Standing on the edge of the forty-five-floor high-rise with my toes hanging over I think to myself ‘Is it today? Is today the one I lean out and embrace oblivion?’ it’s a weird question to ask while looking out over the fantastic city-space of NYC. It’s a view I started taking for granted a long time ago. Standing here for what might be the last time I can’t help but notice its beauty and wonder if it’s the last time I’ll ever see it. With that thought in mind, I make my decision
Taking a shaky breath, I step back. Cowardice. The feature that defines me as a person, it’s the reason I was on the edge, it’s the reason I stepped off it. Someday I’ll find my courage and I’ll either take the plunge, or find the strength to never want to again.
The edge is always a gamble for me, 5’4 before the cerebral palsy hunches me down to a little over five foot even with pain, and degeneration. Add on that it’s a form of ataxic CP that has been with me from a very young age and every time I put my toes up there I play cards with fate, a notorious cheater. I guess it comes down to her not wanting a Coward as well.
“Baron! What are you doing out here, you’ll catch pneumonia!!” Betty means well, she is the only person I can think of that cares for me as a person and not either a test subject, or wealth. She’s been with me since my parents disappeared twelve years ago. when their company plane went down on the way to propose a new form of energy that could potentially put oil into the rear view. Oddly enough not only did the plane go down under mysterious circumstances, the black box was ‘damaged beyond recoverable’. Those things are made to withstand enough force to be pulled out of 747’s, and airbuses, so I still don’t exactly trust it.
I guess it’s a moot point now, every court system I’ve gone to has stopped listening. I’m living on the money from the settlements that were still fuzzy on the legalese side of why I needed to be awarded a settlement. Blood money? Coward money.
“Baron, you are staring off, are you OK?” I can hear the concern from Betty, she’s a good woman.
I’m in love with her. I think she loves me, but not in the same way, never in the same way. Even if she did, and I was honest, she’s my mother’s age twenty-four years older than me.
“Yes Betty, I wanted a few minutes of air before I get stuffed into the car and carted off to the torture chamber.” My distaste for having to continually endure my mistreatment by something seemingly out of anyone's control is a constant detractor to my mood.
Betty harrumphs, “It’s not torture, they are test batteries to make sure you have stabilized. Once your health has evened out they can attempt the new cellular regeneration, you could finally be free, we could…you could see the world Baron. Imagine the freedom you would have, the things you could do!” Betty has been weird ever since I got accepted into the study two years ago. I can’t help it is because she will be free once I have been ‘healed’, able to live her life free of the soul crushing entity that is Baron.
I’m sure on some level she will be happy that I would be truly healed, she doesn’t have to stay with me, practically forcing her way into caring for me once my parents passed. She left the company and stayed on with her own money for the better part of two years, once I had control of my own finances I hired her on as ‘staff’. She’s the only staff I have, the CP hasn’t driven me into hospice yet, and if my next test is all even it hopefully never will.
Grabbing my forearm crutch and turn back to Betty, “Alright, my friend, lead me to the mosquitoes.” Betty’s face lights up with a smile. She truly is something else. A beautiful forty-seven-year-old who didn’t look a day over 25. Her soft skin almost dark enough to be purple, Betty was a rare mix of African and Asian I’d never seen anywhere before. Admittedly, I am not that worldly; spending most of my time locked up in my tower apartment. For all I know ninety percent of the women in the world looked exactly like her.
Where was I? oh yes, Betty.
Betty was about 5’8-ish, I’m guessing because it’s a question I never asked. She has curly, almost jet-black hair that she keeps in a loose frizzy pony-tail, green eyes set of slightly up curving sockets, and immaculate, almost severe, eyebrows. Her lips were full, and a pink color dark enough that it might be mistaken as red if you didn’t look hard enough. Her short straight nose always caught me off-guard, there is nothing wrong with it, but something about it brings the word ‘cute’ to mind.
