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Fiction - The doctor is in
January.
Had that dream again. It's a brightly-lit little cubby hole of a room, the sterile white of a hospital. Lacquered wood cabinets and countertops. The high raised bed with the crinkly paper that shifts and threatens to tear when you squirm your butt on it, but never does. The doctor is sitting in his chair, stethoscope around his neck, with a smile on his face. The patient looks apprehensive.
The doctor's busy writing something on his clipboard. It's pretty elaborate, requiring the full attention of his eyes, but his voice goes on talking. It's the comforting patter of doctors everywhere who know more than the patient but far far less than the Creator, taking a gamble on the diagnosis because it's always worked in the past. Doctor and patient are both reassured.
The doctor carefully tugs at the paper he's labored over. It comes free of the clipboard easily enough. He lifts it, and the patient sees it's covered in some mystic set of symbols and diagrams. Doc holds the paper to his patient's forehead and the symbols start to glow. After a minute, the patient reports success. The doctor smiles. His prescription worked.
Sometimes it's me sitting there, and I'm very young and scared. Sometimes it's me doing the curing. Sometimes it's Emma sitting there affrighted.
Went into the Pass today to see how things stood. Plenty of snowfall. Emma was in her kid state. She threw a snowball at me, laughing the whole time, and it caught me in the face. Poor child didn't know why I started screaming all of a sudden, nor why I had to spend the next day recuperating and healing my mouth back into shape. I told her the snow was just fine, that it was me. I wish she'd remember this for next time she changes, but I know she won't. It's alright, though. She doesn't mean any harm by it. It's just snow.
Had that dream again. It's a brightly-lit little cubby hole of a room, the sterile white of a hospital. Lacquered wood cabinets and countertops. The high raised bed with the crinkly paper that shifts and threatens to tear when you squirm your butt on it, but never does. The doctor is sitting in his chair, stethoscope around his neck, with a smile on his face. The patient looks apprehensive.
The doctor's busy writing something on his clipboard. It's pretty elaborate, requiring the full attention of his eyes, but his voice goes on talking. It's the comforting patter of doctors everywhere who know more than the patient but far far less than the Creator, taking a gamble on the diagnosis because it's always worked in the past. Doctor and patient are both reassured.
The doctor carefully tugs at the paper he's labored over. It comes free of the clipboard easily enough. He lifts it, and the patient sees it's covered in some mystic set of symbols and diagrams. Doc holds the paper to his patient's forehead and the symbols start to glow. After a minute, the patient reports success. The doctor smiles. His prescription worked.
Sometimes it's me sitting there, and I'm very young and scared. Sometimes it's me doing the curing. Sometimes it's Emma sitting there affrighted.
Went into the Pass today to see how things stood. Plenty of snowfall. Emma was in her kid state. She threw a snowball at me, laughing the whole time, and it caught me in the face. Poor child didn't know why I started screaming all of a sudden, nor why I had to spend the next day recuperating and healing my mouth back into shape. I told her the snow was just fine, that it was me. I wish she'd remember this for next time she changes, but I know she won't. It's alright, though. She doesn't mean any harm by it. It's just snow.
