Unsettled Magic

Chapter 3 - Treatment

        A security guard stood in front of the door, controlling the flow of traffic into the clinic.  His stern expression and stiff posture was similar to a toy soldier.  Either he was scary-good at his job, or he was sleeping with his eyes open.  The fact that the speaker had gone silent meant that chatter had slowly risen amongst the people waiting in line.  I was hoping that meant Ro and I could talk to each other again too.  However, as the next ones in line to enter the clinic, we didn’t have much time. 

        “Do you think they will keep us together this time if we ask?”  I looked at her, hoping to pull her out of her thoughts.  We were always hopeful that they would put us in a semi-private room together instead of separating us for private treatments. The treatment they made us go through is tough and sitting with someone else always made it feel more tolerable. I preferred it, not just for myself but for Rowan too. 

        I know that Ro felt the same way because she had suddenly gripped my hand and became silent.  So much for talking.  The girl was almost never silent unless she was nervous. I squeezed her hand back sympathetically. Her ability to handle the treatment was gravely lacking in comparison to mine.  She also processed her treatments quicker if we were together instead of separated. 

        “You may go in now” the toy-faced security guard at the front told us.  We begrudgingly walked into the clinic, our tennis shoes squeaking across the vast distance of flooring from the front door to the registration desk.  Once we reached the desk, Rowan checked us in and I did my best to flag down a nurse to ask for semi-private rooms.  The size of the line outside, however, was making my efforts fall on deaf ears as nurse after nurse rushed past us, too overworked and too many patients to stop.  Ro grabbed my hand and pulled me to a set of empty waiting chairs against the wall.  At least the wait inside was typically only a few minutes while we waited for the staff to pull up our charts.

        “It’s going to be fine Ro.  The side effects only last a couple hours. We will be home in time to actually enjoy dinner.”  I laughed as she scowled at the reminder.  I knew that would pull her out of her funk.  For someone to love food as much as she does, you really couldn’t tell. 

        “Yeah.  Last time we got here at the end of the day and our dinner tasted like ash soaked in peach juice.  Disgusting!”  I hate to admit it, but she was right.  Just the thought of it made me lose my appetite.  One of the known side effects of the treatment is the temporary morphing of your taste buds.  The doctors call this taste-aversion.  They say it is because, after the medicine, the brain has to teach the body how to relearn and function without our wolf magic.  I just wish our taste buds didn’t have to relearn the proper flavor of food.

        “Rowan O’Riley?” the nurse called.  I scowled for a moment before glancing her way and seeing the panic on her face. I stood up with Ro, trying to seize the last opportunity to go with my friend in support.

        “Do you have any semi-private rooms where we can go together?”  I gave the nurse my best pleading eyes and prayed to the moon goddess that it worked.  She must not have been a conscious walker though, or she would have at least responded to me.  Instead, she turned around and headed back towards the door leading to the treatment rooms. I was fairly certain my question didn’t even register with her.

        “It's fine Ro!  I’ll be out right after you if I don’t beat you here first!”  I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach my eyes.  Thankfully, she had turned to follow the nurse before she caught the lie within them.  For some reason, the treatment always made her feel sicker than it did for me.  I noticed, when we go in together, that it takes us about the same amount of time to get through phase one, but she usually comes out of phase two a considerable amount of time later.  It's even worse when we get our treatments separately.  I wish this stupid treatment wasn’t necessary.

        Impatiently, I tapped my foot as I waited for my name to be called.  The other wolves in the waiting room with me ranged from young kids to elderly.  I recognized a few of the teens from some of my other classes, though they seemed to daze off as they waited.  

        The children who had come with their parents fidgeted slightly, but showed no signs of interest in the toys set out.  There was no innocence and wonder anymore.  More often than not, the kids have a harder time than the adults, most likely because they usually need to be restrained.  Treatments were not for the faint of heart.   The somber feel of the waiting room was a bit suffocating, as was the silence.

        I watched curiously as an elderly wolf shifted around in his chair.  The movement caught my attention because of how poised the other adults were in their seats.  He didn’t seem completely aware, as a fog seemed to cloud his features, and yet, his eyes still held a slight hint of awareness behind them.  It reminded me a bit like a lighthouse on the edge of a cliff, their beam of light breaking through the thick haze to guide the sailors back to the harbor for safety.

        I managed to peel my eyes away from the elderly man sitting across from me and found myself staring at the bulky TV mounted on the wall in the corner.   I was suddenly grateful the tv was on mute.  The chosen channel that was playing had been broadcasting news reruns of the first signs of the contagion outbreak.  I scoffed as I turned my head away in protest.  It's not like this is a surprise to anyone, and advertisements for the treatments were no longer needed either.  The contagion cropped up in communities eleven years ago.  Get some new news.

        The nurse who took Rowan back a few minutes ago, came out to the waiting room and called my name next.  Standing up, I reluctantly followed the nurse through the narrow hallway.  As we pass room after room in the never ending corridor, sounds reverberate to greet us from the closed rooms.  Haunted moaning could be heard coming from beyond a door I just passed on my left. 

