Marionette Strings: A We Happy Few Story

The Doctor is in the House

 One of the first things they teach you as a Constable is how to handle death. Especially such on the job. More often than not, when you're given street duty (which I have luckily been promoted from), there's a large amount of downers roaming the streets. These fellows who have decided it would be fun to stop taking their joy, think it's all fun and games to run and jump and crouch around the place. Obviously, the code of conduct in Wellington Wells heavily disagrees. In my time on the streets, I bashed many a downer skull in, resulting in a lot of sessions of Joy Therapy (a form of therapy where they douse you in Joy until you forget what happened).

What they don't prepare you for, however, is seeing the body of the victim lifeless. It's one thing to kill someone, it's another thing to see how serene death looks. Mr. Pollux is no different. His body so still, so calm; a placid lake in winter, not that Wellington Wells has lakes... or winter. His skin's discolouration, although very odd, makes it feel almost unreal. Almost as if it's just makeup and he'll awake at any moment. I, of course, know that's not possible. Still, the image of this poor man is no easy thing to handle. Even his wounds feel fake, but no amount of rubbing alcohol could remove them. Trust me, I've tried.

Doctor Virhelm is standing over me, watching my every move as I just simply examine the wounds. I often catch the drift he doesn't like me, which is further driven home with the fact he refuses to leave my side. His breath on the back of my neck causes me to be uneasy. A few inches of space would be nice, although I know full well I will not be getting that. I pull the crisp white sheet back over the body, walking across the room to where a long row of black filing cabinets line the wall. On top of one near the middle, is where I sat my file. I grab it as I lean against the cabinet it was on top of, accidentally closing a couple drawers which elicits a loud exhale from Doctor Virhelm. He scurries over to where I'm standing, clearly annoyed by my presence here.

"Do you need anything else, Constable, or are you able to go now?" He asks through his teeth, trying to maintain as much respect in his voice as possible.

I look at the file in my hand, pretending to be interested in the contents. I'm genuinely more interested in pissing him off. Which, by the looks of it, appears to be working.

"I think I'm alright," I say slowly, not removing my eyes from the file, "Do you have the new medical report?"

He stares at me blankly. His hunched stance gives me the feeling that he's conniving something, that paired with his dark outfit, leaves little to be good. He shuffles across the room, grabbing a clipboard, returning to me. I take it from his hands, having to use a little force to pry it out of his hands. I look over it, it's completely different from the one in my file: Cause of Death? Blood loss. Organs? In tact and healthy. This report... is wrong.

"Where'd you get this information?" I ask, trying to hide my suspicions.

His eyes dart back and forth, "The body? Where else-"

I shrug my shoulders, looking at the file again.

"Why do you ask...?"

His tone is suspicious. I don't like that, not one little bit. He takes a step closer to me as I look around. He reaches for his hilt, which harbors the chainsaw he owns. I, for very obvious reasons, am not in the mood to die. Yet, instead of telling some form of a lie (which, let me tell you, Jerry Wright is very good at lying), I decide to dig myself into a hole and tell the truth.

"This doesn't match the original report." I swallow.

"Doctor Fret was a... troubled man," the wispy nature of his voice, the way it's melodic with all the wrong sharps and flats, it causes my head to scream, "I had to... rectify his mistakes. He went on holiday for a reason..."