Betty has a thin body, I wouldn’t describe her as athletic, more on the skinny side. Whip-thin, would be the term. Despite that she’s strong compared to me, she picks me up when I fall and holds me when I have seizures and as far as I can tell doesn’t break a sweat doing it.
Compared to my measly 5’4 height, and pasty white complexion, and short brown hair I’m incredibly normal looking by far.
For as many things as I love about Betty, she does have a few quirks. She’s one of those religious types, not the obnoxious ones that are trying to shove things down your throat, one of the devout ones of a religion that involves daily worship at specific sun, and sometimes moon, phases. I’m not going to complain, it usually involves her doing some kind of yoga in the great room area, and what kind of man would I be if I complained about a woman in tight yoga clothes preforming bendy worship?
Back to the matter at hand, I suppose.
“Onward, to the palace of pain yon maiden!” I call, as I hobble back into the house.
Betty snorts and turns back into the house maneuvering around the couch and towards the door, “I’ll call the elevator, Galahad.”
I like to think I’m witty and clever, Betty laughs, but I’m still not sure if that is at me or with me. If I’m hale enough to receive the treatment, which I have been actively suppressing my excitement. I don’t want to get there and have them tell me it’s not an option.
Walking through the suite at my shelves of books, and my comfortable couch, big tv, and other amenities it brings a feeling of worthlessness. None of these things have brought me happiness, only reprieve from the almost constant pain, and unhealthiness. I’d thought it more than a few times; I would trade all of it for health.
I don’t dislike people who are healthy, I do envy them though. I cannot say I would be a better person than some, I do not want to change the world, or donate my time to charity. Most of my fantasies involve walking unaided, and not having to deal with the looks of pity when I go places.
Lost in my little bubble of self-pity I don’t even realize I’m standing a few feet from the elevator. Betty is holding it for me, letting me process the emotions that have taken ahold of me over the years.
As I step into the elevator she gives me a self-conscious smile. “Thank you, I’m ready.” Reaching out she pushes the button, closing the elevator doors.
Once the doors close Betty quickly looks at me with a serious look at puts a finger over her mouth, the universal symbol for be quiet. After about four seconds she puts moves her finger from her mouth and touches two to her right temple.
“Scans say we’re clear of auditory bugs, come over speakers his implant is only blocked, not safe for comms.” Betty sounds like a completely different person, usually so soft and soothing, this Betty is straight-forward and stern.
Opening my mouth to talk betty quickly puts her finger over her mouth again, and shakes her head.
A tinny voice comes over the speakers in the elevator, “Baron, don’t talk we have control over most signals to and from the implant, but anything you say might still be recorded and uploaded. Betty, I’ve made it look like someone got off on the floor before you got on with a child who pushed multiple buttons, I’ve bought you maybe an extra 30 seconds.”
Betty gives a nod, and starts talking “Alright, to be clear; we have done this before, almost every time we get into an elevator we have this discussion. Keep quiet and I’ll give you the highlights” she raises her eyebrows, and I give her a quick nod of my head.
If this is a discussion we’ve had before I should get my mental faculties checked.
“Important stuff first. You are a hostage, the cage is rather beautiful, but it doesn’t make it any less real. Second, once we get to the ground floor you won’t remember any of this until later. Usually we do a wipe, but this time we’re going to suppress it, today is the day you get out of this cage.” Taking a breath, she keeps going, “a long time ago you were taken from your parents and hidden as leverage. They were important people in the grand scheme of things, and were in position to make a difference on a massive scale. Your imprisonment ends today, the bad news is that there’s a very real, very high chance that we all die in the process. The good news to that you would DEFINITELY die if we don’t move today.”
I’m having a hard time believing any of this information, it seems pretty far-fetched, outlandish. Some of what she’s saying is fantastical. Opening my mouth to say so, she moves her hand over my mouth to stop me from talking. Moving so fast that I barely even register that she had moved in the first place.
“Don’t. Talk. This has been years in the making, we don’t have much time left, here’s what need you to know to survive once you remember: be brave, follow my and move, if I go down; listen to the man in your head. Once it kicks off they are not going to try and take you alive, they are going to kill you either way. That’s all the time we have, I’m sorry.”
