#// drops an anxious killer in linn's office and buggers off!

[knifechased]

【 UNPROMPTED STARTER. 】 @medicus-felini

When Killer told her that he would be in her office at 8:00 PM, it was to be expected that he would be punctual. It's 7:59 PM when his hand finally clasps around the door handle, after having spent the past two to three minutes restlessly, awkwardly pacing up and down the hallway. Reluctant to enter and contemplating cancelling the entire affair, he's devising numerous excuses for why the appointment is no longer feasible. An inexplicable, miraculous cure to his ailment, perhaps; or the sudden realization that he is double booked, and the other event in question simply must take precedence. A hasty apology, and an abrupt exit before she has time to suggest rescheduling.

Shoulders tighten in a deep inhale, and then slacken in a deliberate exhale that is intended to dispel all the tension building in his upper body. It fails to provide relief.

No. He knows better than to flee from this in a spur of cowardice. Linn had kindly allowed him to reserve an especially late slot in her evening specifically so they would remain undisturbed; he couldn't beseech her to repeatedly work long hours for his sake, only to abandon her at the last moment. The appointment would be unpleasant, but continually agonizing over not going through with it was also stressful in itself, and the latter proved to be entirely unproductive.

The door handle feels aberrantly heavy in his hand as he presses it firmly down. The creaking of the door is particularly loud, but it's no competition for the thunderous pounding of his heart in his mouth, a sickly thumping that drains all his vitality, leaving his legs feeling hollow with dread.

Ridiculous. Nothing is happening. She's a doctor, and it's an entirely professional environment. He should know better than to tremble in anxiety over such a trivial matter.

Yet, the wave of vertigo only intensifies as he steps inside the office and detects the earthy scent of fresh herbal tinctures, the woodsy smell of the mahogany desk stationed across the room.

Killer shuts the door behind him, and then presses his flat palm against it to ensure it's definitely completely closed, and there's no possibility of it swinging open midway through the session. He moves his hand away. Then checks it a second time, just to be absolutely sure. Finally, he makes his way to the patients' chair seated across from her study.

❝ Thank you for seeing me this late. ❞ There's a bit of a drawl to his expression of gratitude; a slurring that demonstrates his lack of enthusiasm. Despite being cordial, they both know he doesn't want to be here, and if he could choose freely, it wouldn't have come to this. Still, no good will come of dwelling over such things. He adamantly told himself that if his symptoms persisted, he would arrange an appointment with her. Since then, he would be lying if he were to deny that he was now in an even worse state of discomfort. This is no longer a problem that he is able to remedy by his own hands, with his own limited medical expertise.

❝ It's —❞ A pause, as he wets his drying lips from behind the safety of his mask. ❝ ...My eye. ❞ He fumbles with the word, as if he were speaking a foreign language and was uncertain of the correct pronunciation. One might mistake him for confessing his most horrendous sins to a priest, rather than describing a medical condition to his trustworthy doctor. ❝ During our last fight, there was a lot of debris... I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I felt something blow inside my mask. ❞ Another pause, then; an actor struggling to remember a rehearsed line from a script. ❝ Glass, maybe? I'm not sure. I tried to flush it out with eye drops, but it's not helping. ❞

His head turns to the side, dishonorably. The last battle the pirate crew had encountered had been more than ten days prior, and during that time, he had not once spoken of his ongoing discomfort. Perhaps being reproached was to be expected; warranted, even. Yet, he had been avoiding this one scenario tooth and nail, fighting it with all his might.

He didn't want her to look.

He didn't want anyone to look.

He would rather sit with ten days of a stinging, scratching, reddening, bleeding eye than have to take off his mask — but he supposes it is no longer an option to simply pray the problem ceases on its own.

Since he had woken up this morning, he hasn't been able to open his third eye at all.