Page 41 of Son of a Witch

Vancor threw a nut into his mouth. “I’m aware of your condition, Mr. Fielding. I’ll ensure the medical team accommodates yourspecialneeds.” He made me sound like a burden. The inmates treated me like I was a freak, a mentally challenged person that didn’t understand them, and I hated that the warden made me feel the same way.

Vartros had always been considerate of my needs and taken good care of me. Punished those that mistreated me. Educated the guards on how to handle me … although some disregarded the training.

“Anything but needles,” I begged the warden.

The warden closed my file and brushed it aside. “There’s no room for negotiating here, Mr. Fielding. This is mandatory. Otherwise, I’ll pull you from missions, and you won’t earn tally points.”

Blackmail. Dirty, rotten scumbag. I had no other option but to suck it up and have the tests. I bit back my hostility. “Fine. Get it over and done with.”

Somehow, I’d find a way to get through this. Think of Astra. Distract myself with a new composition. Anything to ward off a meltdown at being touched, prodded, and pricked.

The warden came to a stand. “Come with me immediately.” He led me from his office all the way to the infirmary, passing the few sentries who remained in key positions of guard at all key doors.

Once inside the infirmary, he greeted the medical team busy attending to injured inmates and sentries hurt in the vampire’s raid and gantii escape. I didn’t hear a word or my name called until the warden roughly grabbed my arm, dragging me forward.

“Give this inmate a full panel of bloodwork and tests,” Vancor instructed the team. “Everything. Brain, heart, lungs, organs, hormones.”

Hormones? What the heck did he want to test that for? I wasn’t a raging testosterone head like half the dudes in this place on steroids and other junk.

“Right away, sir.” The doctor nodded at him and abandoned the patient he tended to, returning his chart to the hook on the end of his bed.

“Be aware of his condition,” Vancor added. “Read his medical file before extracting blood or commencing tests.”

“We’re aware of Mr. Fielding’s history,” the doctor concluded. “He’s in good hands with us.”

Satisfied, the warden nodded and left, and the sour notes inside struck my chest with such force that I could barely breathe. My throat tightened, my tongue thick, head light. A meltdown approached with the speed of a freight train. I groped for something to steady me.

The doctor caught my arm. “Come, Mr. Fielding. Let’s put on some relaxing music, why don’t we?” He gestured at a nearby nurse, who moved away to collect all the relevant blood sample vials.

“Music?” The word snapped me out of my intensifying anxiety. “Yes, music. Where is it?”

The doctor led me into his office next door, setting me down in the chair. He went behind his computer and typed something on his keyboard. “What would you like to listen to?”

“Beethoven Symphony Number 9,” I croaked, digging my palms into my thighs. The composition always helped to sooth my frayed nerves.

“Good choice.” The doctor smiled, gentle, reassuring. “One of my favorites too. Soothes me when I do paperwork.”

“Really?” I blinked, more of my anxiety fading to the background when the music commenced. “Did you know it’s the first symphony to incorporate vocal soloists and chorus?”

“No, I didn’t.” The doctor thanked the nurse who delivered the blood sample vials, spiking my nerves again.

Recently, I’d taken such large steps to overcome limitations caused by my Autism, from taking the first step to initiate sex with Astra and beating my intolerance of being touched. To standing up to Knoxe when I avoided confrontation, letting Tor fuck me, all the way to not trying to be someone else.

Determined to fight off my anxiety, I kept blabbering to distract myself. “Beethoven was a compositional rebel, rejecting the standard classical practices, writing with his emotion. I do that too. I’ve won Oscars for my music.”

The doctor’s eyebrows cocked as he wrote my patient details on the vials and put them in a plastic tray. “That’s a wonderful achievement, Mr. Fielding. Would I know your work?”

I smiled and tucked my head. My father told me not to brag. Bragging was for wankers, so I didn’t tell many people about my accomplishments. Just Astra. “The Elf Defies Christmas,” I admitted shyly.

“May I put it on and listen?” The doctor shifted back to his desk. “I can tell my family I met a famous composer.”

My grin widened. “Sure.” I liked this doctor. He knew exactly the right thing to calm me, and I always appreciated a doctor or nurse respectful of my condition and knowledgeable on how to deal with it. Reminded me a bit of Astra.

Tunes from the soundtrack I’d written for the movie commenced on Spotify and I swayed from side to side, remembering the time I’d written them. My mom had to have a kidney transplant, and I’d written it for her because she loved Christmas carols and movies. Mom kept the original notes where I’d written the music as well as my Oscar, proudly displaying them in a cabinet back home, telling everybody who visited about my success.

“This is wonderful.” The doctor pumped alcohol cleansing solution on his hands, rubbed it in, and tucked his hands inside a pair of gloves. “It represents the joyous, festive Christmas spirit.”

That was the emotion I conveyed in the opus. Christmas represented family, celebration, a reason to be thankful. My mom’s favorite time of the year. She’d go all-out, decorating the interior of the house in late November with lights, sparkling ornaments, themed paintings, and tinsel everywhere. Bake gingerbread on the first of December as our family tradition. Go caroling on Christmas Eve. Things she couldn’t do because of her surgery and recovery. So, I’d brought the holidays to her, completing the decorations for her, surprising her with it and the music, and she’d cried, overjoyed at the gift.

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