The Botanist -- An Experimental Chapter, Part 3 (shortened)

Before consciousness would even consider returning to him, he vomited. It was reflex, and before his eyes were open or his reason restored, he knew someone who was not his Aunt had touched him.

Eyelids nearly crackling they opened so fast, bile and the former contents of his stomach dribbling from his lips and down the front of his shirt and vest, his vision frantically struggled to focus on his attacked. Glaring menacingly at the person who had touched him, lips curling involuntarily, he felt the raw repulsion swell up inside of his gut. White-blond hair bound in a wavy side-braid, bangs cupping pale, full cheeks, the woman smiled at him. Pulling out tissues from her front breast pocket, she dabbed at his face until he was clean; clean enough, at least. The gesture reactivated his gag-reflex, though there was nothing else to come up this time.

Soon after seeing the sharp sapphire eyes of this intruder, his eyes drifted to the solemn, silent figure behind her. Head bowed, tears pooling just behind her eyelids, he watched his Aunt's gaze flick from this unknown woman to him and back again. Confusion broke free of reason and swarmed in his mind, making his vision momentarily fizzle out before returning sharply.

Without realizing it, he struck out at the blond woman, the back of his hand colliding painfully with her wrist as she reached up to try and touch his head. Jerking her hand back, a brief look of confusion and fear passed over her facial features. He watched her glance back at his Aunt, a silent exchange flickering between them that some sixth sense of his picked up on, though they did not speak. Once more the woman turned to him, tensing as his Aunt stepped forward. A sad look on her face, he thought he heard a faint word fly from her lips—something like “Sorry” but not quite—before she gripped his arms and pushed him against the metal table.

Cold steel bit his skin more deeply than before; uncomfortable feelings often brought out the worst of the scenery, after all. While his Aunt held him, the woman readied a syringe, tapping it against her wrist a few times as she held it up to the light of one of very few candles.

Slowly—too slowly—details of the room became strikingly clear. A low, dank ceiling littered with mold that clung to dirt and moisture, moss and crumbling cobble barely forming walls and support beams. The whole place seemed as if it would collapse if someone so much as sneezed, and that dreadful sense of claustrophobia hung in the thick, distasteful air like poison. Splintery tables, only partially nailed together, held dusty bottles and heavy volumes with unknown titles and purposes. Several wooden crates lined dark corners, each piled with some random item. However cluttered and filthy, no matter how unsanitary the air quality, he got the distinct feeling of sharp purpose; everything was as it was simply because it had to be. It was this vague vibe that sent him into a frenzy. Auntie’s comforting—if a little fierce—grip meant less than a grain of salt at this point.

He screamed; bloodcurdling, high-pitched, and awful as it bounced around the small space. His Aunt winced, but was used to the abrupt noise; her female friend, however, was not. In fact, the syringe fell from her grasp as her hands rushed up to cover her ears, her face contorting into some semblance of a pained expression. Chances were, she wasn’t used to children; especially not this child.

Kicking and thrashing, he fought his Aunt’s hold like an animal, panic forcing his eyes to bulge and his muscles to tense. His peripheral view caught the woman diving for the floor, coming up with the syringe in her hand. Snatching up a cloth which she hurridly dipped in some acrid blue liquid, she wiped the syringe off before lunging at him.

His back arced, bones popping as he ditched kicking and screaming for desperate squirming and wailing. The blond woman laid an arm on his chest—and action that resulted in uncontrollable gagging for him—and put most of her body weight onto him. The breath escaped him, leaving him still for a few fateful seconds. The tip of the needle pricked his arm, and the lever was pressed down.

The woman backed away, though his Aunt still held onto him. Her eyes were pleading; for what? For him to settle back and let some stranger do whatever she pleased to him? It looked as if his Aunt wasn't about to help him, so he vainly attempted to help himself. He fought her as best he could, kicking and bucking, twisting his back until his spine cracked painfully, lights flashing behind his eyes. Throat raw with the effort of keeping up the high-pitched hybrid of a shriek and a wail, he felt the poison they had put into him take effect. Once more, everything faded, even as he watched the woman pull on tight green gloves, the stench of doctor’s disinfectant heavy in the air.