I was seventeen years old when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma.
The weight of that revelation was suffocating. My life was over. I couldn't eat or sleep without thinking about it. My entire waking thought was eaten up by my worries over what would happen to me. It consumed every fragment of my consciousness and I grappled with it, locked in a relentless and torturous battle for…two dreadful weeks. It was a gruesome, horrible, seemingly unending conflict, but eventually, I came out on top. I'd beaten it!
It was my first brush with illness, but it wouldn't be the last.
I was healthy for several years until I discovered I'd been the beneficiary of a brain tumor. The occasional headache and mild nausea I felt were constantly on my mind. I knew—this time for sure—I only had months to live. Miraculously, the tumor atrophied over the course of a week. I felt normal again.
Things were great; I felt better than ever…that is until I contracted a blood disease. I wasn't even sure which blood disease it was, but it definitely was one. I did my research. Google, WebMD, the works. Eventually, I knew what I had: Polycythemia Vera. It was incredibly rare—and unfortunately, I was unlucky enough to have been chosen.
So…I wrote letters. I planned to let the people in my life know my thoughts and feelings if the disease took me before I could tell them in person. So I penned one to my foster parents—my most recent ones (even though I hadn't seen or spoken to them for over a year at that point;) to my boss, Mr. Rollins; to Anya—the gal at work I was kind of into but had never made a move on—they got them too, as well as a few other people. Then, after sealing the letters up, I started to feel better. Had my body begun its rounds of fighting back? Oh, happy day! The doctor had said it was unlikely—well, he'd said that me having PCV was unlikely, but what did he know? I mean, he had said the word 'unlikely'—but I'd fucking done it. My body was a miracle of science and medicine, and I was on the mend quicker than previously thought possible.
I continued contracting illnesses, developing cancers, and minor, not-quite-fatal versions of extremely abrupt and deadly conditions for years afterward. Typically, the symptoms would disappear before the Emergency Room physicians could even have a look at me. And each and every time, they told me I was…fine. Perfectly healthy. I've never really trusted them, though, doctors. I mean, none of them had EVER caught my illnesses—probably too busy sitting around playing Solitaire on their computers, I guess. Half the time, they'd spend less than ten minutes examining me. I mean—what can you even learn about a patient in ten minutes? Still, I'd order tests and further diagnostics, take the medicines (sometimes—because you never truly know what's in those), and do the appropriate exercises.
It was getting exhausting, though. I was terrified all the time about not catching something terminal before it was too late—so I would keep seeking medical attention for my brushes with death.
It wasn't until I was twenty-five that I first heard the term "health anxiety." Apparently, that's what they call hypochondriacs now. The more "appropriate" term, I guess. Which, to be fair, the word "hypochondriac" definitely sounded like some sort of sex criminal. Bad PR, probably. Most of my physicians seemed to think I had it—health anxiety. However, it seemed like it was easier for them to label me…unfit mentally than to actually find out what rare genetic mutation I had that kept causing me to catch all the worst medical issues in the world. …Even if the symptoms eventually cleared up.
Okay, I'll admit the frequent disruptions to my daily life did give me a measure of nervousness. But that's because it was so exhausting waking up in the middle of the night with a weird headache or the random sharp pain in an area I'm pretty sure doesn't even have muscles. Like, seriously, you're telling me that anxiety would make my arms tingle and my tongue numb every once in a while? It was obviously a deadly neurological issue.
And so, life continued like that for a while. Until one day…
—
"I'm telling you, it's something," I said, trying hard not to let my desperation steamroll the poor, uncomfortable technician before me.
"Yes, of course, sir,” the technician said, scanning the digital clipboard. “Still…before we continue, I need to verify some details."
"Sure," I said, but I was kinda distracted—thinking about how sterile this room was. Man, why did they have to make everything so…impersonal? Give me, like, a throw rug or something, so I didn’t feel like I was only one degree of separation from the morgue. Because, I mean, well, I’d been thinking about dying a lot lately…pretty much all the time since my very first brush with death, and anything I could do to avoid it was necessary. So…throw rugs.
