Don't run. Never run thought Dr. Fitz Morrible as he walked briskly down the hall toward the Witch's room. He had to keep himself from breaking into a jog and tried to keep in pace with the clock ticks.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
The clocks continued, nagging him to keep in pace.
He found he didn't like this section of the hospital. They had always kept it too cool and he could feel his fingertips freezing, the feeling creeping up into his hands. He glanced over the Witch's file, shuddering slightly at the notion of having to treat her. He could imagine her already.
A demented old hag cackling madly as she dances about by a cauldron or on a broomstick, terrorizing the population. She's a green, shrivelled prune of a woman, looking as if her fluids really did dry up with age but being of a medical mind, he knew of course that was impossible - no matter what his senile, old aunt said. She would be dead before that happened…or should be.
He grimaced at the thought. That was just too creepy.
But wouldn't riding on a broom stick be bad for your back? The way you'd have to hunch over.
He turned his attention to her profile. It barley even took up a page – the shortest profile he had ever been given.
NAME: N/A
GENDER: F
AGE: N/A
Never form judgement on patients he remembered being taught suddenly. They are merely objects of need and you are meant to be of service to them. Opinions affect your performance. But of course, it was too late for that.
RESIDENCE: Kiamo Ko, Upper Vinkus, M2L 4F2
EMPLOYEMENT: N/A
INSURANCE: N/A
She has no insurance? That's terrible. This could cost a fortune!
ABSTRACT: According to eyewitnesses was struck by a large automobile. Was submitted to ER 06/12/2010 with severe internal and external injuries *see following page for description*
He turned the page for the description and skimmed over it for review. Her injuries were fairly standard for someone in a hit and run accident.
A shattered pelvis – type C (rotationally and vertically unstable), a shin reduced to splinters and that seemed to have been snapped inward with full displacement, the tendons in the area barely intact, ribs 6 through 12 on either side of her torso had been obliterated into segments, tearing into her spleen and stomach and poking into her lungs, her forearm was fractured in 3 places while the deltoid ligament in her ankle had been ripped apart. She had abrasions all over her lower body and somehow had grade 4 hyphema. She also seemed to also have hit her head fairly hard for there had been some brain swelling and he had been instructed to leave a bottle of morphine pills for headaches and any other kind of discomfort she might experience.
He remembered looking over records of her recovery and how that she recovered way faster than a normal person, her bones rebuilding themselves, tissue growing and reassembling, making noticeable process within hours. And strangely, the surgery seemed to have happened without an issue. Things always go wrong during procedures but this time it went perfectly according to plan. Well, she is a Witch and extremely lucky. A large amount of bone marrow had gotten into her blood stream, clogging arteries and she almost died of a heart attack.
He lifted the pills out of his coat pocket for a moment.
He peered at them curiously. They were packaged in a standard enough bottle - transparent orange with a label taped to it. But the pills were different than the morphine pills he had seen in the past. The ones he had seen were blue tablets and these were jelly filled capsules coloured bright orange.
Perhaps there was a mistake. He thought. I'll have to check on that.
He looked up and walked up to the Witch's room and for a moment tried to imagine what she what look like – the most feared or at least speculated creature in Oz lying sick in her bed like some old sickly woman in a retirement home…nope couldn't picture it.
He flicked on the light switch, anticipation filling his core, swirling with fear and curiosity… then he nearly screamed in surprise, jumping backward and into the door. The Witch was awake and sitting up, the oxygen mask lying beside her.
How the hell is she sitting up? She was hit by an automobile two weeks ago!
But it wasn't just the fact that she was awake that startled him. The Wicked Witch of the West was so…so young. She was barley his age and he was 40. She wasn't at all like he imagined. Her skin was green but not like the sick color he expected. It was the green of grass or new spring leaves – not an ugly color but an eerie one that gave her an elfish look. He could only stare at her in shock for a moment and she stared back at him, her normal, brown eye squinting at him.
She was basically a youngish green woman with sharp features – a far cry from the shrivelled, old hag he imagined her to be.