Removing her hand from my mouth and touching her temple, she talks to herself again, “Suppress it, key phrase: Evergreen. Authorization Beta-Echo-453.”
About half a second after she says it a small burning starting behind my right ear quickly builds to a pulsing pain that hurts all over my brain; the pain is so much I fall over onto the wall and handrail for the elevator, for me it feels like an eternity, and then I black out.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As the elevator doors open I realize I must have been more lost in thought than I thought. “I’m sorry betty, I think I’m a bit more nervous about this screening than I initially thought, I can’t keep my head in the right spot."
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
All the worrying has given me a headache, I don’t think it will matter in the grand scheme of things. Headaches are an almost daily aspect of life for me, and it’s never mattered before. I like to believe I’m usually the stoic sort, but it’s cumulative somedays. If I’m being honest with myself I’ve been worried about this for days, mix that in with the day to day pain, the recent news about the tension in the city and I’m lucky I’m not dealing with a constant stress migraine. This one feels like its building to be a whopper.
“Can we slow down some please, I’ve got one of my headaches coming on.” It’s not necessarily a command, and not a question since I’ve already slowed down. The walk to the car is almost unbearable. Betty takes my arm, partially helping guide me, but also taking some of the weight of walking. She really is a godsend, little things like this are the reason I never hired any other staff despite the size of my household. I’ve considered it often, but in the end more people means more moving parts and I’ve existed long enough without it. With any luck, I’ll end up healthy and well, maybe in enough health that I can ask Betty to stay as a friend instead of a caregiver.
Shawn, my hired driver, gives me a look of pity “If you don’t mind me saying it, you look like shit Mr. Baron.” Betty shoots him a stern look. “What? I’ve been driving the two of you around for years, hell, I’m up there almost every day playing games on the couch, and most of the days I’m not we play online anyways. I might be ‘just a driver’ but I care.” Shawn looks less like a man who was just rebuffed, and more like an insulted friend.
Shawn was a burly guy, either twenty-four, or twenty-five, depending on the day you asked him. I figure he probably just didn’t put much stock in age. A hair over five foot Nine inches, he had short dark brown hair that he kept cut short, usually showing up with it freshly shaved every week or so. His face predisposed to smiling, rarely without one when we were hanging out. He was usually more professional with his uniform on, saying he classified as what people call a ‘Bro’ would be more than fair.
He’s earned it in my mind, we play games, or just sit and watch tv almost every day. When I came into the money, I had hired a driver through a local company, Shawn was the third driver I was assigned. The difference between him and the other two was that he was honest to a fault, and didn’t pull his punches. I never caught him flashing a look of fear, or disdain in my direction for my frailty.
If anything, he helped me up, the second week he had driven me and Betty out to a scheduled helicopter ride, and while getting out of the car I had tripped and slammed my elbow into gravel causing some scraping and bleeding. Instead of rushing over and acting like I was an invalid, he stood by and let me get up on my own. I remember Betty had not been happy about it, she had been at the counter confirming our flight time.
It was the only time I had ever seen her get in someone’s face, “Why didn’t you help him up?!” she had asked, a couple of inches between her and him with fist’s balled at her side. She was even more beautiful than usual that day: Yellow sundress with flowers, hair pulled back into a loose bun, and her face flushed with anger. It was the day I realized I felt more for her than friendship.
Shawn had shrugged, “If he had needed, or asked for help I would have.” Turning to look me in the eye he said, “something’s a man has to do on his own.”
After discussing it with Betty during the flight, I offered him a job at twenty percent above whatever his pay was, plus a sign on bonus. It was one of the few times since my parents died that anyone other than Betty had treated me as a person. She wasn’t a fan of him, but understood where I was coming from.
I gave him a smile and got in the car. After sitting down and putting my head on the seat I must have passed right out, the hour ride out to the research facility was over in a wink for me. I’m not sure what I was dreaming about but I woke up tense and sweaty.