"Alright. Let's see...Leonidas Trask," the tech began, looking at my chart. "Birthday: two-nineteen—"
"It's Leo," I corrected, slightly irritated. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but it was a bit of a catching point for me. My parents, whoever they were, had—for some reason—given me such a grandiose name that seemed far too big for a guy like me. Leonidas? Really? Might as well have named me Wolf-Macho Thunderburg.
"Alright, Leo," the tech amended. "Age…twenty-seven, height six feet, weight one hundred and seventy-five pounds, blood type O positive. Do these details sound correct?"
I nodded.
He continued, "And it says here you have an allergy to..." There was a pause, a note of surprise evident in his voice. "Paprika?"
I sighed.
"Yeah—at least, I suspect so. I haven't been officially tested, but every time I've had it, I've had a reaction."
The technician mumbled something about it being unusual but noted it down. I found that my fingertips were pressed against my lips and I was gnawing on my nails. A bad habit, I know, but the anticipation of the test had me on edge a bit. I stopped, looking down at the uneven, jagged cuticles and sighed. Keep it together, man. You’re going to get some answers. Just be chill.
"Alright, Leo, we'll continue with the scan now. Please try to stay calm and let us know if you need anything."
"Finally!" I exclaimed, sounding more confident than I actually felt. The machine was big, intimidating, even. I felt like I was making a mistake. But, I mean, I really needed reassurance or answers or something. I’d been dealing with this shit for eight months now. I’d paused, because I’d realized I’d sort of yelled out that first line, then quietly said, “...nobody seems to want to take my symptoms seriously."
"Once again," the man said softly. "The fact that you're here right now means Dr. Hadley is taking it seriously. You're about to undergo an MRI. These aren't just ordered willy-nilly."
"I get double vision sometimes," I continued, trying to cram as much information as possible into the tech’s understanding—as though that would somehow lead to an epiphany of some kind. "My head hurts when I go to sleep. My neck has this ungodly pressure on it. Arm tingles. Shortness of breath. I've even had a sore throat for a month and a ha—"
"Sir—Leo," the tech interrupted, holding up a hand. "I need to remind you that you're about to undergo a diagnostic, so if you could refrain from…jerky movements, we could start."
"...and yeah, they keep thinking it's anxiety, but…fuck, man. You'd be anxious, too, if you had some kind of mystery ailment making your every waking moment an absolute nightmare. It sucks. I mean it really fucking sucks."
"Well, Leo, I understand that. Things like this can be stressful,” the tech said calmly, clearly understanding that I was having a moment. “But, that's why you're here, isn't it?" he asked through the glass. "Now, you'll need to remain still while the machine is active. You may have a sense of discomfort, but I promise you that it won't hurt."
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"Wouldn't matter," I said dourly. "Everything's uncomfortable anymore. I had to buy a specialty pillow just to get to bed without taking gabapentin or getting high. Which I'm pretty sure I got scammed on. The, uh, pillow, not the weed. I mean, they're sending the guy who owns the company that made it to, like...federal prison. Dunno the details—I don't watch the news—but it's probably because he was running some Pyramid scheme, right? And even then—"
"Sir," the tech said, more firmly this time. "I feel it is my responsibility to remind you that if you do not do as directed, I can and will terminate this diagnostic, and you will have to try again later. If you're anxious about the scan, we can reschedule, and you can ask your primary doctor for a sedative to assist you."
"What? I'm not nervous," I said with a sheepish grin. "I can't wait to finally get this diagnosed so I can have peace of mind. It's chaos up in here."
"Well, then," the tech sighed. "I suggest you stop moving around and speaking so much so we can begin."
"Sure thing, uh…Mr. Technician,” I said.
The machine hummed to life and I was placed on a sliding bed that slowly moved into the cylindrical MRI scanner. The white walls of the tube were close, making me feel like I was being swallowed by a gargantuan, mechanical beast. "Remember to stay still, Mr. Trask, " the tech's distant voice instructed.
As the scanning began, I could hear a series of rhythmic thumping sounds. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Sweat formed on my forehead, and my palms felt clammy. In my mind, I knew that these feelings were typical for many undergoing an MRI, but it didn't offer much consolation.
