Margaret has been here almost as long as I have, her brown hair now streaked with silver, laugh lines deeper around her eyes.
"Belmont!" she says warmly. Like we're old friends instead of patient and staff who've crossed paths under shitty circumstances. "How have you been?"
I give her a slight nod, signing a simpleGoodeven though she doesn't know sign language. Let alone my improvised version that's only half ASL.
They never call me Wraith, even though it's my legal name now. Changed it when I formally took Thane's family name. The Belmonts didn't adopt me—no one did, I aged out of the system—but Thane wanted to make our brotherhood official.
Maybe they think Wraith is a cruel name, as if using what my mother called me when she lost her mind is somehow crueler than pretending I'm still the boy who died.
But she's right.
That boyisdead.
Has been for years.
I'm just the thing wearing his corpse.
"Just have a seat and we'll call you back," Margaret continues, typing something into her computer. "Can you fill out a quick form for us in the meantime?" She slides the clipboard across the counter. Same forms as always. I could fill them out in my sleep.
Current medications: none.
Allergies: none.
Concerns: existing.
Concernsalwaysfucking existing.
I fold myself into one of the chairs—they're never big enough—and try to make myself smaller. Impossible task when you're seven-foot-three and built like a fucking mountain.
A little girl, maybe five or six, sits on the floor near the toy corner, pushing wooden cars around a track. The burn scar on her arm is still pink, probably recent.
She's staring at me.
I lift my hand in an awkward wave.
She doesn't wave back. Just keeps staring.
My fingers drum against my knees.
Can't sit still.
The jitters crawl under my skin like insects, making every nerve ending fire wrong. I know this feeling too well. The anticipation is almost worse than the actual appointment.
"Belmont?"
The nursing assistant's voice cuts through the waiting room. She's young, maybe mid-twenties, with that eager nervousness that screamsnew hire. Her smile falters slightly when I stand to my full height.
There it is.
That involuntary step backward.
That widening of the eyes.
Behind me, I hear the kid asking her mom in the loudest whisper in the world if having a scar means she's going to turn into a giant monster, too.
She sounds excited.
I follow the assistant down the familiar hallway.