She brought the mask to her face to his relief. Her file stated that they had mixed the oxygen with nitrous oxide to dull any pain she might experience if she woke up…and to make her more docile.
"Err…hello" he said, running a hand through his hair nervously and tried to smile but it felt lopsided. He felt like a veterinarian assigned to treat an untamed lion with a broken leg. How was he going to manage this without getting hexed or terribly scarred in some way? Every move had to be measured and precise, everything said had to be carefully analyzed for any misstep could mean the end of him. "I am Dr Fitz Morrible" he tried to say it in a tone that sounded official - the way he might introduce himself to the head. I am Dr Fitz Morrible sir. For it implied respectfulness.
But at the sound of his name, the Witch looked shocked and she began choking on the flow of oxygen, hunched over, her face flushing. Perplexed, he walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
She's just a patient like everyone else in this facility like a lion is just another species of cat…that could kill you…
He noticed as soon as he touched her that she was hot. There was heat radiating off her, seeping into the palms of his hands. Then he remembered, the record stated that she had developed a bit of a fever soon after treatment…and now he'll be required to check up on it.
The Witch was still coughing into her sleeve, wincing. He pushed her torso up so her lungs could expand. She winced as she coughed and he wasn't surprised – she had broken a number of ribs and they hadn't fully healed yet. He brought the mask to her face and watched her struggling to catch her breath .But then she suddenly jerked away from him, banging into the headboard of the bed.
"You…you're Morrible!" she exclaimed, her voice dulled by the mask over her face.
Oh not this again - of all people!
He had always found it irritating and sort of degrading to have people – strangers suddenly regard him of importance on behalf of his aunt. It stole his individuality and often he became referred to as 'Morrible's nephew - in fact, this was why he was assigned this case of caring for the Wicked Witch.
"I believe you are referring to Madame Morrible." he didn't say 'my aunt' "I am merely a doctor."
He stood and sat down again at the foot of the bed, opening to a new record sheet. Always sit with the patient on a chair or at the bed he was taught. It helps to induce the perception of time and makes it seem you've been with them longer and that you care. He preferred the bed because that is where everyone's parents once sat to interrogate they're offspring. Where is it sore dear? they'd ask. He wondered vaguely if this was the case for the Witch for she was glaring at him.
"Now, I know this must be rather confusing for you." He decided to go for a sympathetic approach. "Do you know why you're here?" speak slowly for it transcends both intellectual incapabilities and agitation – both medical perils.
The Witch removed the mask. He'd make a note for them to switch to a cannula type although her breathing seemed to have improved immensely. It looked smoother and somewhat even but it was also a tad shallow. She probably didn't even need oxygen.
"I…no. No I don't recall being involved in any sort of…incident."
He noted it down and noticed the Witch had wrapped an arm around her waist and had placed a hand on her lower ribcage. Should I tell her about the accident now and be over with it? Or will it be too much of a shock? Can a Witch even be shocked at anything or is it not within their emotional capacity? He decided to leave it for now.
Speak slowly "How – are – you – feeling?"
The Witch's glare on him intensified. "Do I appear deaf to you?" she demanded, cringing.
"No, no not at all. So how are you?"
"I'm fine."
He raised his brow at her. "You're fine." You were road kill two weeks ago and now you're sitting in a hospital bed with a fever, broken bones and open lesions all over you and you're trying to tell me that you're fine.
She nodded. "That's what I said Doctor."
"Well we'll see." he noticed her eyes or eye was sunken and she was swallowing constantly as if trying to get rid of something in her throat. It was strange to see her like this. She seemed not the type to end up so frail. He leaned to put down his folder on a chair by the bed then stood up and moved to the other end of the bed where the Witch sat, eyeing him as if intending to pin him to the ground with the force of her gaze, making him all the more jittery.
"Wha…what do you think you're doing? She demanded although her voice some of its edge. She sounded more anxious than anything else.
"I am going to do physical examination – just to check up." Friendly assertiveness. "Now lie down" The Witch turned hostile and snarled at him like a frightened animal.
"Don't touch me." she said, her voice low and steely like a worried lion or Lion growling at a hunter…..like she was suffering from hypervigilance.