The pressure mounted inside my chest. My breaths came faster. The weight of my numerous past 'illnesses' and the anticipation of a diagnosis pressed down on me, making the tube seem even more constrictive. I tried to focus on the distant hum and the repetitive thumping, but a nagging thought kept intruding: what if this fucking thing kills me?
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing pain erupted at the base of my skull. It felt like a bolt of electricity had shot through me, making every nerve-ending scream in agony. I groaned, my body involuntarily tensing up.
The tech's voice crackled through the speaker, "Mr. Trask—uh, Leo? Are you alright in there?"
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I managed to respond, "I...I have a really bad headache. It just came out of nowhere."
There was a pause before the tech responded, "It's not uncommon for some patients to feel discomfort or pressure due to the noise or the enclosed space. Just try to relax and let us know if it becomes unbearable."
But the pain didn't subside. Instead, it intensified, each throb like a hammer blow against my skull. Panic welled up, the rising tide of fear overtaking me.
Suddenly, the pain reached a crescendo so intense it was blinding. An involuntary scream escaped my lips.
"Unbearable! Unbearable!" I shouted.
"Leo, I'm sure—"
I didn't hear the rest because that was when, with an inexplicable yank, I felt something being pulled out from the base of my skull.
"Holy shit! Oh my g—" I started.
A brief moment of relief washed over me, but it was swiftly replaced by a fresh wave of agony.
"Gah!!" I screeched. The back of my head felt warm and wet – blood. I have to get outta here! I'm going to die! I'm going to die!
Chaos erupted outside the chamber. I could hear loud crashing sounds as if something heavy and metallic was being violently smashed repeatedly. My instincts screamed at me to escape, but I was trapped inside the machine. A blinding pain, combined with the disorienting whirring of the MRI, made it hard to think straight.
"Shut it down!" I shouted in panic. "Oh, god! Shut it down, now!"
"I can't!" the tech yelled, his voice filled with terror. "The machine's gone haywire! You’re going to have to get out of there!"
The MRI began to pick up speed. Everything grew louder, faster, and more frenetic. The machine spun and whirred, building up with a harsh, noisy dissonance. I felt like a centrifuge, and I was its unwilling passenger while it spun around uncontrollably.
The dizziness hit me like a tidal wave, making everything blur and sway. My head felt filled with cotton, and I struggled to keep my thoughts coherent. But just as I was on the brink of surrendering to the disorienting sensation, a sharp, metallic groan snapped me back to reality. The walls of the machine began to warp, contorting in ways that defied logic. It was like watching a horror movie unfold in real time. This was my personal Final Destination. God dammit, if they ever revived A Thousand Ways to Die, I was going to be in the first episode—that was not the legacy I wanted to leave!
Then the machine started to bow inward.
CRUNCH!
CRUNCH!
Sections of the machine began to collapse in on itself. I shrieked again.
No, no, no, no! Fuck! FUCK!
As the MRI crumpled, I could feel my sanity reaching its breaking point. Was this really happening? Or was this just another manifestation of my so-called 'medical anxiety'? But the crushing sensation and the metallic taste of fear in my mouth felt all too real. Thoughts raced through my mind: This is it. This is how I die. Not by some mysterious disease but trapped in a malfunctioning hell machine.
The hum grew so loud it was all-consuming. It wasn't just a sound anymore; it was a physical force pressing down on me, threatening to obliterate every fiber of my being. The chamber walls began tearing apart, with chunks of metal and machinery suddenly getting sucked toward an invisible point behind my head. It was like a black hole had formed within the interior of the machine, devouring everything in its path. I heard the tech scream, as if in pain. What in the hell was going on!?
I felt an intense pull from behind, yanking me backward with such force that I felt my body compressing, becoming denser as if I was being squished into a tiny point. The pressure was unbearable, and my lungs felt like they were collapsing. I tried to scream, but no sound came out, as if the air had been sucked out of the chamber. It felt like the universe was collapsing in on itself, and I was at its center.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, everything went black.
Water filled my mouth and lungs—a harsh, unexpected shock. I thrashed, my body's primal need for oxygen propelling me upward. Panic surged through me, a wave of terror unlike anything I'd ever felt. I realized that I was...underwater. I'm drowning! I can't breathe! I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE! The thought consumed me, each second an eternity.
