holding his hands down, I bind his wrists in coarse rope. Wrung tight around the hollow of Cindy's meaty ribcage, any further resistance is futile.
Tearing away his jacket and shirt, a large purple gash is revealed across his chest—bleeding, crusted in black rust, dirt, and sweat. I see blood blisters simmer, boil, and burst all in real time.
After probing around for inflammation and finding naught, I bend over, my nosetip dives into the depths of his bodily fluids, sniffing. Not bad. Tasty even. Who am I even kidding, this shit is so disguiting. Doesn't smell infected though. Is this how they do it back in the day? Not impressed.
Taking a sip from his hip flask, I pour the rest letting the hot, sharp burn flood the wound with a searing hiss. Mud and small stones cling stubbornly to the flesh; I pick at the wound with my chatted nails, spooning away the debris. The filthy things crawl free on my palm. Clutching my fist, I toss them aside and continue.
After the worst is scraped bare, I press a rag to the gash and cinch a belt tightly around his chest to hold it in place. His pulsing slows to a half-pumped throb. I know how bad, unsanitary and shocking this is. Every second, he loses blood, threatening to undo all my efforts in saving him, but what else can I do? He. Must. Recover.
"Hold on," I tell him, though the words mean nothing. I scramble further in the sack, clinging against the leather bag of the mending kit.
When the blood dries, I can sew him back together like I've always wanted. Fixing, mending him back to what he was. But what style will work:
Back stitch - Can't bring out my creative potential.
Running stitch - Too simple and ugly. Maybe for a base.
Cross stitch - Bingo bango bongo. This, this is the one.If I thread over the running stitch, it'll lock the flesh together while still looking magnificent. I'm sure he'll love its design too.
I pull out the needle, wiping away rust in the alcoholic drink, threading its eye. The weave glistens in the dark, like silk spun from night-shade.
He's a fabric to fix. All mauled and cut-up like that, I'm simply mending a breathing, torn and broken handkerchief. Not that strange hahaha. If only I knew how and had the practice.
With needle in hand, I wait.
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 once again exposing his wound to the environment.
Let's begin. My demeanor changes morphing into the character's perspective. The operation 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 yield little effect. Crude. Disfigured. A hodgepodge, if you will. Alignment off. My measurements askew. Thankfully, the blood flow has slowed.
This device around his neck does work incredible wonders, indeed. If anyone saw 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. With all my wealth of medical experience, I see a way.
The patient, it must persist… whatever the cost. 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. Such things drive me forward. I am a healer now. I must fulfill that purpose. Live! Live you bastard.'
I pull, set, and knot a new section, as a heavy pained breath not of my own shudders across my face, tickling against hairs. Now for the finishing cross stitch. Under cruel strain I draw the edges of flesh together, until they kiss together. Blood spurts from the wound, warm and still insistent, splattering across my cheek like a canvas.
You're lucky, if I were one of the hags of Fate your life would already be so very cursed. Good thing neither of us are of Greek descent, right, Jimmy?
"Hey Tim… have you ever heard of a place called Greece?"
Tim looks back, confused.
More mumblings interrupt us from below.
"Patients need to learn to articulate their needs properly, mmm," I viciously enunciate, looming over his limp corporeal frame with ominous grace. My throat hums a melody, the cadence swaying in metronomic rhythm as I rock from side to side. I take another sip of hard liquor. My prodder resumes its incessant excavation; perforations multiply in indefatigable motion. My index and thumb nimble, yet straining, glisten with visible perspiration as they entwine his body into a hasty patchwork of repair.
"I said, who're you calling a teddy-bear?" he sputters, struggling upright. His hard-boiled eyes roll forward, revealing their yoke, as his mouth spits into my face.
I must say, a bit delayed but timely. Letting the spit stick to my pores, I continue. "I've nearly completed the structure, 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 qi remains to fix me."
"Ah, 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. It truly aches for him. I look down in pity as I slowly, against heavy 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. Please."
Staring headlights, he nods quickly, turning from the front he grips his father's shoulders with careful strength.
