Page 7 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“Very well, then,” he adds, resigned. “I could examine you once more, just to make sure. Uncover your chest, please.”

Dr. Faust fetches the cuff and stethoscope while I quickly remove my shirt and tie. Unclad to the waist, I follow every instruction, hoping something concrete will be revealed.

The physician repeats every test, remeasuring my blood pressure and listening to my breathing. In between, he takes down his observations in a little brown notebook tucked in his coat pocket.

“Good news is that I don’t see any signs of cyanosis. But maybe I should check your reflexes while we’re at it,” he says, removing his stethoscope. I slide down the table, trying to relax my legs.

I believe I was a mere youth the last time anyone performed this specific test, but I vaguely remember the strange feeling of—a small hammer raps against my knee. I look down. Dr. Faust watches me carefully.

“Scoot forward, please,” he says, then proceeds to hit my knee once again.

I feel a dull thud, but my leg makes no inclination to move. He raps the other side. Nothing.

The look that appears on the doctor’s face is concerning.

“Let me see,” he mumbles as he grabs my arm. There, he taps the tool on the outside of my elbow.

I see it more than I can feel it. Yet my muscles feel no urge to obey.

He continues to try, harder this time. I feel no pain. I stay completely still.

With each new attempt, his face scrunches further, making him look like a particularly acrid prune.

Something strange begins to grow from the deepest recesses of my core. It’s a sneaking, slithering sort of sensation, akin to nausea but as chilling as the last autumn breeze.

I understand then that I’m failing every test.

“Did you feel that?” His words pull me back into his surgery.

“Pardon?”

“Did you feel the rapping?” he repeats, moving to my left foot. When he sees the look on my face, he grumbles, then puts his instrument away.

“I do not understand?” I say under my breath. The peculiar feeling continues to grow. Wider. Colder.

“Mr. Balfour, I frankly do not either.” He shrugs.

“Are you not a physician?”

Dr. Faust grins. “And a bloody good one at that!”

“Then you must have some sort of explanation,” I insist.

“I do not. You are in perfect health, but your reflexes… How do I explain it simply? They seem to be unresponsive.” He taps a finger on his desk as if to punctuate the meaning.

“And this means what, exactly?”

“It means that you are dead,” he says with complete conviction.

I can’t help but laugh. “Dead? Well, that is news to me.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I could bring your case to the board. We’ve had many recent advances to cure the ailments brought on by the war. There might be one I have not learned yet. Would that be alright with you?”

“By all means, go ahead. I suppose it doesn’t matter to a dead man.” I can’t help but smile. This situation is simply too outlandish.

“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Balfour.” I don’t respond to his scolding, clearly remembering that he had made that joke in the first place.

“It must be, since, as you said repeatedly, I am in perfect health.”