Instinct took over, and my limbs thrashed wildly. Just as the darkness began to close in, my hands met something solid—the muddy floor. Wait, it's shallow? My feet found purchase, and I pushed myself upward with all the strength I could muster.
Breaking the surface, I gasped, coughing and sputtering as the liquid left my lungs. It tasted…well, like a stagnant creek. However, each breath felt fucking divine, a life preserver. As I tried to calm my racing heart, I became painfully aware of the waterlogged weight of my clothes clinging to my frame. Well, my hospital gown.
I took a moment, trying to make sense of what just happened. One minute, I was in the MRI machine. The next, I was... here? But where was 'here'?
"Help!" I gasped. "Is anyone…"
I heard the sound of birds startling and taking flight. Insects chirping and buzzing.
These are not hospital sounds.
I hesitated, my eyes slowly rising, trying to take in the vastness that unfurled before me.
I found myself in a swamp, surrounded by trees taller and broader than anything I’d ever seen. It was as if I'd been thrust into a world forgotten by time, one that defied logic and understanding. The trees I mentioned weren't just tall; they were titanic, stretching upwards—bigger than any redwood. Their trunks could swallow buildings. Their sheer size defied explanation, and it was hard to fathom that such behemoths could even exist. They shouldn’t exist.
The light here was different, too. It wasn't the clear, bright light of day nor the soft glow of evening. Instead, everything was bathed in a muted, twilight luminescence, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on my eyes. The thick, enveloping mist added to the otherworldliness of it all. It clung to every surface, wrapping around trees and drifting over the water, moving with a life of its own. It obscured the distance, making the landscape appear endless, and gave everything a hazy, ethereal quality. The air seemed thick with it, each breath I took tasting slightly metallic, with an undertone of something... familiar. Every detail, every sensation, reinforced the feeling that I was no longer in the world I knew but somewhere entirely different. Though...why did something about this place seem so goddamned recognizable?
What is this place? How did I get here?
The swamp stretched out in all directions, a sprawling maze of water, trees, and strange flora. It was beautiful, in a haunting...bewildering sort of way, but also profoundly unsettling. But there again, I felt it. Something almost like déjà vu—though I'm positive I've never visited any kind of megafauna super swamp before. I've never even left the country—though, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that this place might not have even existed on Earth.
As the initial shock wore off, I could now see the pieces of the MRI machine strewn about, debris littering the landscape with quite a wide radius. I also saw some of the bits of computer that had been in the other room, and one of the office chairs was stuck upside down in a lower branch of a tree. A sobering realization set in: I’d been transported. Had a tornado hit the hospital right I was getting my scan? Whatever the case, one thing was clear. I was alone, lost in this vast wilderness. I needed to know though: was I dead? Was that what had happened? Was the afterlife some expansive stretch of quagmire? Or...was this hell? Or maybe a secret third thing that some other random religion got right?
That was when I saw it: a glowing…metallic diamond shape hovering in the air a few feet away. It was sort of in a rhombus configuration, just pulsating in the air, looking ominous. Against its steely-gray exterior I could see blood on it, and I don't know how, but I knew it was my blood. Was this the thing that had been in my skull? I lifted a hand to the back of my head and found that, while there was definitely some residual soreness, I didn’t feel a hole or anything back there. So…how did something that big eject itself from my body and not even leave an exit wound? Wait…I thought, was this also the thing that gave me cancer?
I gazed upon the shimmering diamond metal, trying to figure out what its deal was. The rhombus suddenly flashed. I took a step back, sloshing in the knee-high swamp water. It flashed again, and, predictably, I took another step back, bumping up against something slimy.
"Ew-ah!" I shouted, raising my leg high, only to discover it was a partially submerged log. I relaxed, but only briefly because the diamond flashed a third time. But this time, it stayed bright.
"What the hell is this?" I asked the air.
I didn't expect an answer. But I received one. A soft voice, nearly feminine, responded to my query, the tone light and airy. Comforting. Inviting. Once again, I had a wave of recognition wash over me.
"Hello, Leonidas," the voice said. "You have been gone a long time. Welcome home."