The Doctor

A 700-word short story about a psychotic medical genius known as the Doctor.

Dark waters slapped a rocky cliff, the languid shift of the oily ocean slight under the starless night. Hanging above, clinging like a barnacle to a crab was a castle. Subject to multiple tails of doom and death, it was home to the Doctor.

Renowned as a medical genius and complete psychopath, his visitors mainly consisted of vengeful seagulls. Their rightful cliffside perch stolen, their revenge coated the castle in a slick white sheen. The smell could not have been pleasant. This further deterrent to a visit, left the crooked path empty, the creak of the door limited to three a day. Even the front porch remained carpeted in dust, imprinted by the constant wear of identical footsteps, and the tapping of a polished stick. Yet on one perfectly average day, complete with the typical cloak of thunderclouds, this routine was disrupted.

His taxi having departed in a hasty screech of tires, the visitor remained pacing the crooked path, tugging his beard in agitation. Coming to a sudden decision, he strode up to the door, casting up a cloud of dust in his wake as he rapped on the door. The visitor’s confidence also elected to depart; he retreated to the railing, waiting alongside a curious seagull. He waited, and he waited. No response.

Rain began to patter against the castle, creating miniature waterfalls of clouded white that cascaded down around the porch. Even so, the man waited. He coughed into his shoulder, a racking cough that shook his short form. Blood drooled from his ear, staining his shoulders. He wiped the blood away, expression twisted in distaste. Suddenly, the door then sprang open with a resounding crash.

The visitor leapt three feet high, his substantial stomach following the upward motion, and returning to the earth like an asteroid as he found his feet. “You’re still here.” The Doctor said irritably, heedless of the near heart attack he had caused. “Why are you still here?” Stuttering, the visitor squeezed out an introduction. “Hello, si-Doctor. Name. Um. My name is John-“

The Doctor cut him off with a wave of his hand. “John! Such an… imaginative name. As imaginative as your supposed disease. What do you have? A cough? A dribbly nose? A nightmare!” John began to glare at the Doctor as he continued his energized ramble. His hair a dull brown, the Doctor stood tall and lean, wearing a one-week stubble to match the reek of his battered jeans. He leaned heavily on a cane.

As the man ranted on, John realized he was staring at the Doctor’s eyes. A crystal, maritime blue, they shone with the light of a million stars that had decided to explode simultaneously for no apparent reason. More so, they glimmered with another kind of light, a vibrant ricocheting of life. It was a sharp contrast to the dull wear of everyday in his, mirrored by the general populace around him.

Gradually, the Doctor realized that his eyes were being analyzed more thoroughly that his medical litany was being listened to. His voice trailed off. “You haven’t been listening to me. Why aren’t you listening to me? Please don’t tell me you’re gay.” Startled, John shook his head in a negative, stomach quivering in harmony. “No, I’m ill! I’m very ill.”

Finding the need to elaborate, he continued desperately. “I’m very ill. I’m bleeding from my ears, I can’t stop coughing-” The intense predatory stare of the Doctor caused him to wilt and trip over his own tongue. After a bare few seconds of soul-sweeping analyzation, the Doctor declared, “You have (insert disease). Easily treatable. Boring.” At that, he slammed the door shut in John’s face. Now accustomed, John didn’t even blink, but turned around with a muttered goodbye. Any surprise in his eyebrows stemmed from a differing reason; the Doctor had just taken three seconds to diagnose him, when posh Oxford tones in flawless lab coats could not after three days. Even so, the Doctor considered his feat a trifle. Creak!

Wary, John whipped around. The door squeaked open to the width of a mouse hole, and the Doctor stuck his head out. Refusing to meet his patient’s eyes he said, “Oh, and John? If you ever hear of a man who cannot be diagnosed, and his disease is… interesting, refer him to me. However psychotic I may be, I could also be the only human who can save him.” Bewildered, John nodded. Slam!

The mouse hole gone, John thoughtfully retraced his steps. Waiting until he had cleared the crooked path, John muttered, “Human! Ha!”