School, for a day or so, only felt like a restraint. A couple of big hands, just holding me back from the fight. The fight for a life more innocent than any other I knew of anymore.
However, the day I got the audacity to visit… her again, I did the research. I found Concordia Medical Institute, and not only did I jot the phone number down on a note within my cell phone. I took a pen and almost stabbed myself to stroke it upon the back of my hand.
I felt a pocket of justice lie behind every digit.
Then, that night, I had my mother drive me to the hospital again. We asked a secretary where Emily would be.
The secretary's rugged, tired face looked like a grave in itself.
"She would be in the Intensive Care Unit, ma'am," she sighed. "That girl with the synthetic worms? Is your daughter a friend of hers?"
STIGMA. Agh, why could nobody get it right?! Because they didn't know such a wretched creature could ever exist.
And… if anyone knew… the ground would be painted with my fervent blood… That wretched man would find a way. He swore upon the words.
"Yeah," my mother sighed solemnly. "They were best friends."
Hearing "synthetic worms" being uttered from that woman's mouth… I looked back and knew that I would definitely be in tears if my sleeve was empty.
However, the mere disregard coming from the populous that I would have trusted with my life and had to with that of the closest thing I had to a companion made me feel as if a scalpel was constantly chopping away at my heart.
The secretary looked to me with utmost sympathy and said, more calmly than healthy "Down the hall behind me. There'll be a door. Everything from there on is the Intensive Care Unit. The doors are labeled there, too."
"I'll be finding a place to get a nice cup of coffee in this place," my mother sighed, with that same unsettling calmness. "You have your phone with you, right? Text me when you're ready to go home."
I raised my phone up to my face. The shiny blackness of the screen… A secret weapon, such an innocent piece of technology would be.
Three steps a second were taken by my sneakered feet. Sympathetic music echoed into my ears from all around me. Ah, I appreciated that. That artistic aspect. It was almost like that kind of music you hear at funeral homes when you're getting only that first look at your dead loved one. Except this music was asking "Is there hope?" Music at funerals said "All hope was gone long ago, and we're simply prepared."
Paige Fortier, the first door read. Jacob Hamm was marked upon the second door's whiteboard.
Emily Lintz, read the door that my shaky right hand pressed open.
I took a deep breath, trying to yell at my brain like some sort of drill sergeant. I couldn't break down now. If Emily was really gone, a heart meter sitting dismally by her bed would be droning, not beeping to a dismal rhythm. The poor thing's skin wouldn't have any color to it.
Already feeling sadness creep upon my lips, I took a few steps up to her bed and put my hands upon the railing. If a true love were in Emily's place, you could definitely bet that a hand would be brutally squeezed by my own.
I only had to look down at her once… to realize that within any soon-to-come moment, I would either be a hero or a self-hating witness.
I… could be a hero…
"E-Emily?" I said.
Not a peep, or movement, would be made from the girl for the time being. The heart meter, however, repeated "She's alive" to a beat in my mind's eye.
My heart was on edge when I realized how quickly that rhythm could just… collapse…
I couldn't let that happen. Hence the two secret weapons I had brought with me: the ink reading a crucial phone number, and the phone I'd use to reach out to my only hope.
"Emily…" I sighed. "…I promise, you're not done yet! You have a chance… and it lies in my hands. Very, very few people know about this wretched pathogen… known as Stigma. I have a way to contact someone who can help you, Emily. Someone is after my head because I know what's assaulting you, but… to me, it is most definitely worth the chance. Please… hang in there, despite the fact that I may not even be in existence when you open your eyes again. Your near-dead soul could detect when all hope has crashed… and that's when you can leave us."
At that, I found myself at a loss for words and knew that time was being wasted. That I had said enough. I went to walk out… when my foot got caught on something.
I looked down. A clipboard, holding a crucial-looking report in place. I picked it up and read it over.
"Synthetic worm of some sort. Three arrow-headed organisms, two which make lacerations, the other which burrows into the organ, then proceeds to make 6 or 7 lacerations at once… in an asterisk-like shape."
The room was empty. The walls were dark, and the spaciousness was uncannily plentiful. Not even the birch-wooded door provided a window.
