Chapter 45: The Geese is Leese

I’m sitting on the edge of an examination table, the paper sheet crinkling beneath me with every nervous shift of my weight. The small medical room in the private wing of Boston General feels too bright, too sterile, too real compared to the hazy cocoon I’ve been living in lately. My massive white casts rest on my thighs like dead things, alien attachments that have become so familiar I’m not sure I remember what it felt like before them.

Caterina stands beside me, her statuesque figure perfectly still except for her fingers drumming against her thigh, the only outward sign of her excitement. Her crimson eyes are fixed on my casts with an intensity that feels creepy.

“Nervous, baby?” she asks, noticing my face. Her voice carries that maternal tenderness that feels nice lately.

“Yeah,” I admit, swallowing hard against the dryness in my throat. “What if they fused into chicken wings?”

She smiles, warm and reassuring, placing her hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently. “Then I’ll take care of you forever,” she says as if this is the most romantic promise in the world and not a terrifying life sentence.

The door opens with a soft click, and Doctor Ramirez enters, her expression professional but kind. She greets us with a small nod, her eyes quickly assessing my nervous posture.

“Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” she says, her voice carrying that practiced calm all doctors seem to master. “Ready to see those hands again?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. A strange mixture of anticipation and dread churns in my stomach. These casts have been my reality for so long that I’m both desperate to be free of them and terrified of what lies beneath.

“The X-rays don’t look to bad,” Doctor Ramirez continues, pulling up digital images on a wall-mounted screen. She points to ghostly white shapes that mean nothing to me. “The bones have healed nicely. I’m not sure how much movement you’ll be able to get out of your hands, though.”

She wheels a small cart closer, arranging a variety of tools that look alarmingly similar to small saws and scissors.

“This won’t hurt,” she assures me, noticing my wide eyes. “You’ll feel some vibration, maybe some pressure, but no pain.”

Caterina moves closer, her hand sliding to the back of my neck in what feels like both comfort and restraint. Her thumb traces small circles against my skin, the gesture soothing despite everything.

“I’ll be right here,” she murmurs, her crimson eyes never leaving my face.

Doctor Ramirez picks up what looks like a miniature saw. The machine whirs to life, its high-pitched buzz filling the small room. I close my eyes as she brings it to the edge of my left cast, feeling the vibration travel up my arm. The sensation is strange but not painful, like sitting on a washing machine during the spin cycle.

The process seems to take forever, the doctor working methodically around each cast, the vibration occasionally making my teeth chatter. Finally, she sets the cutter aside.

“Now for the exciting part,” she says with an encouraging smile. “Let’s see those hands.”

She inserts what looks like specialized scissors into the cut she’s made and snips through the padding beneath. With practiced movements, she spreads the cast apart, the plaster cracking along the seam she’s created.

Cool air rushes against my skin for the first time in months, the sensation both shocking and wonderful. The relief is immediate, an itching I didn’t even realize I’d grown accustomed to suddenly accessible to the air.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, staring down at what should be my hands.

I blink hard, trying to process what I’m seeing. My hands look like they belong to a corpse. The skin is mottled with purple and yellow bruising that’s faded to a sickly greenish hue. Surgical scars zigzag across my knuckles like tiny railroad tracks, the stitches long removed but leaving behind raised, angry lines. It seem’s like theres even screws somewhere underneath.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it.

Doctor Ramirez’s expression remains neutral, professional, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. “This is actually quite good, considering the extent of the damage,” she says, her voice deliberately calm. “The discoloration and dead skin are normal after such a long immobilization. That will come off naturally.”

I can’t take my eyes off them. These alien appendages that used to be my hands. The dead skin peels off in places, revealing raw, pink flesh underneath that looks painful to the touch. My fingers are curled slightly inward, like the hands of an arthritic old man. They’re thinner than I remember, atrophied from disuse, the bones more prominent beneath the discolored skin.

I feel tears welling up in my eyes, hot and humiliating.

“Cat,” I choke out, my voice barely audible as I struggle to contain the sob building in my throat.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby, I’m right here,” Caterina whispers, her arm sliding around my shoulders with practiced ease.

I lean deeper into her, seeking comfort from the very person who caused this damage. The irony will never be lost on me, but in this moment, her embrace feels like the only solid thing in a world that’s suddenly spinning out of control. Her hand strokes my hair with a loving tenderness, each touch a reminder of how completely dependent I’ve become.

Doctor Ramirez clears her throat gently, her clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. “I want to see mobility,” she says, her professional tone barely masking her concern. “We’re not expecting much here, but we might as well check.” She gestures toward my hands with her pen. “Try to close your hands.”

I stare at my hands, willing them to move. I focus on each finger, imagining them curling into a fist. They twitch awkwardly, barely responding to my mental commands.

Doctor Ramirez watches closely, her expression giving nothing away until she finally speaks. “Between the nerve damage and muscular atrophy, it’s going to be a long road,” she says, flipping through her notes with a hint of something that feels like pity. “I’m really not sure how much function you’ll get back.”

I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, fighting the urge to cry more. The reality of her words hits me like a punch to the gut.

Caterina slides closer, her arm wrapping around my waist as Doctor Ramirez busies herself with putting away her tools. I can feel Cat’s breath against my ear, warm and intimate in this clinical setting. Her lips brush against my earlobe,

“You hear that, Adam? Looks like I’ll get to control you forever.” As she whispers I can feel the manic smile on her lips.

A new fear hatches in my mind.

“Won’t you get sick of me?”

The thought of being alone with these useless hands terrifies me to my core. Without Cat, how would I eat? Dress myself? Use the bathroom? The dependency that once felt like a prison now feels like my only protection against a hostile world.

She turns my face toward hers, her crimson eyes burning with passion. Her voice drops even lower as she whispers to me.

