Your Friend, Winston

“Explain this.” Demanded Christopher as he handed me an envelope.

It was from California.

My hands began to tremble as a rush of panic came over me. I unfolded the piece of paper tucked inside.

I clenched my teeth when I saw those numbers again.

Subject 1272.

My hand stole away to where they were marked on my arm.

I couldn’t read anymore.

I looked up at where Christopher stood, hands behind his back, blonde hair slicked over, mouth curved into a disapproving frown. “I must say, your magic has become threatening to patients and members of the hospital.”

“I have trained my magic to be thorough and precise, Chris—”

“The people don’t know that.”

“Don’t send me back. Please.”

Christopher sighed. “Listen, Winston, you know this isn’t sustainable anyway. The Trust won’t tolerate…anomalies.” He paused. “If you perform any more magic, I’ll have no choice but to dismiss you.”

I didn’t answer. I finished the last of my tea and stood from the comfortable blue office couch.

“Right then, I suppose I’ll get back to it,” I said, my voice falling to a whisper.

Christopher grabbed my arm as I walked past. “Keep in mind that I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

I felt magic stirring in me as a result of my fear and rage. I needed to leave.

“Good day,” I said. I opened the door, the smell of antiseptic flooding in. I forced myself into the hallway, trying to steady myself and calm the tension in my hands.

I turned a corner where I was joined by a nurse.

“Felicity,” I said, acknowledging her presence.

“Doctor, we have a surgery scheduled today, and you’re performing it. Are you prepared?” She looked up at me with soft, blue eyes. Her long, brown hair was tied back, and her pink clipboard was clutched to her chest, decorated with stickers of rabbits and flowers.

“Of course. Which room?”

“B. Will you need my assistance?”

“Possibly.”

The two of us continued down the hall in silence. Passing nurses and doctors stared as they did every day, either curious about my magic or afraid of it.

“Raymond isn’t going to be there, is he?” I asked, looking away from the staring passers.

“No. He is occupied. But Tom will be there.”

“Good. Unusual that he won’t be there for once,” I said with a smile.

Felicity giggled. “I’m glad he won’t be there. I want to see you work your magic again.” She opened a door, where the surgical team prepares for the surgery.

“Winston! There you are,” welcomed a calm voice. That voice belonged to my friend, Tom. “It appears we are all present, except our…” he ran his finger down the list. “Scrub practitioner.”

The door opened on cue as the voice entered the room before the man. “Sorry I’m late,” muttered a high-pitched voice. Raymond walked in—all five feet of him. He paused when he saw me, his small eyes looking me up and down.

“I thought you were occupied.” I said, a little harsher than I meant.

“I am more needed here than where I was.” He said, taking a final glance over me before turning.

I knew he meant that to be personal. Raymond hated me almost as much as he hated my magic.

Raymond snatched the clipboard from Tom, and began to read the team members off the list in a flat, unenthusiastic voice as he turned to each of them.

“Consultant, perfusionist, radiology—.”

Tom plucked the clipboard from Raymond’s hands. “We’re all here. I made sure of it.” He said firmly, with a bit of a smile.

Raymond stepped back, offended.

Tom looked down at the clipboard. “Right. Our patient is Timothy L. Sigmond—”

At that moment, the door flew open, and a tall, serious-faced man appeared. But behind his straight face, I knew something was wrong.

“We’ve got an urgent aneurysm surgery, I need Winston, Thomas, Raymond, and James in the operating theatre now.”

All four of us were moving. Tom thrust his clipboard into Felicity’s hands and followed the neurosurgeon out of the room, Raymond, James and I on his heels.

“Good luck!” called Felicity.

“Listen up.” Barked the neurosurgeon. “Patient is a 48-year-old gentleman, unstable aneurysm, 7mm, posterior communicating artery. Symptoms are worsening, high risk of rupture, we’re doing microsurgical clipping. Be prepared for sudden bleeding.”

We all had to jog in order to keep up with this man. I felt my fingertips tingling and chills running down my spine. The magic was stirring—getting ready—without my consent.

By the time we reached the room, everyone was already moving into position.

Nurses placed IV lines while vitals were monitored. I was the neurosurgical registrar. I tried to calm myself, but I couldn’t even feel my fingertips. I looked over at the patient. I felt the aneurysm weaken.

“Sir, it’s weakening.” I said to the vascular neurosurgeon.

“How could you possibly know that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing at me in suspicion.

“Doctor Abner, it’s weakening.” Said the radiologist.

Doctor Abner glanced at me before he whipped around and was by the patient in seconds.

By the time I stood beside him, he had already opened the skull and was peering into a microscope.

I looked into pink flesh, illuminated by a bright light hanging overhead. I saw the aneurysm. My fingers began to twitch, so I clenched them and took a breath in an attempt to fight it back.