Nobody could hear me in here!
I could feel myself grow clammy as I dialed the phone number on my hand. Then, I shakily raised the phone to my ear, whispering the plan to myself.
Dr. Vaughn… Dr. Markus Vaughn was the man I had to talk to…
After a few rings, a woman's voice spoke to me. All the way from California. This is how I'd ever make a phone call to California…
"Hello," she said. "You have reached Concordia Medical Institute. This is the secretary speaking."
"Eh…" I said. "…H-Hello there."
I looked back at Emily, and the detailed specimen report that I held in my other hand. I felt my heart solidify with a shield. I was ready to be as calm and professional about this as possible. It was the best way to get the most bizarre explanations through.
"Yes," I said, quietly clearing my throat. "…Would your institute happen to have a doctor by the name of… Markus Vaughn?"
The most stomach-churning 5-second pause ever.
"…Yes, ma'am," said the secretary. "Would you like me to put you through to him?"
"Y-Yes, please," I said.
"Alright."
At that, I took a couple of deep breaths. One slip-up, and such a revolutionary man would know me as some insanity-driven woman. He'd be out of reach. My one drop of hope would be tainted.
What if the truth were to give him the same impression?! I-I… had to try. What was going on was true. I hoped he could comprehend that…
At that, a male voice spoke to me. This had to be Vaughn. Here we go…
"Dr. Vaughn speaking," he said.
"Hello, doctor," I said, fighting discomposure. "…This is hard to explain… I-I don't know some things myself, but… I have a friend who… I believe has been infected with Stigma."
Instead of the chilling silence I was bracing for, Dr. Vaughn responded with "WHAT?! M-Miss… Uh… What has led you to believe this?!"
"In school, just a few days ago," I explained, feeling my composure trickle back to me. "I was heading to lunch to find that she had lost consciousness in the middle of the hallway. I later learn that she had cried out in pain before doing so. They turned to surgery to try to fix this, thinking it was appendicitis, or something… but they go to her liver to find that they had no idea what the stuff inside her was…"
"And you're… just a friend of the victim?" Vaughn asked. "You're not a nurse, or anyone that works in the hospital?"
"No," I sighed, part in sadness, part in relief that I had gotten it through to the one person who could save Emily that this was true. "But I'm visiting her in the Intensive Care Unit. T-They couldn't do anything for her…"
"Do you happen to know her condition?"
"It's… probably critical. She's on life support."
"Oh, no…"
"BUT! A doctor left this report behind. It talks about the specimens!"
"Well?! What does it say?!"
"Three arrowhead-like creatures. Two with a pinkish core, one with a blue and black one. The two pink-cored ones just made single lacerations, one about every 30 seconds."
"Cheir. What about the third one?"
That name seemed familiar.
"The third one…" I said, going for that place in the report. "…It constantly burrows into the organ, then suddenly lashes out and makes 6 or 7 lacerations at once in an asterisk shape."
"And Onyx."
That name felt familiar, too…
"Where is your friend?" asked Vaughn. "And what is her name?"
"Her name is Emily," I replied. "We're in a town in Michigan called Niles. It's close to Indiana."
"How old is Emily?"
"15. She'll be 16 in May."
"Alright. My team and I will be out there by tomorrow! And… I want you to meet us there. In Emily's ICU room. What is your name, and how old are you?"
"Rachael," I responded. "16."
"I promise you, we will save your friend," Vaughn reassured me. "Meet me and my colleague in Emily's ICU room at approximately 10am tomorrow. Will that work for you? I just want to… talk with you."
A humble Saturday. That would work, no matter what.
"Yes, that will work for me," I smiled. "…I-ICU room #3, if that helps."
"Thank you. I will see you tomorrow."
At that, he hung up. I went over to the messaging application and texted my mother something along the lines of "I'm finished here, but I'm… getting sleepy. Can I come back tomorrow morning, around… 9:45 or so?"
Around a minute later, my mother replied back with "Come meet me by the secretary's desk. And yes, we can come back then."
Triumph. One of the sweetest events I've ever had to wake up for.