Betty taps my leg as we pull into the drive for the facility. It’s tucked away, just outside of the city limits a modern looking building; a large L shape, six-stories with one of those designs where the first floor is inset three or four feet inside the floor above it, making it look like it frequently skipped leg-day. The square, four story parking garage next to it didn’t quite fit, but I guess allowances had to be made.
My headache was mostly gone as I got from the car and walked into the facility. I went through the sliding doors and straight to the wheelchair next to the desk. This might look like an average research facility, but would classify as something for the elite. The place was immaculate, the doctors were impeccably professional, I hated it. I imagine millions of dollars come through this place every month, if not more. I try not to be too hypocritical when I say stuff like that. I donated thousands from my settlement every month to charity, usually medically labeled facilities. I hated the fact that I got treated better because I had money. I didn’t hate it enough to throw my money away though.
Deep in thought about the dichotomy of how I hated the money that gave me the advantages, and chances I’ve had so far, I didn’t even notice that betty had finished signing me in and was quietly talking to the nurse as they took me back to Doctor Plerion’s office. I never actually paid attention to where we were going, I’m sure it was usually the same place. First, I’d do a quick sit-down with him to discuss how I felt overall today, then we’d go into some body X-RAYS in a machine that resembled the machines at the airport, except it had a body mold that held me immobile so it could do bone scans. It was one of the worst parts about this whole process.
Standing up as I was rolled into his massive office Dr. Plerion came around the desk and shook my hand. Another reason I disliked this place. I’m sure he wasn’t a bad guy, probably a boon for the facility, but he was insanely clinical. Down to the point that I’m sure he wrote notes on the estimated pounds of pressure I used during a handshake; cataloguing them in his reports.
Standing a bit taller than Betty the Dr. was an average looking guy, probably mid-fifties, black hair gone salt and pepper. His face was slightly ovoid, with his nose ending up looking stretched because of it, the only thing that really stood out about him was his sky-blue eyes.
“how is my favorite patient today?” His voice is soft, with an even baritone, the kind of sound most doctors strive to keep. He had stopped attempting to smile around me, I’m not sure he knew how to do it right, and I’m pretty sure my socially inept attempts to hide my uneasiness at it had led him to just stop around me all-together.
“Not bad sir, I had a little bit of a migraine earlier, but I believe the ride and fresh air out here have mostly cleared it.” He looks interested at that and sits down to start typing at his computer. We spend the next hour with me answering a battery of medical questions; have I been eating healthy, do I deficate regularly, what is the consistency? All very exciting stuff, I assure you.
Once it feels like I’m going to lose my mind from the amount of questions he goes silent and finishes his report. “Alright Baron. Today is going to be the same as always, you’ll get the scan, then we’ll take some blood. If nothing has changed you can do intake immediately and we can start your first treatment tomorrow, do you have any questions?”
Yes, I did. Unfortunately, even with all the non-disclosure-agreements, there was still a massive amount of secrecy behind the procedure. “If I’m clear to go, what can I expect with the procedure?”
Taking a minute to process to assess my question he answers, he stands up and closes the door, “the most I can tell you before you are cleared through intake is that the first surgery is the most invasive, starting at the base of your spine, and basically rewiring a few nerve pathways there. That’s obviously not all of it, given the nature of CP, but it is the most daunting thing for most who have made it this far, that’s technically more than I can tell you, but considering the magnitude of what is at stake I feel it fair to tell you that.”
Even though everything he told me was said in his soft voice, it was possibly the most human thing I’ve ever heard him say. “I appreciate it Doctor, I’ll keep that to myself.”
He stands and opens the door, becoming the desk nurse, and Betty over. “He’s ready when you are ladies, same room as always,” looking at the nurse specifically he says, “Tell the tech I would like to be there for this scan. If possible, I would like to take some notes on Barons state of mind as he’s getting his scan done.”
