10.1 Intent

A few more days pass without contact from Luke, or anyone else for that matter. Though this is hardly a primary concern at the present moment, as it seems your body has finished healing. Despite your lack of medical expertise, you know this should be physically impossible. Yet, in spite of the casts that remain, you're certain all broken bones have fully mended. It's a mix of confusion and curiosity that drives you to begin removing what wrappings you're able. Your suspicions only grow as the first set of bandages are pulled away, something you were supposed to have done at your next Doctor's appointment, a week from now. However, as your skin is revealed you can immediately tell waiting would have been a mistake. Your brow creases in concern as what's left of a set of stitches are fully revealed along with the new skin that's grown over the majority of it. Panicking, you instinctively grab at some of the exposed thread and begin pulling. After a moment the thread breaks before painfully ripping through some of the newly grown skin. Cursing under your breath, you quickly let go and try to reorganize your thoughts.

Biting your lip anxiously, you glance around the room nervously. Your eyes eventually fall on the purse that's been sitting by the front door since you returned home. Pausing, you take a moment to weigh your options. There's a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen and tweezers in the bathroom. Silently shaking your head 'no', you somewhat reluctantly walk over to the discarded bag. Reaching inside, you begin rummaging around its contents blindly. Your hand freezes quickly when cold metal brushes against your fingertips. Inhaling sharply, you steel yourself before wrapping your fingers around the object. It feels particularly hard and cold inside your suddenly clammy palm. Exhaling the breath you realize you're still holding, you let your fingers slowly open.

"Ugh" You gasp, suddenly blinded by a harsh ray of light that reflects off the metal.

Inexplicably annoyed, you throw the object across the room. A loud clang follows as the ring hits a radiator and clatters to the ground. Wincing, you press your palms against your ears, waiting for the piercing noise to end.

"What is wrong with me?" You moan softly after the abnormally loud sound has ended.

Taking another deep inhale, you slowly steady yourself before returning to the purse. This time when you reach inside your fingers immediately find what they seek. Pulling out the slightly faded business card, you look it over for the first time. "Dr. Dane Underwood, Cardiologist" is embossed in fancy script across the front of the card. Frowning, you can't help noticing a distinct lack of logos or additional details. You've seen business cards from the hospital before and are sure the words "Mainland Hospital" is usually printed at the top. Your confusion only increases when you turn the card over to find a phone number written in ink across the back. You feel your eyes wandering over towards the direction of the kitchen where the bottle of whiskey lays. However, after a moment you quickly think better. Despite his oddities, Dr. Underwood is still a trained and licensed physician. Regardless of any reassurances you tell yourself, your hands still feel sticky as you reach for the phone. Once it's in your palm, your fingers seem to work on their own as the number is dialed in. Exhaling heavily, you apprehensively put the receiver to your ear. A knot seems to form in your gut as you listen to the first few rings. By the sixth you've managed to convince yourself this is a bad idea. Just as you move to lower the phone, the next ring is cut off.

"Hello."

You find yourself frozen in place as the dark voice speaks directly in your ear. Swallowing nervously, you slowly sink into the nearest available seat. You can hear his deep breath drumming in your ear as he waits for your reply. Though his greeting had sounded more like a statement than question

"Dr. Underwood." You finally blurt out quickly before catching yourself.

"Lillian." His voice grows low and almost gravelly .

The hairs on the back of your neck rise at the sound of your name. All previous thoughts seem to swiftly escape your mind. You hear him draw in a long breath before exhaling softly. The sound of paper burning as he takes another drag of a cigarette is oddly clear and distinct.

"What can I assist you with?" He inquires after letting out another smoke filled breath.

"Hmm?" You mumble hazily, momentarily forgetting why you called. "Oh, it's my stitches."

"I see." He replies, his tone sounding entirely unconcerned. "Did you rip one? You really must be more careful."

"It's not that." You quickly retort, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm. "Somethings wrong. I think I'm..."

Your voice trails off as you consider what you're about to say. The doctor hasn't been the most helpful throughout this whole ordeal. You're not entirely convinced you can trust him. Still, he knows the most about some of your recent incidents. It would be better to tell him rather than involve another person, right?