[Writing Contest] - THE ARENA

I know I'm posting it early, but I won't get a chance to tomorrow as there's no way I'm opening this on my work computer. :pac: (Also a tiny bit long. Forgiveness please)

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Fever

Dr Letby straightened his waistcoat and looked in the glass to ensure his moustache was straight, before his next patient’s entrance. It always paid to put effort into one’s appearance, regardless of métier. Mrs Starbard was shown in. An elegantly dressed young woman in an exquisite bonnet, clearly in some distress. “Please, take a seat,” Letby said, and she obliged. “What is the ailment?”

Mrs Starbard wrung her small hands. “I appear to have…fever.” She dabbed her temples with an embroidered handkerchief.

Letby approached her. “May I?”

She looked up at him doe-eyed. “Yes.”

He put his palm to her forehead, and then checked for redness under the eyelid. “You feel perfectly normal.”

“Oh,” she said. “I—”

“Would you prefer if I checked with a thermometer, to be certain?”

“Please. If you would?”

Letby bade her stand up and bend forward onto his examining table. “Stay perfectly still, Mrs Starbard. This will only take a moment.” He performed his well-practiced hoist of petticoats, and then placed the thermometer. Mrs Starbard eeped. Letby ignored her buttocks flushing crimson with embarrassment. It was a regular occurrence amongst ladies and even some gentlemen.

He removed the thermometer and allowed her skirts to fall again as he read it. “Normal, Mrs Starbard.”

“Oh,” she said, still inclined forward on his examining table.

“You make take a seat again.”

“Thank you, doctor,” she said, resuming her prim position on the chair, her cheeks burning as crimson as her buttocks.

“You needn’t be embarrassed, madam. As a physician I take tens of temperatures in the same manner every day.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that my sister told me that you helped her with her…fever.”

“Fever is merely a symptom of an underlying infection.”

“It wasn’t an infection.” Mrs Starbard buried her face in her hands. “I’m not explaining this correctly.”

Letby looked at her in her apparent shame, and all became clear. “Are you certain ‘fever’ was the term your sister used? Could it have been ‘hysteria’?”

Mrs Starbard looked up. “Yes, that was it. I’m sorry. I’ve never been very good at being accurate.”

“Quite all right, madam. Now, if I am to treat you for hysteria, I will need signed consent from your husband, or, if he cannot write, he may present himself here at the surgery to provide verbal consent.”

Mrs Starbard’s face fell. “Charles died in the Crimea.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry. Your father may also consent.”

“My father would sooner send me to the asylum. He is not a believer in modern medicine.” She began to weep into her handkerchief. “It’s hopeless.”

“There there,” Letby said, feeling a swell of compassion. “It does run contrary to my normal ethics, but so long as it’s just this once, I don’t foresee any long-term harm.”



Mrs Starbard lay recumbent on the examination table with a palm on her cheek as Letby washed and dried his hands. “I don’t know how much detail your sister gave you, Mrs Starbard, but the treatment can be rather intense and affecting.”

“Could… could I faint?”

“I shouldn’t think so. No. The only way to ease hysteria is to draw it out, so during the treatment you may feel less in control of your faculties. You may shout, or say things that diverge from your usual discourse. But you mustn’t worry. I have heard every permutation over the years. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Mrs Starbard said timidly.

Letby approached and laid a palm on her forehead as he lifted her skirts to locate the pelvic pressure point. Her eyes went wide. “Don’t worry, madam. It will be over before you know it.” He took his hand from her forehead and noted the time from the corner clock.

Five minutes later, Mrs Starbard’s eyes were closed and she was worrying her lip. “Is everything all right?” Letby asked.

“Yes,” she said, her voice already considerably altered. “It’s, ah…”

“Mrs Starbard, you must remain still.”

“Sorry. Could you call me Clara?”

“That would not be appropriate, Mrs Starbard.”

“I’m sorry, doctor.” She made her hands into fists and pressed them to her cheeks. “I think… I think fever is more… accurate than hysteria. It feels like… burning. Happily burning.”

“Hush now, Mrs Starbard. It’s almost done. Relax and allow the poison escape.”

She covered the entirety of her face with her two hands and made noises typical of Letby’s previous observations in this therapy, accompanied by the expected involuntary spasmodic muscular response.

Nine minutes: a textbook case.

Gorgeously written, Achillles.

Achillles wrote: »

I found yours hilarious, DK. How you thought of the situation arising, I'm not sure I want to know. Actually I'm sure I don't want to! 9 minutes textbook? :eek:

It's historical, innit?

Carra23 wrote: »

I get it now, the impenetrable clique ! ! ! lol

Nah, twas just the smut that brought 'em in.

(Seriously though, it gets randomly awfully quiet around here for no discernible reason. Would have been nice to get a few more votes cast on the previous round all right.)

Which rules were broken?

Carra23 wrote: »

I've just noticed now that you're the moderator Das Kitty. That makes it easier to understand !!!

Not of this forum...

Thanks are votes... It was 3:1, I think. Posts commenting are just feedback and are optional.

There's a feedback forum if you want to provide some.

I can't write again til the weekend, I'm afraid. If you're willing to wait though, I'll take you on then

GalwayGuy2 wrote: »

Sounds like a plan.

Brill, drop a topic tomorrow evening and I'll be along to accept.