Saturday, February 23, 2019
Creepypasta

The Doctor

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    Estimated reading time — 4 minutes

    It seemed especially hot there in the middle of a mass of vehicles of all shapes and sizes, from all around the country. It was a miniature city of heat and exhaust fumes within the city itself. Not the most wonderful place in the world, but then, the morning commute never was. I was slightly later than I normally was. I’d had a appointment with my doctor that morning which could not be skipped. I’d known my doctor since childhood, and his treatments had always done worked miracles where his colleagues had seen nothing but darkness. Other professionals in medicine talked about my condition as some sort of great mystery of the world, like it was an ancient mayan temple found at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. My condition was chronic, deadly, and without any cure. Or at least, no cure until my doctor had began treating me.

    The traffic moved forward a few yards, and I almost started to hope that whatever had caused the gridlock had gone away. I had been disappointed by similar situations too often in the past to begin to really and truly hope for a break in traffic. I was a scientist, a rational man of our time. I couldn’t be hoping. I had to work with facts and facts alone. However, traffic was indeed clearing up, and I continued down to the chemical lab where I worked. I parked my car and walked in. My coworkers were already hard at their work, hard at solving the problems of the world. Educated men of reason, each and every one of us, pushing the masses towards progress with hard information and research. We were doing real work. I continued down towards the area where I worked, and sat down at my desk. The lab itself was rather bleak, especially the rooms for experimentation, but I had gotten used to it. Besides, decorations were superfluous and unnecessary for hard working men of facts.

    I briefly dug around in my pocket for the prescription my doctor had given me. It was in my writing, but that was only because my doctor had a hand problem. He dictated his prescriptions to his patients, trusting their health to them. I always trusted my doctor. It was trust he had earned over years of success. His treatments were successful, but unorthodox. My parents hadn’t liked them, and the doctors my parents chose had only frowned and given me pills. My doctor didn’t talk to me when I took those poison pills, so I never took them. This upset my parents very much, but I knew better. I knew my doctor knew me better than those other doctors. He could give me proper treatment.

    The newest treatment I would be undergoing was a special course, newly invented by my doctor. It was truly a visionary theory. I knew so. He recommended applying firm, steady pressure to the carotid artery for periods of time between 4 and 5 hours per day, to attack my condition at the source. Ah, what genius! What a true luminary in his field! Truly, he was the last great giant of the medical field. I had taken off my belt and fastened it tightly around my neck the way the doctor had shown me in his office. I began to feel light headed, and feel very faint, but my doctor had said that was normal. I simply focused on the slow, constricted pounding of my artery, and the rasping of my breathe growing steadily weaker. My doctor said this would help remove some of the discomfort I would feel while treating myself. My vision was just going black as my doctor said it would when a I noticed several of my coworkers rushing to my desk and fiddling with the belt. Why, why must these people interfere with genius?

    I woke up in the hospital again. I don’t like the hospital. The beds are so much less comfortable than they are in the asylum. From what I could gather, I had somehow gotten a belt into my room, and was trying to kill myself with it. I had been saved just in time by the assistants at the asylum. I tried explaining to the nurse what was really happening, but she wouldn’t listen. I toned it down, and asked a little more about what I had talked about while I was “delusional”. Ha! As if men of science and reason can be deluded! She told me I had thought I was at the chemical lab where I used to work, and that was all the assistants at the asylum could gather. That was new, I didn’t remember going back there after my appointment with my doctor. It must have been a trick, just one more method those assistants had thought of to try to get me to swallow the poison. The nurse handed me a pill and a glass of water. I held the pill in my mouth and pretended to swallow it like always, then laid back in the bed until the nurse was satisfied. I spit out the pill as soon as she left. I sat up in bed and stomped it to dust, so they would never suspect I had guessed their trick of trying to poison me. Everything else was the same. My doctor’s genius would never be appreciated. I hated to bother him so much. His plans were always being upset. I hadn’t been allowed to spring from the balcony and cure myself with pressure to the spine, or eat the fungi to cure myself from the stomach, and now my doctors latest attempt was also foiled. I would have to go back to him. Luckily, he was a man of science and reason, like me. Neither of us would stop until we had our cure.

    Credit To – AH

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