#malving

“It’s not as hot as it’s been,” Malcolm says apologetically while he dips a hand in the tub.

”The doctor recommended that the water be lukewarm. Too hot might be overwhelming and shock the system.”

John doesn’t know what Malcolm means when he says ‘the doctor’. None have visited in weeks, months perhaps? It’s hard to remember clearly, the hot steam of the room always makes his brain soft and slow.

The last doctor he can remember is the surgeon who cut the tendons out of three of his useless frostbitten fingers. How John had pleaded to keep them attached, even though he knew they would never serve him again. He cursed wailed and bargained and must have looked like a blubbering fool. He slept that night, and woke up two days later with his hand blazing in agony and the taste of chloroform still flooding his senses.

Malcolm told him later, twisting his handkerchief and avoiding John’s gaze, that he didn’t want John to be spared any necessary procedure, even if it came at the cost of his pride and vanity. John spat and cursed but Malcolm was still there the next day offering to transcribe any of his letters for him.