“Adam, as long as you never run away again, I would move a mountain for you.”

She hugs me in a way that feels deeply possessive. The kind of embrace I’m desperate for in this moment. Her arms encircle me completely, one hand cradling the back of my head, pressing my face into the crook of her neck. I breathe her in, letting her presence soothe the panic threatening to overwhelm me.

“I love you, Adam,” she says.

“I love you too.”

The words slip out as if they’re the easiest thing to say in the world. As if I was born to say those four words.

*****

The water ripples around us, steam rising in lazy curls that dance toward the bathroom ceiling. I’m sitting in Caterina’s massive marble bathtub, the one that could easily fit four people but today holds just the two of us. The penthouse bathroom gleams with polished surfaces and gold fixtures, everything pristine and perfect, just like her.

My hands float uselessly in the water before me. The skin is patchy and discolored. Zombie like.

Caterina kneels beside me in the tub, naked and glorious. The bathroom lights catch in her blonde hair, turning it to liquid gold that falls in perfect waves over her shoulders. Her crimson eyes are focused intently on my hands as she works, her brow furrowed slightly with concentration.

“Does this hurt?” she asks, her voice soft as she applies more of the expensive exfoliating scrub to my right hand. Her fingers move gently, working the scrub in small circles over my damaged skin.

“A little,” I admit, watching as dead skin sloughs off under her ministrations. “But it’s okay.”

She smiles, pleased with my acceptance of the pain. “Good boy,” she murmurs, the praise washing over me like a warm wave.

I can’t help but stare at her body as she works. The curve of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, the strong lines of her shoulders and arms. She’s built like some ancient goddess, powerful and perfect in every way. It’s hard to believe someone so beautiful could be so monstrous, but I’ve long since stopped trying to reconcile these contradictions.

“The dead skin needs to come off for the new skin to breathe.” She says, her fingers sliding between mine to work the scrub into the sensitive crevices.

I hiss through clenched teeth, unable to hide my discomfort as she scrubs a particularly raw patch of skin. The sound escapes before I can stop it, echoing slightly against the bathroom’s marble surfaces.

Caterina looks at me with panic and says, “Oh baby no.”

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.

She says, “Let me go get you something for the pain.” She stands up in the bathtub, the water sloshing around her long legs. Rivulets run down her naked body, tracing paths I’ve memorized with my eyes a thousand times now.

I see her pussy in all its glory, perfectly maintained and somehow intimidating even in its vulnerability. The neat blonde strip above it catches the light, drawing my eyes like a beacon. My body responds immediately, predictably, like Pavlov’s dog hearing a bell.

She notices my gaze lingering, follows it to the growing evidence of my arousal beneath the water’s surface. A knowing smile spreads across her face, equal parts predatory and pleased.

“Adam,” she says, her voice dropping to a breathy tone that leaves me wanting more, “after, okay? Let’s take care of your hands first.”

I feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, caught in my obvious desire despite the pain radiating from my hands. “I wasn’t trying anything,” I mumble, staring at the bubbles floating on the water’s surface.

“Of course not,” she says with that maternal tone that somehow makes me feel both childish and cherished. She steps out of the tub, water cascading off her perfect form.

I watch her move with graceful confidence, her steps precise and deliberate as she crosses the steamy bathroom. She opens the medicine cabinet, scanning the rows of pill bottles. Her fingers dance over the labels, selecting one with the casual familiarity of someone who’s memorized every pharmaceutical in her arsenal.

She plucks a single white pill from the orange bottle, inspecting it between her fingers. Then, with a mischievous smile that makes my heart race, she brings it to her breast.

With deliberate slowness, she places the pill on her nipple, balancing it there like a magic trick. The pink areola puckers slightly under the cool touch of the medication, and she arches her back just enough to present herself to me like an offering.

“Oh no,” she says with exaggerated concern, her crimson eyes dancing with wicked amusement. “It looks like you’ll have to suck it off me.”

My body responds instantly, hunger overriding pain, desire drowning out the pain ringing in my hands. I lean forward eagerly as she approaches the tub, water sloshing around me with my sudden movement.

She steps back into the bath, the water embracing her calves as she stands over me, her breast level with my face. The pill gleams white against her pink nipple.

I dig in like it’s a feast, my mouth closing around her nipple with desperate enthusiasm. The pill is swallowed instantly off my tongue, bitter medicine mixing with the sweetness of her skin. I don’t pull away once the pill is gone, instead sucking harder, drawing a gasp from her perfect lips.

Her fingers thread through my hair, gripping tightly as she holds me against her breast. “Such a good boy,” she purrs, the words vibrating through her chest and into my mouth.

Caterina’s hand tightens in my hair, pulling my face deeper into her breast as I continue to suckle. The taste of the pill fades from my tongue, replaced by the salt of her skin and something uniquely her.

“God, the way you need me,” she whispers, her voice thick with desire. “Look at you. So desperate. So needy.”

My hands hover uselessly at my sides, too broken to touch her, but my mouth works overtime to compensate. I trail kisses across her chest, finding her other breast, taking the nipple between my lips with the same desperate hunger.

Her breathing quickens, each exhale carrying a soft moan that echoes against the bathroom’s polished surfaces. Steam curls around us like a living thing, cocooning us in our own private world of heat and desire.

The pill begins to work its magic, spreading warmth through my veins that has nothing to do with the hot water or Caterina’s body. The pain in my hands recedes to a distant throb. Any lingering anxiety seems to fly away.

Caterina slides down into the water, her body gliding against mine as she settles next to me. The water parts for her, welcoming her like an old lover. Her crimson eyes capture mine as they fill with a frustration.

“Adam, I said after.” Her voice tinged with what feels like a false anger.

“I’m sorry.”