Abner whispered instructions to Raymond, who supplied any tool muttered by the surgeon.

Then I saw it. Quick and subtle. A blood vessel twitched. Then a tear.

“Doc—”

Blood began to pour as the aneurysm swelled. It was too late.

“Blast.” Muttered the neurosurgeon.

Raymond froze.

“Blood pressure’s slipping!” called the anesthesiologist.

I knew what was at risk if I used magic. But I couldn’t resist it. This man was dying before my eyes, and I was the only one who could help him. I tore off my gloves and lifted my hands over the exposed skull, hoping no one would notice. Of course, almost every eye in the room turned toward me.

With one hand over the small tear, I slowly touched my thumb to my forefinger, pinching the vessel shut. My other hand hovered over the blood vessel. Power ran down my forearm and left my palm in a light jerk. Sweat gathered on my forehead as I focused on holding pressure against the vessel. With one careful breath, I pushed. The bleeding slowed.

“Doctor. Clip the vessel wall just there.” I said with an effort.

Doctor Abner snatched a clip from Raymond’s hand, and placed it with my guidance.

The bleeding stopped and I released the magic with another light jerk of my hands.

The room fell silent.

“Unusual; the patient is perfectly stable.” Said the anesthesiologist as she glanced at me.

But no one said anything; they only stared.

“What…what was that?” asked Abner.

I paused. He doesn’t know, and I don’t want to tell him.

“Magic, Doctor. He is strictly ordered to conceal it.” Sneered Raymond with a bitter smile.

“Magic?” said the doctor with a raise of an eyebrow.

I nodded.

Abner gripped my wrist and observed my hand.

Memories flooded back. Gloved hands. Tools cutting my skin. A rush of panic came over me, and I lashed out. “Release me sir! I am not a creature to be handled like this!” I gasped as I struggled against his grip.

Doctor Abner let go of my wrist and stepped back with a look of disgust.

I looked up at each of the team members, my heart drumming in my ears. They all stared at me, horrified.

Tom approached me cautiously, and gently put his hand on my shoulder. “Winston, are you alright?”

I looked at him with wide eyes and slowly nodded at him.

“Carry on,” muttered Abner as he turned back to his patient.

“Can you stay here or do you need to leave?” Asked Tom.

“I can stay.” I answered, my voice a whisper.

I glanced at Raymond, who was inspecting the clip placement. He stepped back, frowning, as he glanced at me. He moved aside when Doctor Abner looked into the microscope.

“No other blood vessel damage,” he muttered. He held out his hand and asked for a tool, which Raymond promptly supplied.

During the rest of the surgery, I felt that everyone was watching me. I was going to be reported, and I knew it.

“How did it go?” Asked Felicity.

“He used magic!” Said Tom excitedly.

“Really!” gasped Felicity.

“Really.” I answered flatly. I looked across the hall where the surgical team exchanged whispers as they glanced at me.

“I’ve got to go, sorry…” muttered Felicity after a glance from another nurse.

As she left, the anesthesiologist from the neurosurgical team approached Tom and I.

“How did you bloody do all that?” she asked, a little harshly.

“Magic.” I answered just as coldly.

She scoffed. “Can you even perform medically without magic? Or did you cheat your way in here?”

“I can—”

“Do you know, the rest of us worked hard to get here. We had to earn a little something called a medical degree.”

“I understand that—”

“We don’t need freaks like you showing off your flashy spells. Not here, magician.” With that, she returned to the rest of the team.

Magician. I didn’t choose to be one. The area of expertise isn’t accepted anymore.

I turned and started down the hall, the footsteps of Tom behind me.

“Winston?”

“She doesn’t know what a burden this can be. She doesn’t understand the effort it takes to harness this power, and what could happen if I—” I choked. “If I am dismissed from my duties.”

“What?”

I paused. “I can’t tell you. Not now.”

Tom stayed beside me for a while, not saying anything. As we walked down the halls, I heard my name continually uttered next to unpleasant words.

“Would you be too busy to come for tea tonight after work?” asked Tom, finally.

“I’ll be available.” I answered.

“Right then,” he said, “I suppose I will see you tonight.”

I nodded to him as he turned down another hall. Perhaps I should have told him another time—I could possibly be caught in a meeting with Christopher.

I walked into my office and quickly gathered my things. Sweat gathered on my forehead as I prayed Christopher was uninformed of my performance. I couldn’t go back to the labs.

I brushed aside a strand of my drenched, dark hair and shut my briefcase. I was just grabbing my coat and hat when Chris walked into my office.

“Just leaving, sir,” I muttered, as I adjusted the collar on my coat and turned to the door.

“Winston,” said Chris, clearly disappointed.

I winced, and I don’t know why, because this is exactly what I expected. I slowly turned toward Christopher.

“Sir?”

Christopher sighed before he began his lecture. “I warned you.”

