An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)

Chapter 12 - Lima Syndrome

Doc

I wake with an infernal twisting in my gut, a sense of creeping dread consuming my every thought. Burying me in a catacomb of regret. What is this feeling? This complete wash of guilt that haunts me whenever I picture his face in my mind? Hurriedly I pull out my scrapbooks full of pictures I took of Miles before he became my experiment. Usually this helps me feel so much better, realising his full prentice as my experiment. Today it makes me feel sad and almost responsible, as strange as that may be.

The pictures depict him walking to school, to the shops, to the cinema. I see how he's dressed. His downcast eyes and lost frown. Ragged shoes and cheap jeans fraying at the waist seams. I have given him so much more - everything he deserves. He doesn't deserve a haggard mother sick and demanding. Such a young age, he shouldn't have to care for anyone. His mother should have known that. So I give him all he needs. Hell, all he wants. So why do I feel so bad?!

Angrily throwing my covers off, I sit on he edge of my bed and roughly rub my face in my hands. I haven't always had such still hands, but He made me practice so I could reach my potential as a surgeon. I've always had slow-growing facial hair, so without a need to shave I throw on my hoodie over my pyjama shirt and put on some jeans. How boring. Wasn't life meant to become more exciting? I feel so normal in the mornings.

I brew instant coffee and pad downstairs, where I'm surprised to see Miles lounging on the couch. I haven't keep his room locked for a long time, but it's still strange to know he's downstairs without my permission or knowledge. His childish cartoon shirt is pulled up, exposing a pale and young stomach, skin taught and pulled tight over his bones. I'm so tempted to reach out and stroke that vulnerable patch of skin. Ripping back my hand, I kneel by his relaxed form. "Good morning, my experiment,"

Miles looks up at me, his mouth etched in an emotionless frown. With the deep scars around his mouth from when I fucked up, a crooked Chelsea grin is left behind. That makes me sad. "Morning, Doc," his frown deepens to a scowl that seems playful but his hard eyes betray that. "You didn't make me coffee? How mean,"

That hurts. I can't describe how, even as a joke, that pierced through my chest, my ribs and to my heart. The sensitive organ bleeds water and blood, signals of a long dead corpse rotting in death's decay. I sit beside him, sipping my coffee and staring at a blank point in the sitting room. "Am I mean, my doll?" I ask, and add as an afterthought. "What do you really think of me?"

This time I do look. He taught me how to read body language and Miles is not educated or intelligent enough to conceal his true nature. Eyes sliding to the right, I know he's making something up. Creating a story. "Don't lie," I warn, and after fixing on me for a second, they move to the left, sifting through for facts and whatever he can to support an answer I'll like. That hurts too, knowing jumps scared he is. Why is he scared? I'm his doctor. "Please, I'm not going to be upset. Just tell me what you feel,"

"You're..." he sighs. "Every day I get more used to you, but it's like living with an moth!"

I must laugh at this, snorting into my coffee in hysterics which makes him laugh too. Warmth spreads around me, around the room as I watch his toothy grin. Knowing I'm finally making him happy. "Living with a moth? Please explain," I say once we've settled enough not to be interrupted by our own laughter.

"It's like, I know you're there," he begins, face dropping into a serious thought. He's expending himself, straining his own mind to think of the correct words. "I know you're there but I still have to watch you. I'm scared of the moves you'll make. Like you could suddenly flutter into my face and knock me out, you know?"

"No, not really,"

He huffs irritably. "Fine!" He glares at me, standing up and stalking to the foot of the staircase. Well that escalated quickly. "You're unpredictable, Doc! You hurt me, you've made me ugly! I don't hate you but I think you're a bad person!"

Bad person.

Interesting. I sit in shock and barely watch him stomp upstairs, closing his door sharply to isolate himself in the darkness of the room. I don't know I'm crying until I rest my head on my wrist, the salty liquid spilling from my eyes like a gushing waterfall. So that's why my room is spinning into blurred colours, descending into indistinguishable psychedelia. What have I done?! What the Hell have I done?! I made my experiment hate me. I made my perfect subject fear and despise me. Such a disgusting action.

My hands shake uncontrollably, buzzing around my own head as my body writhes in pain. I stand up, swaying drunkenly and stumbling to my cabinet. Searching hastily, panicked, through the drawers I find my old burner phone, typing the number saved never on paper using the softly padded buttons.

The phone is answered in a familiar voice radioed by a computer. Concealed by electronic coding systems layered upon one another into something so encrypted it's unidentifiable. "Doc. What a pleasure,"

"I n-" a sharp pain shoots up my side."I need your help. I-I don't know what's wrong with me!"

Silence, then. "I'll be there as soon as possible,"