Pricked

3

I wander the palace aimlessly, snooping through rooms, findings new trinkets that after many failed attempts to steal, I still am unable to grasp anything. A thief likes to go places unseen but, a thief that goes unseen with the inability to take anything is well, just a ghost. Even after doing basically nothing all day, I am still tired from today's adventures. Ghosts can't move things, or at least I can't. Maybe I'm not a ghost. I can't go through walls and doors, which would have saved me a lot of time when stuck in the basement. I have no bones, tendons, muscles so why can't I go through everything? I can go through people however, which is fun, watching them jump as if a monster passed through them. Maybe I am a monster. Maybe that's why I 'died', didn't die but stuck like this. I don't seem to have anything to contribute to this world. It's only been two days but I still wonder how long will I be fated to this death-like life?

The day after the wheel is tested and they found out what was on it and the doctors start appearing. First to arrive is Doctor Manson and his assistant Charles. Dr. Manson is the palaces physician and the best of the best, or so they say. But from what I've heard of him, he's a jerk and a drunk. So if he is the best they got for me, I am going to be stuck like this forever.

As he walks through the doors his posture radiates confidence and power. He is a tall man with salt and pepper hair, larger build, not muscular but beefy. Dr. Manson gives me a thorough look through first, and his grey eyes glare down to me and cause me to falter, I thought doctors were supposed to be kind, not intimidating. His assistance Charles is the opposite of Dr. Manson. Charles is young, small, with ash blonde hair. He looks to be a cowardly pup next to Manson.

"She looks to be about 20 to 25 years of age, possibly an Irish girl or maybe British. Her skin is pale," he pinches my arm, "and she is severely dehydrated."

"Well, what did you think? A girl sits in a basement for a day without food, water or light and I'm going to be dehydrated and even more pale then I already was," I counter as I listen to them. Oh my, I'm going to die here I think miserably as he pokes at me. "But you were correct on the age," I say with my sarcasm diminishing slightly. "I turn 23 in 2 months... if I live that long."

He lifts one eyelid to inspect my eye. "Whoa man, that's a little to close and personal." Then, he lifts the other eyelid. I move to stand opposite of him, hoping to see what he sees.

"Pupils are equal, unreactive to light, and unaccommodated to motion." He says while waving a hand over my face. I wave back mimicking him just on pure instinct because I obviously can see, just not through those eyes. Charles takes notes for Manson as he talks, scribbling like a mad man trying to keep up. He examines my neck, arms and legs next, "no bruises or edema." He pinches and pokes me again all around my arms and legs, "Still unreactive, no motion to any usual pressure points or muscle reflexes." There is a slight pause before his booming voice returns. "Charles," he says in a demanding tone and Charles eyes fly up, his hands shaking trying to finish his notes. The poor boy looks as though he might vomit out of fear. "Get me my bag," Manson demands and holds out his arm.

The bag is right next to Manson, not even 4 feet away, but the moment the command leaves Manson's mouth Charles drops his notebook and rushes to the bag. He places the handle of the leather doctor's bag in Manson's hand. I move closer to examine the bag. That has to be worth at least 16 silver coins. I could get a pretty penny for that I think, as I move towards the fine leather. The detailing is beautiful and in such good condition considering what he has in it. Manson pulls out needles, syringes, bags of fluid, test tubes and gauze and more doctor things to which I am not knowledgeable of. Along with his other torture devices he pulls out a rubber type band which he fastens around my upper arm, its tension making my skin turn red immediately. He slaps the nook of my arm 4 times, and smiles satisfactory at his success of hitting me. He reaches for the needle and test tubes as Charles gathers his notebook and pencil from the ground. Charles starts to stand, head down at his notes, back hunched, and prepares to write. Charles places his pencil so harshly on his paper that the pressure breaks as soon as Manson interrupts his concentration.