"Harder, boy!" I command.
Timothy's shoulders tense, pressing down with increased force, holding his father in forceful submission. The patient's mouth snaps. Tim's face scrunches, grimacing in pitiful regret.
Searching through the sack, I find a small chunk of wood and shove it into his father's mouth, preventing further self-inflicted harm.
"Now that we have some silence. Tim, speak. Tell us, how do we use the forbidden art of this magical tool?"
"I think it needs something from the wearer. Like a live-blood source or something that is 'a blood signature that the pendant knows'. Place something, like a blood signature on that indent in the middle. You see it. Just make sure the pendant knows what it is."
"Good. We can now proceed further." I reach for the father's finger, but he clamps it shut, tucking his thumb inward to resist in struggle.
"Stupid man, where are your papers? Discharged or not, you are in too much debt to leave me behind just yet. Your life is mine now."
"Aaaahhh!" A muffled scream. He spits out the wood.
"You're crazy. You sadistic fuck. I don't owe shit. Son, look at him. I was wrong, he's demonic. You can't trust him and his kind. He's enjoying this. It hurts. Stop! Tim, Tim, if you ever loved your old man, please just 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 pleading motion.
His writhing continues.
"Timothy, don't listen to his pleas. 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: let him die and end his momentary pain, or prolong his survival so they have even a chance, no matter how small it is when we reach camp, for the others to help him recover and see you again. Healthy. I can't decide for you, Ultimately it's 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 smile.
He swallows, then nods. Our fists meet in a quiet bump.
"Okay. I need your verbal consent."
"Yes. Anything. I'll do anything for him."
"Give me your thumbprint here in acknowledgment of our verbal contract, so that the terms can be applied in the appropriate manner."
Tim hesitates. His thumb hovers over my hand. Every second stretched into an eternity. If he does this, he might condemn his father to endless torment. Or save him. Could a child really hold such power? Could he trust his own judgment? Am I enabling his ineptitude? This isn't easy for either of us, but somehow… It feels good.
Relenting, he places his thumb in my grasp. I rub it in comforting intimacy, and after pricking it with the needle, he places it atop the pendant with my support.
The aura shifts instantly. His body flares, green light turning to purple as his screams momentarily falter beneath the shock of rapid evolution.
Flickering black veins crawl through him, siphoning the surrounding light. Steam rises and curls from his skin, animating him into a gaunt, anorexic and ghastly figure. The procedure has twisted him into something terrifyingly inhuman but undeniably alive. The surrounding light pulses steadily, and though his form is monstrous, the transformation is maintained.
His eyes roll forward in a frantic blink. What was once yolk has long since festered, beaten, scrambled, and poached into a viscous purple concoction that now blinds his staring glaze. He sits up, opening his mouth again as he usually does, in words unspoken but meaning incomprehensible.
"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. Is this how you want to see me?" his body language laments further, Drooped and dispersed in self-despair.
"But Dad, I love you." Tim collapses from behind onto him in a sorrowful embrace. Their foreheads touch in the most intimate form of contact.
At that small gesture, Jimson's face crumples. It contorts, knotted and slack, until a small flash of clarity ignites in the empty gaze of his cosmos.
A burning star. His resolve has returned back to us, my work here is done. Breathing out, I wipe my palms on the leathery fur below.
"Okay, okay. Fine, I can do that, for you, son, but only for so long. Tim, my son, I need you to be strong for me, alright? Can you do that?" His voice remains deep and considerate.
Tim's face breaks; a wet, sputtered sob escapes.
"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 sound, hands shaking as he squeezes an arm around Tim's shoulder.
"But Dad, how can I look away now when you're so still, my very handsome and caring father?"
Pealed lips chafe, teeth crack against each other, letting out a tiny smile. I can see that for Tim, at this moment, no matter how fleeting, no matter how grotesque, that pained look through gritted paternal dedication meant the absolute world to him.
"Yeah. How could I forget? I had such a lovely kid. My boy, he takes after me. I'm truly proud of you." His other arm twits behind him, reaching out for a loving embrace. It finds its destination.