        On the right an agonizing wail nearly broke the sound barrier as a nurse scoots out of the room.  I do my best to temper down my anxiety and follow the nurse leading me to my own private treatment room.  I’m not sure who designed this place, but whomever it was, needs a lesson in room size and functionality. 

        The sterile white room the nurse led me too had to be no bigger than a broom closet.  I did my best to maneuver into the obnoxious tan recliner that resembled a dentist’s chair as the nurse told me to get comfortable.  The way she said “comfortable” told me that she knew what she was asking of me was an impossibility. Formality or not, she knew what she was about to do to me.  Using the word “comfortable” in this situation was nothing more than an insult.

        Every fiber of my being was screaming for me to make a run for it.  I dug my fingers into the arm rests as the nurse began to prepare the materials to add my IV line.  The quickest and most efficient way to receive the treatment was through IV.  This process reminded me a lot of how patients on TV look when receiving chemotherapy.  Because of this necessity, I quickly got over my fear of needles.  I still didn’t like when they dramatically stuck the needle in the air and pushed out any remaining air from the vial though.  It felt like a taunt.

        My feet were itching to hit the ground.  It wouldn’t be that hard to make a run for it. I was one of the fastest members in our pack, despite having no wolf abilities.  The nurse’s back was turned, and she even left the door ajar.  Just as I was about to seize my opportunity, my father’s warning about what happened with my uncle, his brother, breached my mind. 

        Uncle Xander was a straight-laced, young, and healthy warrior before the contagion hit.  He would often be top of every warrior class he entered.  Even his reflexes and mental sharpness highlighted his elite abilities.  When the contagion found its way to our pack, Uncle Xander dutifully fell in line with everyone else.  He took all the precautions and followed all the rules set forth by our leaders. 

        It wasn’t until Uncle Xander got delayed by a rogue attack and missed his chance for his monthly dose that things started to get hairy.  He was scheduled to go back for his make up dose two days later, but he barely made it a full day before starting to display erratic behavior.

        The claims he was making merely started out as odd before growing in outlandish ways.  Little things like whispering to himself in the middle of the night were suspicious but manageable.  When he started saying he could hear and talk to his wolf, we immediately became worried.  If that were even possible, the world wouldn’t be in an uproar.  

        From there, he progressed to claiming the pack Alpha and the King and Queen were conspiring to kill all the werewolves.  Anybody who had believed his claims before, immediately discredited my uncle.  It didn’t take a genius to see that the Alpha had suffered just as much as the rest of us.  Not to mention, the King and Queen were actively trying to salvage what was left of our people and our rich culture.

        The accusations were only the beginning of his spiral downward.  Our security had caught Uncle Xander actively attempting to push his pregnant wife over the pack lines, claiming she would see what he meant “if she got away from the pack.”  He had to be tackled to the ground and repeatedly tased to be subdued.  Apparently, madness makes your adrenaline spike and your body temporarily becomes stronger. 

        Sadly, he managed to successfully push his wife over the threshold moments before security caught up to him, causing her to go rogue instantly.  Unlike when the treatment wears off, abandoning the pack lands causes an instant change in the demeanor and the way a werewolf processes any given situation.  From the studies scientists have done, it is assumed the change is a survival mechanism.  My dad had even seen her lurking around the borders a couple times in the beginning.  He said insanity had crept into her features.  Once she had left the pack lands, her connection to the pack’s people were severed and her grip on reality slowly disappeared.

        My dad and our soldiers kept Uncle Xander in the pack dungeon for nearly a week.  They pumped him full of multiple treatment doses but he was already too far gone to be saved.  Because of his actions with my aunt and the danger he posed to the pack, the public decided to make an example of his death.  My uncle’s life was on display for everyone, proving that no matter your health, no matter the family you come from, or the dedication you hold to your pack, anyone can be at the mercy of the contagion.

        Uncle Xander became a martyr for the contagion cause.   Previously unruly and anti-treatment activists gave up their protests when they discovered what missing one dose will do.  In the blink of an eye, Uncle Xander had saved countless lives by unintentionally missing his dose.  In the process though, it also destroyed his life and condemned his wife and unborn child to a life of savagery.  Nobody wanted to turn savage, let alone wanted that for their loved ones.

        Film crews had come and broadcasted the end of his madness for the entire werewolf population.  Uncle Xander’s last words to the frightened crowd and our devastated family was “May the moon goddess save you before it is too late!”  Though his statement struck a chord with me, nobody could decipher what he meant.

        Every time my Dad tells this story, I am always grateful that I was too little to remember him.  It was bad enough that the news stations would replay his beheading from a silver ax on the anniversary of his death; I don’t think I would have handled remembering it firsthand.  To this day, my uncle is still a reminder to all what is at stake if we to fail to do our part for the pack.   In the end, his declarations and actions were chalked up to the ramblings of a mad man. 

        Knowing what my uncle went through, I knew this treatment, and every treatment after it had to happen.  I couldn’t put my family through that again.  I certainly did not want to experience that for myself either.  With a sigh of defeat, I leaned back in the chair and handed the nurse, whom I had affectionately dubbed “Nurse Moody,” my arm to do what she had to do.