by Nathanial Dibert

The Doc tapped his stack of papers against his desk, then stood and dimmed the blinds. Connected to the lock on the door laid a latch that switched a buzzer for patients to enter. It buzzed. The red bulb atop the door frame quit flashing when the couple sat in their chairs. Leather squeaked under the impression and—

“What can we do, Doc?” said the Father.

“You must understand, Doc, we can’t— we cannot lose our only boy,” said the mother.

The Doc sat on the corner of his desk, eyes wide as white at the couple. The Father, a man of the church, held his wife’s hand. She wore a low-cut blouse and a pair of hot-red heels. Together, their knuckles depicted a meaty spine, each knob purple and sore and caked with crud. The Doc tugged the string of his lamp to get a better look at their faces.

“I’m afraid I have no good news,” he said.

She rushed forward and into the light. Scratches like ones from a cat were scabbed across her forehead and cheeks.

“What do you mean, Doctor? What do you mean no-good-news?”

Her teeth were shaded like spoiled eggs. She started to stink.

“I’m sorry,” continued the Doc, “but there’s nothing more we can do for your son.” He started sliding latex gloves over his sweaty fists, then extended his fingers for a final snap of the elastic.

“But that’s my boy, Doc, you gotta understand— That’s my only boy!”

“Fix our son!” hissed the mother from her rotten mouth.

“Please, calm down, Mr. & Mrs— Flint, is it? There’s nothing we can do for your son. Your boy’s skin is falling off. I have no cure nor reason why.”

“Sorry, Doc, the name’s Martin. This here’s my wife, Linda. I guess we went and got ourselves so worked up that we’d gone and forgotten our manners.”

His hand poked through the darkness and into view for a hand shake. The Doc grabbed the hand and pulled it further into the light, squeezing tight. He examined the man’s wrist for open sores. They were there. The skin seemed yellow. The skin seemed to have cracked into flinders like glass. A horrid stench leaked into the air.

“Will you please fix our son?” asked Martin.

“Yes, please, fix him for us. He’s our only boy you know,” rattled Linda out of sight.

“It’s not that simple, Mr. & Mrs. Flint. I can’t perform a magician’s trick on your son. The boy is practically dead. No medical procedure has been OK’d for what your boy has. There are no cures for this type of ailment. I suggest you grab your boy and enjoy what time you have left with him. Now, please, let me escort you to the waiting tables.”

A shrill hiss came from a corner in the room. “Doctor, do you have children? Any sons?”

“Why, yes. I have two boys. Teenagers.”

“Let’s say there was nothing I could do to stop your teenagers from dying a horrible death. Does that seem possible? Does it seem like your children could be the kind to die today? This week, even? What about next month? What if your children died and you didn’t find out until you went home for supper? Would you believe it? Would you believe that that was the only way for them to go? When you’re hungry? Could you believe it? I couldn’t believe that there was nothing else for my son to do than d—.”

“Silence! Get out of my office or I will call in security. Patient visits are limited to a quarter of the hour and your quarter is finished!” He combed his hair back to slick with his hands for composure. “Mr. & Mrs. Flint shall I escort you to the waiting tables?”

“There is no security, you fucker,” hissed the Mrs.

The Doc lunged for his desk in hopes they might be fooled into believing him. “Ha! Either of you take another step and I’ll ring this bell under my desk. Two men with guns will enter and take you away for questioning. Is that what you’d rather have over precious moments with your only child?” He could feel his face glistering with sweat. “I have unlocked the door. Please leave now, and we will keep you on as patients.”

The bulb blinked red and the buzzer rang. But even over the droning hum, the Doc could still hear the steady voice of Father Flint.

“She’s right you know. There are no men with guns. Only you—,” he pointed, “and me—, and her.”

The bulb quit blinking. Before the Doc could press the key again, Mr. Flint grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed away from the desk. “Where’s the cure, you weasley-fuck?”

His hands twisted the Doc’s lab coat.

“I assure you, I have no cure!”

“Hand me the scissors, Linda!” The woman rushed in from the darkness with the Doc’s scissors, then smacked them to her husband’s bony hand. Blood from deep cuts across her forehead leaked down onto her chin. Her fingers were smeared.

“We’re gonna cut your ears off,” she said, chanting it like a playground song.

“She’s right you know. I’m gonna cut your ears off unless you give us that cure.” He grabbed the Doc’s left lobe and stretched it from his jaw: a tender patch of skin to start the procedure.

“We’re gonna cut your ears off,” whispered Linda to the Doc over Martin’s shoulder. The Doc panicked. Their faces seemed warped, like running clay. He felt the cool steel of the scissors touch his thin bridge of skin. He heard the metal brush together slowly, and a small prick hit his—

“Enough! I have the cure.” The couple dropped the scissors and stepped back. “It is not approved for humane uses, nor do we know of its side effects, but you may have it if you will honor my demands to leave immediately hereafter.”

“Yes! Of course, Doctor,” said the woman, “Give us the cure for our baby boy and we will leave immediately hereafter!” She smiled and Martin placed his arm firmly around her waist. From the cupboard of his desk, the Doc grabbed a vial of tar he’d won at an auction; a collector’s item, really.

“Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say. You take this black stuff here,” he held up the vial, “you boil it. When it’s well and bubbling, you sift through it for some of the harder chunks. Keep those aside. Have your boy eat the soup. It will be hot, impossibly hot. It will burn his insides terribly, but it must be done in order for him to be cured. Here,” he handed them the vial. They snatched it in a heartbeat. The door buzzed and unlatched. Martin looked back to the Doc just before abandoning the room.

“God bless you, Doc, but our son died yesterday.”

“You take care of your wife, Father.”