The Many Regrets of a Cyborg Werewolf

Hurtling - II

Mercer carefully crept open the door, careful not to be too sudden or loud. He had knocked softly and heard no reply, but that didn't necessarily mean he was free to enter. Yet he didn't feel he had a choice, and so he again announced himself with a quiet clearing of his throat as he entered the room with the bowl in his hand. The lone occupant sat on the floor, her back against her bed, legs crossed. She didn't seem to notice Mercer as she stared off, not saying anything. The door to the bathroom was open with the light still on, and though the television played the sound was muted, not that she paid it any mind either.

"I brought some soup," Mercer said, "I thought we might try again?" At first she didn't reply, but after a moment she seemed to finally notice the doctor as he approached, and gazed up with a vacant expression.

"Oh," Erin said, rubbing her eyes as she suddenly felt the dryness. She seemed to snap out of her trance, and though she moved to stand up, Mercer quickly knelt down to save her the trouble.

"I think it'd be best if you eat something first," Mercer said, but Erin's face winced slightly. Her complexion was pale, her eyes bagged with dark circles, and she didn't seem to look in his direction for very long. Nevertheless she nodded, carefully accepting the bowl.

"Cream of onion," he said with a smile. Erin nodded. She had once mentioned it was one of her favourites, and that gave the doctor a bit of hope. More elating was the fact that after the first tepid spoonful Erin seemed to be handling it well. So well she went back for another, then after a moment another spoonful, and Mercer felt they had finally made progress.

Then Erin lurched, nearly dropping the bowl. Mercer quickly took it and set it aside, helping her up as she motioned towards the bathroom. He quickly helped her towards the toilet just as she spit up what little food she had, only to dry heave well after she had thrown up. Mercer gently rubbed her back even as Erin began to huddle down, barely able to stay knelt.

"I'm sorry..." she began to weep, "I'm sorry..."

"It's alright," Mercer let out a short sigh. He plucked a bottle of water from the countertop next to them and held it next to Erin should she need it. This was, unfortunately, how it had been for over a month. She hadn't been able to keep any food down and barely drank. She had lost a frightening amount of weight, and outright refused to even try to eat for the first week. Were it not for the source of her emotional and mental anguish she would have died, an irony Mercer both detested and dreaded. He knew her body was only barely hanging on as it was, and that wasn't the only danger she was in.

"I could stay with you, if you'd like?" He asked softly as she accepted the bottle. Erin shook her head.

"You can go," she uttered in between tiny sips. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" He asked, "I don't think we should give up. We can wait a while and you can try again?"

Erin didn't answer immediately. Not that there was anything to say. Mercer understood. Maybe not how she felt, but he had been here before, only this somehow hurt more to witness. He felt particularly powerless, unable to sympathize nor offer a cure. No drug or treatment could undo what had been done. Finally, after a few more sips, she nodded.

"I'll try," Erin said weakly. She took in a deep breath as she tried to stand, Mercer helping her up. They slowly made their way back to the bedroom, even as Erin's legs trembled. Mercer knew if she didn't eat something soon she'd have no strength left at all. He didn't even want to consider beyond that.

"Is there anything else you can think of?" He asked as he helped her sit on the edge of the bed. "I know you said soup would be easy-"

"Soup is fine," Erin said. Mercer could tell from her expression that she was trying not to think about it. The memories of that day were written all over her face. She hadn't been able to make eye contact with anyone, and hadn't even spoken for the first forty-eight hours. She had merely wept, processing all that had happened, and all that she had done. Mercer felt frustrated that he had so little experience in these matters, and felt an uncommon anger within him that the one who did was nowhere to be found.