"But Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I'm almost twelve." Tim's laugh is short and bitter, as his tear ducts clamp down, bursting at the seams, holding back the oncoming deluge.
"I know, I know. But you'll always be my boy." Behind their back, Jim's nails pry into each other, levering them up and off the red skin, then fluttering to the ground. He continues, indifferent, though noticing their descent.
"Your heart — that's what matters. 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.
"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 whimpers through muffled pleas.
"I wish you'd said that sooner." A broken but long wheezing laugh. Then a cough.
"Funny, huh? Took me almost dying for you 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."
Jimson bites down, tearing part off his lip, swallowing blood, flesh, and shame. He turns his face away in an act to hide away.
But Tim, he gently looks up. His hand shifts, holding his fathers cheek back, refusing to let his fathers gaze go elsewhere. The surprise. It causes Jimson's nose to flutter back in shrinking embarrassment.
"Tim, please let go. I have to say something to Desmond for a moment. That alright?, on Sophia's name, I promise you it's the thing of most importance to me"
A crooked smile spreads across the ruined face of his landscape. Tim stares forward, lips pressed chubby, pouting in reluctant acceptance.
"…Fine."
He murmurs softly, his fingers finally let go as he slowly turns back to the front of the mount.
I lean over Jim as he takes a deep breath, whispering under low breath, craning his neck upward. I put my ear to his mouth and listen.
"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," he breathes 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 perforates the cold air as wet liquid seeps soaking his pants warm. His face scrunches in embarrassment which then turns to shame.
"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 so hopeless even for a mort. Yonking fuck"
"It's all right. Those words don't matter now. Just say what you need to say. I'm all here for you."
His face finally caves in, crumpled, breath shaky. Eventually, he nods. "Sorry about that, earlier too. I was just desperate, not in my mind 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 as if thinking his next words carefully.
"I need someone to guide him… to care for him… to teach him the simple things. How to write, grow a good beard, even flatter a jade beauty. He'll be an adult soon, but he's too young. Others exist, yes, but. They just ain't you. I feel in the short time we got to know each other, only you are the one who 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 a reply.
He laughs, a weak, 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, heh—you think I haven't made any? What I want… is not perfection, Des. I want your best. Can you promise me that much?"
My hand stops mid-stitch, needle covered in blood, flesh pinched tight. My hands tremble. Blood is still pouring, never ceasing no matter how many times I rethread it. I too slowly begin to deflate over him, my head too falls to his chest.
"You think I couldn't tell why you did 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 with inability to face his sincerity, to accept both the compliments and the responsibility. My chest buckles under an anxious burden.
"I said look! I'm pissing my pants here. You think I have the qualifications?"
"But… why me? I don't deserve Tim's love, nor am I strong enough for the responsibility."
"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. And it's you."
He leans up. The purple light vanishes completely. His lips whisper in gentle tones, "I leave him to you. You are his only choice left here." His fingers trace along my arm. 'One wish'. His hands scrawl the words in sloppy, bloodstained handwriting that dries a crusted black on my forearm.
"But… this responsibility… fine. I'll do my best. But tell me one thing—" No response, I see it happen. The pendant sputters, glowing briefly before fading. His body slumps in my arms—limp, heavy, discolored. Only Tim's wails and the last glint of a tear on the old man's cheek break the silence.
He's dead? Just like that?
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. I watch as fascial tissue twists. Skin—epidermis taut over the skull. Bones lighter in weight seem to shiver.
He's really gone.
Tears. They slowly fill my eyes up, burning. 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 they bind, holding a most precious cargo.
Breathe.
Can't be sad. Can't cry. Must persist. Live on. Protect the boy.
I glance back one last time. Snot drips, soaking the ground, my body aching from head to toe. Still, we press on.
From the swampy midlands to the shadowed entrance of this archway, a canyon overhung by floating rock formations stretches above. Beneath it, bioluminescent moss glows in a cold, fluorescent glare, illuminating our sordid path forward.
Was this the only way?