"Lie down." he tried again. During a situation, pretend your instruction is enough to control it. Panic is contagious as is calmness he was taught.
"You…You're in relation to Madame Morrible." she swallowed. "I assume you're aware of our…our predicament"
Ah yes - the Great and Terrible Wicked Witch of the West as my aunt is so fond of saying. An enemy of Oz and that bloody tyrant of a Wizard. The two of you are arch enemies.
Instead he merely nodded and the Witch continued.
"You and…and Madame Morrible must have contacts so." She stopped to swallow. "How… how am I to know you won't try something on behalf of your…?
"She's my aunt and if I tried something on a patient – even a criminal, I'd be fired on the spot then arrested most likely."
The Witch was losing energy and was slumped against the headboard, leaning heavily on her intact arm to keep herself up, giving her a crooked look.
"You…you aren't…" she was faltering and he decided to use this to his advantage.
"Miss, lie down" And for Lurine's sake stay that way. People say the Witch is crazy. Maybe she's just paranoid, sufferning from hypervigilance. She was certainly showing all the signs
"But…you…"
He grabbed the mask by her side and held it up to her face, hoping the drugs might subdue her further. She shrieked in surprise and tried to pull away, turning her head to the side like a stubborn child but then went slack, too tired to resist further. He gently guided her down onto the bed, her body heavy with dead weight. She was definitely hot - and dry too… maybe she's suffering a heat stroke. He'd have to prescribe a saline drip in that case.
He glanced up at the IV and saw it had a slight orange tinge to it.
I prescribed dopamine. What did they put in it? He'd have to check later along with the funny, orange pills.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. He began to examine the Witch top to bottom, keeping in mind that she is just a patient. He slipped his hand underneath her white, hospital shirt, her body burning against his already frosty fingertips. She squirmed, moaning in protest as he placed a hand on her sternum, feeling for any uneven or asymmetrical movement as she breathed. Nothing.
"Take a deep breath." he instructed and she obliged, finally giving in, her muscles shifting to expose the shape of her ribs. He could distinctly feel the outline of her ribcage from where it connected to her sternum to her side. Under normal circumstances, this area is usually shaped like a lower case j minus the dot but with her, it was like a j with a slight, sunken dent - nothing too severe. He slid his hand up to feel the individual ribs, using his fingers to gently trace their crooked outlines.
"Pain anywhere?" he asked and she mumbled inaudibly in reply, her voice dulled by the mask. He moved his hand down the curve of her ribs and further down her torso to the abdomen, causing her to bristle reflexively, the muscles tensing and causing her to arch her back. He had always thought of this area as a soft, malleable area set between the hard, bony chest and pelvis for the purpose of allowing the torso to bend and torque, acting as a sort of specially designed joint. It was funny how this area contained some of the most vital organs in the body like the stomach, intestines, spleen and yet it was left with only fat and muscle to protect it.
He rolled his hand across her surprisingly flat, bandaged stomach, dividing it into four sections; upper left and right, lower left and right, feeling for any dense areas or any other kinds of disfigurement. As his fingers dipped slightly below the hem of her pants, he felt an odd scar between the hip joints, the skin bunched into a fairly thin, straight, horizontal line about five inches long. It could have been from a number of things, Fitz decided. The slash of a knife perhaps? But the scar was too neat, too straight for that. It could have been from a skimmed bullet or from an initiation…or from a scalpel.
Now don't be jumping to conclusions, Fitz.
But the scar was set in the exact area, had the exact alignment and had the exact straight, neatness of a cut initiated by a scalpel… but it couldn't be! The very thought was beyond ridiculous, beyond laughable but the evidence was there.
But she couldn't have gone through a surgical birth. The Wicked Witch of the West can't possibly be the mother of a child; she's a WITCH! And whoever could the father be?
He withdrew his hand, his face hot. Should he report this? What would he say? Or maybe it was just a coincidence the scar was set in the exact same position as a surgical birth scar. It could have been from an initiation of some sort – there's no evidence to prove otherwise but couldn't that go both ways? There's no evidence to prove that she didn't have a child...but she's a Wicked Witch - The Wicked Witch!
