https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YviS7flXRkk
Charles isn't the type to let a shrink touch him, so symptoms had to get pretty advanced before he bothered with the situation. It started with back pains, followed by what felt like heart hiccups, shortness of breath and a heavy feeling of tiredness. His fur losing its brightness and noticeably fading was the last straw, and by that point his entire backbone felt like it was on the brink of implosion. He got X rays done; the clinic didn't really comment on what appeared on the radios, but if he hadn't felt horribly sick already he would have every time he looked at the pictures, which is probably why he was advised against doing so; he couldn't make heads or tails of what he was seeing. So the next month and a half waiting for the appointment with the doctor was spent mostly in darkness; in the meantime muscle aches, fevers and recurrent headaches also developed. Thankfully, Dr Monke is one of the leading experts regionally for whatever it is they are looking at. What specialty that was supposed to be escaped him but that sounded reassuring enough.

“Now don't worry sir, it's not as bad as it looks. A lot of it is nothing but stress, believe it or not... did you eat anything funny or get into contact with any unknown substances lately?”
“...Such as?...” Charles asks, worried. This sounds way too much like a leading question; as for the term “funny” in this context, it's downright hilarious in the worst way possible. Dr Monke shrugs as if he's being asked to define “unknown substance”. But behind the stone mask,
it's clear that he knows why the patient would ask, perhaps he even would agree that it is a valid concern. But the sudden defensiveness is all the confirmation that he needs. Does he know all the details? Likely not; maybe not even any of the black suits raiding clinics in the dead of night for bone marrow samples of recently deceased subjects know exactly what's going on.
“Well, I've seen many cases like yours lately; so rest assured please, you're not alone and it's being worked on...”
“What's happening to me?!?” the patient cries out interrupting the soothing voice of Dr Monke, who gets firmer.
“Sir as I already explained, this is partially stress-induced, you are making it worse by panicking. We'll prescribe some stress-killers to help you relax...”
“But it won't fix me up, doctor... please, I look like something's gonna burst me open like a nut...”
“Sir again,” Dr Monke retorts, voice still low but almost aggressive now – although unmoving to the rictus printed on his face, as he grabs Charles' wrist, “You need to calm down. As for your previous inquiry, you don't appear to have any type of cancer I know of, but you are of course welcome to seek a secundary opinion from an oncologist. One of my colleagues in the field might be able to examine you in a couple of months.”
“Please at least tell me,” he wheezes, “am I dying?”
“Listen to me,” Dr Monke insists, mouth and eyes still unmoving, and getting that stone face closer to the patient's. “You can take your pills, rest for a while, come back to see me in two weeks. Or I can sedate you now and keep you for observation. It is your choice, of course.”

Charles stares wide-eyed at Dr Monke : he wants to protest, but finds himself too weak to do so. He's been having some pretty hectic nightmares no doubt fuelled by fever, this no doubt reminds him of one of them. Lost in a whirlwind of spinning motions, he had seen this guy's head, the same empty sad eyes, same melancholic rictus, nothing below the neck but the occasional drip of blood. Now the same guy, he's pretty much sure, is threatening him. The same nausea is invading his system. He meekly acquiesces to taking his pills, is invited to get dressed back up and move on to writing down the prescription.

It's full of made-up terms designed to refer to nothing specific, merely evoke the image of ethereal labs, clinically clean if not for here and there the mangled remains of words he's familiar with. It might be another feverish delusion – but he feels like the mutilated phrases he's staring at on the paper that Dr Monke's computer is now slowly spitting out – pinned down on an operating table, cut up, his grotesque interior blossoming out of his chest cavity as a row of the same dead-eyed heads stare down at it, devouring the spectacle.

“Please sir,” the soothing voice of Dr Monke reaches his ear again through the mental fog, “please enter your social security card. It'll only take a minute.”