Linked

Eight pt. 2 : Pinch and Sting

She doesn't say "also" which is promising. There is a weighted silence, the doctor waiting for me to respond.

"Was she?" I ask innocently. Of course I already know she was, but Dr Frenchwood doesn't need to know that. She narrows her eyes an almost imperceptible fraction at me, taps something on her notepad with a shiny fingernail, then continues talking.

"We also have it on record that genetically, you are therefore predisposed to the condition."

"Am I?"

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Are you telling me you didn't read your Spotting a Mindlinker brochure? That took me some time to write."

"My apologies."

She seems content to move on. "Have you noticed any... alterations, in your cognitive processes?"

I shake my head.

"So I'm not sharing your attention with anyone else right now? Your mind is completely isolated?"

"That's right." It's easy to say because it's true. I'm not going to let Corin link during my medical. I can still feel his thoughts trying to press their way in, but there are probably a number of ways the doctor has figured out to catch us in the act, none of which I am smart enough to speculate on.

She sighs, but it seems hollow.

"You know, your father is concerned." This line again. Somehow, I manage not to roll my eyes.

"About?"

"You. Your mother. Mindlinking."

"He's concerned about his public image."

"He wants to help you."

"I don't need his help."

"I want to run some tests, regardless. If you happen to develop a Link," she pauses to stare at me pointedly, "the information could be useful."

"Useful for who?"

She ignores my question, instead rising from her seat and directing me to the exam bed against the wall to my left. My eyes drift to the window. It's sealed on all four sides, impenetrable. Too high to escape out of, anyway. The scanner-less door is closed, too. I'm practically vacuum-packed in with Doctor Doom. I perch gingerly on the edge of the bed, as if I'm on the precipice of a cliff.

"Lie down, Miss Denman." Mechanically, I do as I'm told. "How about you close your eyes and think of something soothing?"

"I'd rather not."

"As you wish."

I watch as Dr Frenchwood wheels over a tall trolley I hadn't noticed before. It has levels of trays, scattered with vials and needles and... doctor-y things. It is so tempting to link with Corin. Say goodbye. Or "help, I've changed my mind, come rescue me". My fists clench, slick with sweat, as the doctor wipes a cold solution on my inner elbow with a small pad. As she inserts a needle attached to a miniature vial, I remain motionless, feeling the pinch and sting of the needle slipping into my vein. I glance down at the vial hanging lopsidedly from my elbow. It's filling steadily with dark, thick liquid. My blood. I can't believe I am lying here like a discarded puppet, letting her take my blood and run her tests. But what choice do I have?

Dr Frenchwood tears the backing off some small, white circles and leans over me to stick them to my head; one on each temple. Her scent is sharp and artificial, like antiseptic. I turn my face to the wall. I can hear her fiddling with her trolley, retrieving some piece of machinery, pressing buttons that chirp in obedience as she works.