"Mr. Anton? Are you listening?"
"Yes, doctor?"
"About going forward with your treatment... how should I put it? It's terminal. You don't have much time left to live."
"Good. Then I will prescribe you two healing potions per day, so the tumor won't spread—"
"No need."
"I beg to differ."
"No need for begging. You don't really rescue a drowning man just for him to die a few days later."
"Goodbye, doc."
"Mr. Anton! Ple—"
Anton left the doctor's office. The man sighed, and he began to look through the room. His gaze fell on the ceiling, and he began to scratch his head.
On top of his ceiling was a drawing of a mythical fish, tales older than time itself. Fishermen claimed they saw one, but they couldn't prove anything. A beast with flaps bigger than houses and the appetite of an army.
That fish was the whale.
"Another patient stuck inside of a whale."
The doctor coughed.
In a swift motion, he got up from his seat. The doctor put his hand on his desk, and everything on it was pushed to the ground.
"Worry not, Mr. Anton. I will be your savior."
A very hungry caterpillar needed to eat.
The doctor pulled a candy bar from his drawer, and he devoured it whole.
"Glucose, good for the brain."
My office is yet again made of whale flesh; the windows are nothing but a big whale eye.
Two people are standing in this room, holding a ladder.
I'm sorry, you two, for not saving you.
The doctor pulled some salty jerky.
"Sodium."
The caterpillar stuffed his gullet with everything he had in that drawer. Again and again, he pulled snacks, meats, juices, and everything one would have in their drawer.
Crunch, crunch.
After an hour of devouring everything in his sight, he stopped.
"George."
"Come on."
"It is time... save that poor bastard. Don't let him get swallowed by the whale. Two people holding a ladder are enough."
George sat back in his seat.
Chocolate smears and grains of salt clung to his lips. He wiped them clean.
George exhaled slowly.
"The response to one's mortality is mostly acceptance or grief. Yet you, Anton, what the fuck are you doing?"
George hit his head with the back of his palm.
"Why do I have a feeling that I know what you might do?"
George remained quiet for a bit.
"No matter, either Anton dies by my hand, or he survives."
George got up from his seat, and he walked over to a drawer in the opposite corner of his desk.
"Methanol."
A flask with alcohol was pulled out of his drawer.
"Pain Relievers."
Three tiny pills were pulled out and put into a crushing bowl. All three of them were crushed to dust. A tiny bit of alcohol was mixed with the pain relievers, which became a muddy substance.
"If I make Anton drink this, he will probably die. But what if..."
George pulled a healing potion from his drawer.
"A healing potion is plant-based—different types of weeds boiled and strained into a specially made glass."
As he wondered what to do with the potion, something came to mind. He walked over to his kitchen, which was connected to his office. George picked up a big pot, and he filled it with water. Then he put it on the stove.
"I am traversing uncharted waters with what I am doing. I just hope your body is strong enough to consume this."
The murky alcohol was thrown into the big pot. George thought for some time while the water started boiling slowly. He decided to add more alcohol and painkillers.
"Three liters of methanol, fifty painkillers."
He began to scratch his face; he knew what to add.
George walked to his garden, then he pulled out two poppies, three daisies, and more weeds he found in the backyard. As he picked up the numerous flowers, the sun shone brightly.
He walked back inside, and they were thrown into the pot; then he added the healing potion. After he put the lid on, he let everything simmer.
After a bit, his office started smelling awful, and he was left breathless. He had to open his windows.
The watery vapors started to cling to the lid; that's exactly what George wanted.
He had to craft a makeshift mask before opening the lid. Once the lid opened, George held his breath, and he began to collect the tiny droplets that were on the lid.
After a good few hours of repeating the same process and barely clinging to consciousness, George was done. He put the liquid into a small vial, and he began to wonder what he would do with it.
Splat, splat.
Rain began to pick up inside his house, and so, he had to close the windows. Even though the whale was drowning from the inside from the awful smell, George hit a wall; he didn't know what to do. And so he had to eat, and eat he did.
After he finished his meal, he began to mix the liquid with different things in his house. He boiled them, put more things in them, filtered them, and boiled them again.
The rain came and passed without a single worry from the caterpillar.
The bells of the covered church were starting to toll; the pilgrimage was starting today.
Yet the doctor didn't care; he mixed, boiled, and added various things, from vinegar to oils and even some chocolate.
When the whole day passed, George was done. He was exhausted; he fainted twice, woke up, and went back to work. His house smelled worse than a graveyard in the summer.
He looked out of the window, and an eye was staring back at him. The two people in the room were still holding the ladder.
"Look, you two, I made it! I finally made it! We can cure every tumor from now on."
George presented the reddish liquid to the people who weren't there.
"I will save everyone from now on! No one will suffer from internal deaths."
George walked through his house, and he saw his face in the mirror. His eyes were redder than the potion, his brownish hair was filled with liquids and flour, which he had added a few hours ago, while a dirty mask covered his mouth.
After he saw his face, George left his house in search of Anton.
As George passed a few houses, he saw that the covered church was no more. The pilgramge left before he could even realise it.
As he kept walking, he already knew where Anton lived, for whatever reason.
Once he got in front of his house, he busted the front door.
"Anton! You will live!"
He began to scan the house.
Where is Anton?
George opened the door to Anton's room, and he saw nothing. No one was in the room, except for the lingering smell of cigarettes and a note on the bed. On the nightstand, a book with pages ripped out of it.
George walked over to the bed, and he picked up the note.
---
Dear George,
Firstly, I want to say... congratulations on going fucking mad. Ain't it funny? Two random people died by your hands, and you started believing in "whales."
I named my kid after you, and I was fucking scared to bring him to you... But good fucking thing that I didn't come to you to treat Georgy, because if I did, you would've been fucking dead by now. Given that if I brought Georgy to YOU... never mind. I am forever grateful that I managed to spend the rest of Georgy's days with the last bits of our lingering happiness.
You have no idea how much I wanted to beat you up when I entered your office, since you forgot to even come to his funeral. I realized something when I entered your office: you looked at me just like another patient.
You mean nothing to me, and so...
I decided to treat you like a doctor who has nothing to do with me.
Secondly, fuck you. I hope you rot in hell with that fucking potion of death you definitely made me in hopes of curing my tumor. I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of dying by your hand, since I will die on my own terms.
And by my own terms, I mean in the pilgrimage.
Worst wishes, Anton.
---
After George read the note, he threw the potion across the room, which shattered on impact. The smell of the liquid started to combine with the lingering smell of cigarettes.
George's eyes started to water.
"Poor Anton, I will have another guy holding the ladder."