I'm Not Afraid
Get a grip, Worthington. It's just a measly little surgery... Nothing at all to be afraid of.
I'm not afraid.
I'm not.
Sure, the antiseptic stench always smells like it's covering up bile and blood and rotting, diseased flesh... Even the damn magazines in the waiting room tell you that you've got rare medical problems. The staff and patients look long dead, pale and slimy like creatures who crept out from a deep, deep cave. Decomposing, almost.
But that doesn't mean I'm afraid.
It's just surgery. Have to get my bone realigned; Hank warned me if I let it heal on its own this might happen. Just a simple corrective surgery to make the bones line up.
The waiting room smells like plastic and mildew. My T-shirt is soaked through with sweat, and my arms stick uncomfortably to the filthy sterilized rubber chair as my fingers dig into the ripped open armrests which gush their stuffing into the open. I'm not sweaty because I'm afraid, though. It's hot in here.
Well...
Actually, it's not. The air-conditioning is icy cold, its mechanical whirring setting my teeth on edge and the slight breeze ruffling my hair. Not that it was okay before; any styling I attempted before leaving was ruined by my prior flight and the dampness of my brow. The receptionist is leering at me... At least, I think she is. It's hard to tell. Her thick lumpy flesh almost conceals her beady eyes, and I find myself wondering why the workers wear those hideous green scrubs. What could they be trying to hide? Although, I suppose with sausage roll arms like that I'm glad she's covered.
Shit, I could really use a drink.
... Not because I'm afraid, though. I'm... just thirsty. Yeah. God, the air in this place is so dry it feels like my lungs are blistering. I cough, hacking and rough. I can imagine the flesh on the inside of my throat peeling off in strips.
When the man sitting across from me sneezes, I nearly gag. He is old, at least ninety, and almost completely bald. His slack skin is mottled with liver spots and sun damage. He looks slippery, like there's mold growing on him.
God damn it, why won't I stop shaking? I mean, it's cold, but it's not that cold. And why am I sweating if I'm this freezing?
The receptionist chews on her pen. I'm going to puke again. It was impossible to hold down this morning's breakfast just thinking about this disgusting, unsanitary place, but watching her dirty an innocent desk utility with her filth... My stomach flops.
I'm not afraid, though. Nope. Not me.
I realize my fingernails are digging into my palms, and I force my hands to unclench from fists. With a deep, shaky breath of the medical fumes, I regain some semblance of composure.
"Mr. Worthington? Doctor Ascher will see you now."
Shit. Shit!
My heart flutters irregularly against my chest. Dry mouth and damp palms, I force an easy smile to my lips and stand, unsticking myself from the plastic coating of the chair. My wings, incredibly restive until now, twitch and strain nervously against the painful leather harness. Every fibre of my being screams to smash the window and fly away from the dim, putrid hospital, free.
I don't. I'm not afraid.
I remind myself that after this surgery my limp will be gone, the one that came to be because of my stubborn refusal for medical treatment after the accident. I figured, I've got a healing factor, why not use it? Only healing factors don't move your bones to the right positions.
The hall is lined with gurneys holding metal implements and bags of yellow and red liquid. God, if one of those spilled I would just die; gloopy bodily fluids from deceased diseased bodies all over the floor. Biohazard symbols are everywhere.
... I am going to puke now. I am.
Or maybe I'm just going to have a heart attack and die. That would be easier.
"Hello. I'm Doctor Ascher. Get changed into this and then lie down here, please."
All business, then. Fine by me. I just want to get this over with and get out of here.
... Not that I'm afraid or anything. Just got things to do.
The hospital gown they want me in is hideous. The color makes me look green. Or maybe I'm green anyway. Either way, I put it on.
My reflection looks awful. My hair hangs limp in front of my dull eyes and my hands still shake if I forget to concentrate on keeping them from doing so. I must be coming down with something, because I'm sure as hell not afraid.
Shit, maybe I caught it from bald old mold man in the waiting room! That would be disgusting.
If I make it through this alive and with my sanity intact, I'm going to throw a party and get really, really drunk. A party just for me, though. Those stupid assholes who couldn't be bothered to accompany me are not invited.
I wish Bobby were here. He would distract me and make fun of me and remind me how goddamn stupid it is to be so terrified of such a simple thing.
Hell, I wish anyone were here! I can't do this alone.
Shit.