“The patient was going to die. I couldn’t just watch it happen as the ability to heal him pulsed in my fingertips!” I said, immediately defending myself.

“You need to understand that that ability to heal also has the ability to destroy.”

“Please believe me, Chris, when I say that I have spent years perfecting this art.”

“I gave you a chance, Winston. I’m afraid I just can’t tolerate this anymore.”

Chris turned and picked up a paper from off his desk. My throat tightened. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

“You can collect your belongings tomorrow. Just remember that when it’s all said and done, you are the one that brought this upon yourself.”

I nodded and left the room, unable to meet Christopher’s eyes.

Tom opened the door almost as soon as I knocked. He looked at me, concerned. My throat was sore again, as I held back tears. But I couldn’t hold them for long. My briefcase slipped from my trembling hands.

“Oh Winston,” muttered Tom as he wrapped his arms around me.

“I’m not a magician,” I said, my voice muffled by Tom’s shoulder and tears crawling down the sides of my face.

“Come inside and sit down.” Said Tom after a moment.

I left his embrace and walked through the door as I brushed away my tears. Tom followed me inside with my briefcase. The two of us sat down on the couch in his dimly lit living room.

“What happens now?” asked my friend quietly.

I took a breath to steady myself. “I am on the run, Tom.”

Tom looked at me, shocked. “I…beg your pardon?”

“I always have been. The scientists, in America, wanted to study my magic abilities. They wanted to run…experiments on me.”

“And it was allowed?”

I nodded. “They wanted me locked up anyway. I was arrested, and sent to California.”

I paused.

“Winston, you don’t have to tell me.” Said Tom, choked with tears.

But I continued. I needed to tell him. “They did their experiments and studied me for hours. I wasn’t treated as a human; I was treated as an artifact. I wasn’t called by my name, instead, I was labeled with numbers.” Tears stung my eyes again. “I escaped. I returned to England, hoping that London would conceal me enough. It has for years, and I was able to take my place here as a doctor, as I wanted to before.

“Until this morning. Christopher received a letter from them.”

I glanced up at Tom. Quiet tears trailed from eyes that stared at the floor.

For a moment there was no sound, except the ticking of a clock and the soft beating of the ceiling fan.

“Winston I—I can’t imagine.”

More silence.

“The scars on your hands…that was from—?”

I stood and removed my coat, and rolled up my sleeve. I tried to keep my breathing steady as I purposefully looked at the scars and discolorations on my skin from chemicals and surgeries. I avoided looking at them for so long.

Tom only glanced at them before he looked into my eyes again. “How can I help you?”

I shook my head as I let my sleeve fall. “You can’t.”

Tom brushed away his tears and composed himself with a breath. “Well then, I at least insist you stay here for the night. The spare room is empty. I will keep my cat downstairs if he bothers you; Quintus has claimed the place I’m afraid,” he said with a weak smile.

“On the contrary. I will enjoy his company.”

“All right then,” he said as he draped my coat over a hook on the wall, “um, the bathroom is just there if you want to wash up, and the spare room,” he led me down a hall, “is here.”

“Thank you.” I said as I set my briefcase down next to the door of the room.

Quintus stretched and yawned as I approached him. I ran my hand along his sleek, black fur, as a purr rose from his throat.

I held my hand in front of him and let a gentle light flicker from my palm.

Quintus batted at it with his paw.

“Funny how a small creature like you isn’t afraid.” I whispered to him.

Quintus just stared at me with a look of boredom that I couldn’t help but smile at.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning. Quintus had moved from the foot of the bed to my chest, sleeping with a steady purr.

Tom seemed to be asleep; I decided this was the time. I thought about it for hours, and I couldn’t put it off any longer. I was going to run, and it wasn’t worth risking my friend’s life.

I gently moved Quintus onto one of the extra pillows with some guilt—he was sleeping so peacefully and I enjoyed his calm presence.

I slipped on my shoes and my suitcoat, and picked up my briefcase. I silently closed the door behind me.

I left a note on the dining table, and then went to the door. I pulled my coat over my shoulders, adjusted my collar, lifted my briefcase, and opened the door.

I shut the door behind me, almost reverently, and made my way down dimly lit streets.

I felt the magic shivering in me again. This time, it was mine, and mine alone.

The note I left for Tom continually ran through my head as I grew farther and farther away from the lights of London and into the rest of the dark world.

Dear Tom,

The world is a hateful place, bringing us together for a season and tearing us apart for an age. But I am truly thankful for the season. Your friendship saved me, Tom—it’s why I’m running. Because I have something to hope for. To hold on to. It’s dark out here, and cold, and I have no idea where I will be when you read this note, but please don’t come find me. Because the world IS hateful and dark, and I’ll always be in danger; but that will only make our reunion a thousand times better.

Until then,

Your friend, Winston.