“You don’t have to beg. Not for this,” I say, instantly noticing the way his gaze shifts. He’s looking for the opportunity to hit me back. I see it happening before he launches himself at me, screaming as he tries to tackle me to the floor.
I barely intercept his fist and twist his arm behind his back, “You want to fight, is it?” I twist his arm higher, drawing a lamenting squeal out of his mouth. “Okay, we can fight. But you will get hurt, and then I will get bored. And trust me, you’re not going to like me when I’m bored.” I drive my knee into his shin and force him to the ground.
I read it once somewhere that the best kind of victim is one who’s easy to physically control and won’t be missed. I’m not sure about the latter (quite frankly, I don’t care), but the tons and tons of drinks he’s ingested tonight makes the former pretty fucking easy to do. It’s like my sister always used to say when we had just moved to the city together: “You don’t need running shoes to run, but they help.” Sure, she used to say it to justify taking a shot of tequila before a first date and I use it to justify getting men drunk so that it’s easier for me to kill them, but whatever. The sentiment still holds.
“Stop! Please!” the man cries, his cheek pressed against the bathroom tiles. “Take whatever you want! I-I have money. My wallet…it’s in my back pocket…”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I…I have a son.”
“Don’t want him either.” Geez, who the fuck was stupid enough to procreate with this waste of space? “All right, so tell me, James. Care to explain why you slipped something into that girl’s drink tonight? Aside from the fact you clearly lack basic human decency.”
The guy stiffens under my grip. “W-what? I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tries to squirm away, so I kick his shin. Hard.
“Answer me!”
“I wasn't!” he insists as more tears flow down his cheeks. “I swear, I wasn't trying to drug her! It was just a mild…a mild s-sedative…harmless.”
I can't help but snort at his pathetic attempt to downplay the situation. I mean, honestly, his stupidity is truly astounding. Especially in the face of danger. I force him to his feet. “Get in the bathtub.”
“Wh-what?”
“I said,get. In the fucking bathtub.” I pick up my scalpel and hold it against his face. The cold edge of the blade grazes his cheek.
Tears trickle down his face. His lower lip quivers as he says, “Are…are you going to kill me?”
I nod. “But first I’m going to ride youreallyhard.”
His eyes widen in shock.
I laugh. Sharp and jarring, cutting through the oppressive silence. Jamie’s shoulders flinch at the sound. “Sorry,” I manage, though I’m sure my tone gives it away that I’m not. “It’s just that, look at you. I’m obviously joking! I don’t fuck ugly men.”
He doesn’t even respond. Doesn’t even try. The crying takes over. Loud and desperate. “Please! I have a wife!”
Wife. The image of him hitting on the uninterested woman from the bar replays in my mind. His hand all over another woman’s thigh. His unwillingness to stop even though she asked him to. His sinister grin and his crooked teeth. I wonder what hiswifewould say if she knew about it.
I smile. “She’ll get over it.” Then I grab him by the hair and start dragging him toward the bathtub myself.
He screams out a few more pained expletives, calling me all sorts of names, trying to squirm away, but somehow, I manage to push his entire upper body over the tub’s edge, and ram his head against the shower knob. Silence. Much better.
Shoving his limp legs inside the tub, I ensure that he’s lying on his back and then turn on the water. We get a lot of these cases in the ER. Attempted suicides. The movies show people slashing their veins while seated in a bathtub and gulping a fistful of sleeping pills after which they die. In real life? It’s not that easy.
Veins have low pressure and tend to seal off by themselves, so these people end up waking up hours later in a lukewarm bath of bloody water looking like complete idiots. Sometimes the body is resilient, sometimes it’s fragile. The pain also seems to vary from person to person, depending on how the cut is made. People who do it wrong usually feel the pain much later, after the crisis has passed. Usually, the method doesn’t work, but I guess when you really mean it, anything is possible.
There’s this one case I remember in particular. I was just an intern back then. Someone had cut across their wrists, but very deep in an attempt to reach the arteries. They didn’t die but instead severed a bunch of important nerves. That person now has a claw for a hand for the rest of their life. Total nightmare.
Moral of the story? Always seek professional help.
Taking my scalpel, I grab Jonathan’s hand and make a precise, two-inch-deep, vertical incision down on his right wrist. The blade pierces his skin smoothly, except for a bit of resistance from the rigid muscles. The cut is thin and deep. I hear the tear of his skin. It’s the sound of wet paper being ripped apart. Blood starts pissing out of his radial artery, trickling down his arm, down his elbow and into the warm bath water. Butterflies flit in my stomach. As a trauma surgeon, I’m already desensitized to a certain level of gore and death. Blunt-force trauma,gunshot wounds, chemical burns, leaking brain matter, internal bleeding, ruptured aneurysms. I’ve seen it all. But this? The vivid streaks of red, each more beautiful than the last? The red thatIcause. This makes me feelalive. It unravels every nerve in my body, making me feel good in the worst kinds of ways. This is my catharsis.
I could have taunted him a bit more. I could have made a show out of this, but what would be the point? I’m tired from my shift and I don’t know this man. Don’t even know his name. I don’t owe him any explanation. This isn’t some revenge-fuelled vendetta. This is for me and my peace of mind.
I feel the wonderful long slow build to release begin its pounding throughout my entire body and repeat the same process on his left wrist, before setting them both down under the running water. It should take ten to fifteen minutes. Twenty tops. I watch as life slowly fades from his eyes. Evaporating into the air above. The sight calms my nerves.
There’s something strangely gratifying about watching someone die. A certain kind of thrill. One that courses through your veins and offers you a sense of calm no amount of therapy or medication or anything ever could. It makes me feel powerful. Powerless. In control. Reckless. It makes me feel everything. And then nothing at all. It’s hard to put this feeling into words. This is what I do to cope with all of my guilt. It’s where I go to get away from reality.
It makes me feel like a god.