That’s a little out of the ordinary, but not unusual. Probably three out of the eight times I’ve been here he’s come in to ask either clinical, or mental questions as I sat in the machine. The nurse simply nods her head and starts walking me to the scan room, talking politely with Betty about trivial things, the weather, season finales of shows. We take a couple of turns and end up at the end of a hallway looking out into the top floor of the parking garage, the trip up the elevator and to the room took less than five minutes, and as always, we only ran into a few other people on the way up.
She rolled me right up next to the changing room, and asked if I needed help. I politely declined. Having to sit naked in the machine is bad enough, needing a nurse to help me disrobe and half carry me would be worse. I’ve only needed assistance once when I first started coming, but my health has gotten much better after that. Probably something to do with the regime of medicine, exercise, and diet they put me on. The exercise wasn’t overly drastic, usually using a resistant band to do joint movements. Just something that would get the blood flowing really.
After changing I stepped right out into the room with the machine. It was intimidating on its own. A large octagon machine that took up a little over a third of the room. Enclosed gray plastic panels, interspersed with windows every foot or so, and a single door that I had to turn sideways to get through. Once inside I had to reach grab a set of handles at chest height that automatically came up to shoulder level then out so my arms were almost perpendicular to the ground.
The one redeeming quality of the machine is that the gray area was larger around the midriff to hide my manly parts. Which is honestly a good thing since the machine faced the technician’s booth and they’d get a peek.
A little bit of panic sets in as the machine starts to put the panels in place that gently hold me vertical for the twenty-minute scan. I’m not sure what they are made of but they are soft, with enough rigidity to hold me up, I don’t really have to exert any muscle to stay up, it locks me up tight without too much pressure.
Ensconced in the machine I have a slight panic attack until I see Betty standing at the rear left of the Tech’s booth. Betty has seen me at my worst many times, a few of those naked. While I’m slightly uncomfortable with her seeing me this way, it’s a comfort to know she’s there. She looks more anxious than normal, but I guess that is too be expected since this scan will basically decide how the rest of my life will unfold.
The tech flips his mic and asks if I’m ready to start, giving him a yes, I hear the mic click off, the techs window darkens, and the machine starts to click and bang. After a few minutes, the machine makes a screeching noise it has never made before and my body starts to heat up.
“Hey, it’s making weird noises, and it’s squeezing me.” For a few seconds, there’s no answer and I start to panic.
“Don’t worry, it’s part of this battery of scans. It might be a bit more firm than usual, try to relax.” I didn’t feel much better about that, but what am I supposed to do? I don’t think there is an emergency exit button. In the middle of my eyes starting to look for some type of exit button the machine makes the screeching noise and the nerves in my body start to burn. It hurts so bad I close my eyes and accidentally bit my tongue.
It’s a pain like I can’t ever remember having. My nerves hurt, my brain feels like someone set off an explosion inside of it. It comes on so hard and fast that I am unable to even scream in pain. After a few seconds it gets worse, my bones feel like they are splintering and my skin gets hot and prickly like someone has shoved nettles under it. After a few moments of agony, I realize I’m screaming and there is a commotion going on in the booth in front of me.
Dr. Plerion is standing off to the side where betty had been with his hands up. The tech slumped over half through the shattered window, and betty is pointing a gun at the doctor, one hand on the machine, and looking at me. She has a black eye, and a couple of scratches on her chest.
“Are you OK Baron?” she asks, her voice has lowered a couple of octaves, and it has an authoritative edge to it. Too confused, and in too much pain to talk I just gawp at her and nod my head twice. For a second the betty seeps out from the dangerous thing in front of me, “I’m sorry baron, this is going to hurt, but it should be the last time, I swear.”
Reaching up to her temple and holding two fingers there in an almost familiar gesture she says, “This is raven, confirm evergreen.” Less than a second later she says, “authorization Beta-Echo-453, execute.” And the pain I felt a few minutes ago seems like a stubbed toe.
Years later I would liken the experience to someone slowly ripping my skin off, then peeling the nerves off while soaking me in lemon juice. The pain was indescribable, it felt like it lasted an eternity, but in reality, was closer to much shorter.