Fitz stared at the woman before him; she is a woman isn't she? And women are capable of conceiving and bearing children although he could not imagine how that happened in this case and he didn't want to.
"Miss?" he was not sure why he was addressing her. He had no intention asking – he had neither the courage nor the stupidity and what would he say? Miss, I was wondering, do you have a child? Is he or she green?
She made no response and remained motionless, her eyes closed, her head lolled to the side and sinking into the pillow. Fitz marvelled how normal she looked when at rest; the long, surprisingly feminine neck – elegant actually, the protruding roundness of the collar bones, the flat smoothness of the sternum that led beneath the white hospital shirt. It was almost endearing in her own, peculiar way - free from the hard glares and rages that overtook her while awake. More like a woman and less like a Witch. Fitz leaned back, relaxing his back and peeled off his gloves, turning them inside out. There was so much to speculate which only ever brought him to theories – theories that were sometimes more logical than the actual truth but theories just the same. Wrong or inaccurate.
He jotted down his observations – not mentioning the scar for he was still unsure what to make of it. He got up and pulled the sheets up to her neck then grabbed his folder before heading out the door, flicking the lights off.
He stood in the hall for a moment, relieved to have gotten over the check up…for now. But at the same time, he felt oddly proud of his predicament – he had just dealt with the Wicked Witch of the West! The most feared and powerful creature in all of Oz! The glory! When this is done.
He was about go write up his report when a voice called for him.
"Dr. F?" It was a newbie dressed in a green hospital scrub.
"Uh yes?"
"There's a call for you." she replied. "Line one. Probably a patient"
"Oh great, thanks."
He made his way to the records archive where he asked the front desk to use the phone and to submit his was handed the phone and carried the whole machine to the other side of the desk as far as the cord would allow.
"Nest Hardings General Hospital – Dr Fitz Morrible speaking" he decided on a formal greeting because if it's a client calling, formal is polite and if its not, the worst impression somebody can get is that you're a tad cold.
"Fitzgerald, this is your aunt Morrible" she sounded gruff over the telephone and it was difficult to distinguish the tone of her voice which was a great inconvenience.
"Oh." Damn it!" You have a medical problem?"
"Don't you start getting fresh with me young man. Have you heard about the accident involving the Wicked Witch and the newcomers? You must have, it's been two weeks"
"Um yeah…hit by a large automobile right?" In medicine, we are taught to remain calm and neutral while facing calamity. Thank Oz for that.
"Now it is my understanding that the Witch is currently staying at Nest Hardings – the hospital you work at right?"
He could have lied but figured that if Morrible found out (which was likely), it would be utter chaos for him…and for the hospital.
"Yeah. Yeah she is."
He heard her swear off the phone, her voice dull. "Now Fitz, you make sure you stay away. The Witch is a dangerous criminal and there's no telling what she'd do. So stay away, hear?
"Well I try my best." 'There's no telling what she'd do.' She fell asleep!
"I'm serious! You are my nephew and I don't want you associating yourself with the Witch – she's an enemy to all of Oz!"
Normally he would have just agreed politely and gotten over with it but old, adolescent defiance sprung up at the least expected moment.
"Well if I didn't know you so well, I'd think you're concerned." He scoffed teasingly, grinning to himself.
"Be serious for once will you? I've made myself clear haven't I?"
"Yes - number of times."
"Good. I don't want to be hearing any trouble from you."
"Auntie, I'm a professional. I'd be fired by the time you heard any trouble from me.
There was a pause. "Fine then, carry on." She hung up.
Fitz found himself unable to decide whether to burst out in hysterical laughter or to panic at the thought of Morrible finding out. He could imagine her, her goldfish eyes bulging out of her head, her face beet red and her hair all over the place as if she suffered an electric shock, her designer shoes flailing in the air as she danced about in a fit of rage…..then she dies of a heart attack.
Fitz scoffed, his lip curling up in smirk.
What utter chaos it would be if she knew...
Please review!
Sorry if the story seems a bit slow for now. It'll pick up in a bit...