I'm not afraid.
I lie down where Ascher told me to, and he comes back.
"All ready?"
No! Damn it, I'm not ready!
(I nod.)
I can do this. It's just a little surgery, nothing I can't handle. I've been through much worse, and I'm going to be awake the whole time; he can't do anything I don't agree to. It will be fine. Nothing to be afraid of.
My wings disagree, straining against the leather harness desperately. It creaks in resistance and Ascher looks over curiously.
He decides to ignore the sound and continues his preparations. I struggle to get my wings to calm down. My heart pounds on my chest weakly, so fast that I'm legitimately worried. Feeling a pang of pain in my hand, I realize I've been gripping the side of the operating table, hard. I don't let go.
My breathing comes in sharp gasps and I'm shaking. Trapped painfully under my body, my wings spasm and rage against the harness. I literally have to fight to control my own body. My abdominal muscles ache from trying to hold my wings down flat. I almost sob from the sheer effort of keeping a facade of composure, but I bite my lip instead.
"I'm almost ready to begin the procedure," Ascher calls over his shoulder.
The metallic tang if blood fills my mouth from the bite in my lip. I clench the table tighter. I'm not afraid.
"Please ensure you are relaxed. That will make this easier."
I almost snort derisively. I'm not afraid.
"Ready?"
I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid!
With a Herculean effort I steady my breathing and relax my tense muscles. I can do this.
I can!
"By the way, last week's X-Rays revealed that your leg is worse than we had originally thought. It's healed incredibly quickly, and I'm going to have to cut it apart again to make the bone straight."
He pauses for breath. I can do this!
"I'm going to have to put you under for the procedure."
What? Fuck. Fuck!
"What the hell are you talking about, Ascher? I'm not damn well letting you sedate me! No fucking way!"
My wings strain against the harness, and I feel it stretch and crack. Fuck! I can't let him do this to me... No way, I'm not letting him control me like that. Like an animal, I jump off the table and to the door, eyes wild in terror. My heart is going to burst from my chest. The door is locked. I'm drowning in sweat and fear.
Ascher just looks shocked. Frozen in the midst of preparing a syringe, he gapes at me. "What-? Lie down, Mr. Worthington! Calm yourself!"
Can't let him control me. Won't! I'm not going to sleep near him, I'm not leaving my fate in his hands.
"No fucking way!" I yell again. "You just back off, Asshole!" My back is pressed against the door, my wings pushing to be free. I just want him to leave me alone!
"Please calm down. If you are experiencing any displeasure with the situation, I'm sure we can work something out. This procedure is of the utmost importance to your health, and it's important it go smoothly."
Despite myself, I listen to his calm voice, slowly pushing my adrenalin down and forcing myself to breathe evenly. My heart beat subsides.
"Good job. Now, lie down on the table and we can talk about making this more comfortable for you."
His voice is almost hypnotic; I lower myself back onto the table.
"Look," I mutter, "I just want to be awake. Don't put me under, okay? I just want to be awake and in control of my own damn future."
Ascher nods reassuringly and takes a quick note. Probably a referral to a psychiatrist. Fuck him.
"Just relax. Although I would like to acquiesce to your request, I'm afraid I cannot perform this surgery without you sedated. It's too serious a procedure." And then, before I have a moment to react, he injects me with that fucking syringe; bastard had it behind his back the whole time.
"What the hell!" I roar. "Fuck you! You're not allowed doing that, I'm going to sue your fucking ass off, Ascher!"
I struggle to sit up but my muscles feel already like molten lead poured into my skin. Shit. I can barely move and blackness hovers on the edge of my vision.
Ascher peers at me with genuine apology. "I'm afraid I am allowed to sedate a patient against his will if he starts causing trouble, Mr. Worthington."
So he is, huh? Well, fuck him. I'll cause trouble if I want to.
"Please try and relax. This won't take long. You'll be asleep before you know it."
No. Please, God, no. Don't let me be at his mercy. I will do anything to stay awake.
Please let me stay awake!
But my vision fades, the world spins, the sensation of my damp, sweaty skin and my feverish heart and my shaking hands fade to nothing. Only my gently trembling wings remain.
Oh God. When I wake up, everything could be different. If I lose my wings, I'll die.
I'll jump out of the first building I can and fly one last time before meeting my maker. I promise this.
I don't want to lose my wings.
I...
I'm afraid.