Free The Fall by Annelie Wendeberg Page A

what I was able to observe, it is brought on solely by disappointment. The instant you want something badly but cannot have it, your strong will bends your body. Your neck and shoulders clench, you hunch and develop a severe headache that causes you to be oversensitive to light and sound.’
    ‘Interesting,’ he replied and I could hear warning in his voice. ‘And very observant. How did this escape my notice?’ he mused. ‘If you were correct, it would mean there is no cure. Only alleviation.’
    I found myself smiling at him to conceal the confusion. Did he mean he should have noticed that I was observant, or that his symptoms had not been diagnosed correctly?
    ‘How could that possibly amuse you?’ His voice gradually regained the familiar coldness, but he still caressed his waistcoat slowly. How curious! Opium seemed to make him revel in his own touch. Or was it touch in general?
    ‘The fact that you are in pain should amuse me, should it not?’
    ‘One would think so. But I don’t believe you could ever leave your compassion behind. Even if it is for a man who abducts, imprisons, and blackmails you. And that empathy, I fancy, is your greatest weakness.’
    ‘You are wrong,’ I said. ‘It is my greatest strength. I might be the only person who is trying to detect a human being behind your facade.’
    He cackled and I felt my blood rise.
    ‘What a waste of your time, my dear.’
    ‘I am not your dear.’
    Silence fell. His arm shot forward and grabbed my wrist. Before he could open his mouth I replied, ‘I believe you have a problem with your spine that can be solved with physical therapy.’
    Part of me wondered why I offered this to him. Why would I try to help him at all when I wanted him to die on the spot? Was it only because of the terror he caused every time he transformed into rage itself? Or was he correct? Could I not let go of my compassion? The other, calculating part of me leaned back to enjoy the show. One step further into the lion’s den meant getting closer to the exit on the other side.
    He watched me with narrowed eyes, waiting for a response.
    ‘Did you begin hating everyone when they beat the left-handedness out of you?’ I snarled. The coldness in my voice had the desired effect — that of a slap on the cheek. The blood vessel on his temple bulged, his eyes turned black, his hand now painfully clamping down on my wrist. But all I saw was a little boy, once defenceless and now possessing all the weapons of mankind. I turned my head away, thinking how very naive I could sometimes be.
    ‘I know that bone-setting is not a widely accepted treatment,’ I said quietly and felt his grip loosen. ‘Mostly because bone-setters are more reminiscent of butchers than surgeons. However, I still think that manipulating the vertebrae in your neck will improve your symptoms greatly.’
    He exhaled slowly and let go of me, pushed himself farther up, and with a voice straining for control he asked, ‘What drives a bacteriologist into the study of physical therapy?’
    It felt like stepping away from a cliff.
    ‘During my time in Boston, I met Dr Still. He is a physician and a surgeon with great insight into human anatomy. He invented a treatment he later coined osteopathy , which is essentially a gentle manipulation of tissues and bones to stimulate the body’s self-healing capabilities.’
    ‘But you could not have been his pupil,’ he noted, his eyes glazed over and his mind gone to some other place. A second later he returned and said, ‘Because you would have to work in pairs to practice and study. But none of the good doctor’s students had the need to masquerade as a man. Only you.’
    ‘Indeed,’ I whispered.
    ‘How much hatred you must feel for us,’ he muttered.
    ‘For men? You think I hate men?’
    ‘Don’t you?’
    ‘No. Yes. Sometimes maybe,’ I said, wondering why I had volunteered this information.
    ‘What a most peculiar situation. Here you sit, next to a man who