Looking back, it was probably Rusty's death that triggered it all.
He was the only thing I had left to lose. After I started my practice, I rarely communicated with others. Even my patients stopped coming around. I guess doctors who work out of their homes are frowned upon in this day and age.
I only ever talked to Rusty. He loved me in a way that only a dog can. Without judgement or discrimination. The first day, he seemed fine. The thorns in his fur were normal for his daily outdoor adventures. I let him go because I trusted him, but that didn't mean I wasn't scared of what would happen to him.
The second day, I noticed the yellowish discharge coming out of his eyes and nose. Thinking it was a cold, I decided to keep him inside until he was better. I fed him warm broth and made sure he had the most comfortable blankets to sleep on.
The third day, he stopped eating. That's when I noticed them. Leaves. White, virgin stems emerging from his fur. Thinking that some seeds had gotten trapped between the thick layers of hair, I picked them out and returned to helping his recovery. A recovery that, unfortunately for Rusty, never came. He got worse and worse each day. He grew thin. His fur started falling out in large clumps. He vomited blood. I began to panic. Not one medical book I owned explained what was going on.
The sixth day, he died, and took a part of me with him. At the time of his death, his body was covered in the small fragile plants. My medical training and curiosity took over my morals. His autopsy revealed something shocking. Under his skin, through his whole body, were tangled roots. He been devoured from the inside out by a plant.
That was the day I stopped going outside. I ordered delivery food. I boarded my windows shut. I became pale, weak, like a fungus living under a rotten log. I withered. My mental state was in ruins. I rambled on for hours, scratched into the walls the words that I heard, repeated nonstop in the back of my mind. After a few months, the world had forgotten me. Until very recently.
My door was kicked down by a squad of men wearing uniforms. They dragged me out of my home, my safety, my security. And they put me here. I don't hate it. The clean white walls reassure me that the outside can't get inside, can't get me. They even removed the small houseplant on the bedside table. It's been three days since I moved. They must be pumping me full of medication, because I swear I can see...stems. Leaves. Coming out of my skin.
