29 April 2012
*Please read Chapter One first. Also, I'm not completely happy with this chapter as it is not yet finished. Any feedback is appreciated.*
“Yes, it’s an emergency. It won’t take long- the bloke’s been shot, it’s not likely he’ll see the morning. I know, I know. I’ll be as quick as I can. Well, okay then. Good-bye.”
Dr. Mortimer Fable ended the call and carefully tucked his expensive phone into his pocket. Grabbing the clipboard from the desk in front of him, he absorbed the information, took a deep breath, and stepped out of his office. The chaotic noise of the hospital hit him instantly- rattling trolleys, beeping machines, loud footsteps on the squeaky floor. Absent-mindedly running a finger through his greying hair, he strode through the seemingly complicated labyrinth of corridors and into the lift. Tapping firmly on the shiny number three button, he briskly nodded to the dark-haired young man on his left. The man did not return the nod, for he seemed deep in his own thoughts. Mortimer was instantly struck by his appearance, which gave the impression of a reserved, yet intelligent person. His gaze lingered on his left eye, which was swollen and bruised, a deep purple colour. The awkward silence that followed was only interrupted when the lift stopped at the third floor, bringing in a limping pensioner, who was loudly complaining about the public health service. The boy then slipped out not just from the lift, but also from Dr. Fable’s mind, which was instantly occupied with repeatedly explaining that no, he was not single-handedly responsible for the declining standards in the NHS.
~
When Mortimer stepped out from the lift (which seemed to have moved extremely slowly whilst it was occupied by a disgruntled sixty year-old), the unusual-looking man that he had seen, was completely forgotten, as his mind focussed on his patient who was waiting for him. Navigating through the hallway, he opened the door to Room 13a. Inside, laid a man covered in blood, surrounded by doctors and nurses all of whom were wearing identical turquoise uniforms. “How’s he doing?” the doctor asked, slipping on a pair of silicone gloves as he did so. “The bullet penetrated straight through his lung. He’s unstable, to say the least.” One of the younger nurses said, her tone hushed. The doctor did not reply. Instead, he grabbed a deadly-looking metal instrument from a nearby tray. Leaning over the man’s motionless body, he began to carefully grasp the bullet. The room was motionless, the constant beep of the heart monitor reminding them that this man’s life was in their hands.
His brow furrowed in concentration, Mortimer felt the gaze of every person in that room on him. “No pressure, Sir.” One of the trainee doctors smiled weakly, his feeble joke met with icy glares. Then, all of a sudden, the heart-rate monitor’s constant beeps began to quicken. As if woken from a trace, everyone in the room began working. Injecting drugs, twisting dials, tightening the oxygen mask. However, nothing seemed to prevent the man from slipping further away from their grasp. The only person that slowed down their work was Mortimer. He placed the metal instrument back on the tray, took of his silicone gloves, and stood back. The doctor knew when it was pointless trying. He knew when all hope was lost. So he stood there, and watched, as his colleagues rushed about, trying, and failing, to save the man’s life.
~
Mortimer stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed, his lined face blank of emotion. The other doctors and nurses did not notice him – they were too occupied with the dying man. Silently, he watched as they struggled, completely helpless. How foolish they were, he thought to himself. Humans do not have power over the dead. They cannot bring a person back from Beyond. He smirked darkly to himself. Then, after a few moments, he stepped forwards. “Time of death, 9:37 pm. Good-night to you all.” He exited the room without looking back, leaving their dazed faces staring at the closed door. He was late, he knew that. But that didn’t mean that he was walking any quicker, oh no. Mortimer Fable was not the kind of man who rushed his life – he made sure of that. Glancing at his watch, he raised his eyebrows a little. Almost 10:00 pm. The meeting was supposed to begin at precisely quarter-to. He sighed to himself, importantly marching through the corridors, down the stairs, past his office and straight outside into the sharp night air. Nobody spoke to him, nor did he attempt to speak to anyone. He didn’t even bother getting changed out of his uniform, which was rather strange due to the fact that one of the things Dr. Fable hated most about his job was his uniform. Not just its actual appearance, but also what it symbolized. When he wore the uniform, the doctor was, at the end of the day, just a doctor. No matter how high ranked, how intelligent, he was always sill “just a doctor.” He felt limited by this: How was he, the great, the brilliant, Mortimer Fable supposed to thrive whilst labelled as a mere doctor? But no… it was all part of the plan.
Oliver Dolwyn - Chapter Two: Mortimer Fable • Opuss № I