Arsenic for the Soul

by Nathan Wilson

  “Yes.”

  Vivian found herself hypnotized by his doe eyes. She glanced from the contours of his face to the name on his photo ID.

  Milo Dušan.

  “It’s a good profession to go into. You’ll find a lot of students from the nursing program working here. Not to mention the pay and benefits keep you coming back.”

  He ushered her into the examination room.

  “Did you study here?” she asked.

  “No, I studied abroad. I’ve been wandering in a daze across Eastern Europe for the past six years. Call it a quarter-life crisis if you want, but there’s nothing quite like immersing yourself in the nightlife of Budapest or breathing the air in a wine cellar in Estonia.”

  “Don’t make me jealous.”

  Milo broke into laughter.

  “It sounds extravagant, doesn’t it? Of course it does, but don’t get me started on the beer. You can’t convince me that anything outside of Prague is true beer. There’s nothing quite like a glass of honey lager.”

  “Ha, keep telling yourself that. Absinthe is making its way up there.”

  Milo cocked an eyebrow.

  “You drink the Green Fairy?”

  “Once or twice,” she sheepishly grinned, although the occasions surely numbered in the dozens. She often partook in mind-altering drinks in the cybergoth clubs, where every vice was welcomed and sins unheard of were invented on a nightly basis.

  Vivian shrugged unapologetically under his gaze.

  “You need to learn to cut loose and relax,” she said.

  “Maybe you can show me how you do that sometime.”

  “Perhaps, if you ask nicely.”

  Milo’s eyes dimmed and he leveled an accusing stare at her.

  “I see what you’re doing.”

  Vivian’s heart stalled and she wondered if her coy attempts were not quite as coy as she believed. She berated herself for giving in to her first impulse.

  “I just—”

  “You’re trying to delay your vaccine, aren’t you?”

  Vivian laughed in relief. So he hadn’t noticed the eye she was giving him—or he simply chose to overlook it.

  “Haha, of course, just trying to delay the inevitable… So what else do you do here besides intimidating people with needles?”

  “Trust me, I don’t usually do this. I work in the blood lab downstairs where the end product comes to me. Goodness, I sort through so many blood samples a day that the smell of iron clings to me when I leave. Would you believe I still get a little nauseous at the sight of blood? How do you make sense of that?” He chuckled. “Like I said, this isn’t my forte. We’re a little short on nursing staff today so I volunteered to step up.”

  “That’s thoughtful of you.”

  Milo shrugged.

  “Plenty of staff helped me out when I was a young kid fresh out of the university. I’m just trying to return the favor. Besides, it gets a bit too claustrophobic for my liking in the blood lab. Once in a while I just need to come up for air and chat with someone.”

  He motioned for her to sit.

  “Do you or your family have a history of vaccine reactions?”

  “No.”

  “Are you pregnant?” Vivian’s cheeks burned like coals under his intense eyes.

  “Definitely not.”

  Milo laughed and the melody rolled off Vivian like an ocean wave.

  “Well, let’s get started then.” A substance drained into the syringe one drop at time and Vivian followed every detail in silent horror.

  The needle loomed as large as a spear in her mind’s eye. She always dreaded needles, but an experience last year only magnified that irrational fear. She had every right to her phobia of needles after her unfortunate rendezvous with the serial killer Viktor Rezník. After all, how could she forget waking up in his basement of torture?

  Within minutes of coming to her senses in restraints, she had come face-to-face with the man responsible for the serial murders in Prague.

  With syringe in hand, he shot her veins full of a drug called Syllax. That needle exposed her to trials and tribulations that no sane mind should ever endure.

  That moment changed her life in countless ways. Syllax was an experimental drug designed to help patients overcome repressed trauma. However, it did anything but help them cope. It filled Vivian’s head with post-traumatic hallucinations for weeks on end.

  Almost a year passed since that ordeal and the events preceding it. Each time she reflected on the experience, she asked herself the same question: What led to such a bizarre and almost fatal encounter?

  Every downfall seemed to stem from the moment she ran away from home. If only her father never discovered the bundle of cash in her jacket and learned about her stripping pastime to finance her college education.

  Her father wasn’t disappointed in her—he almost collapsed of a stroke at the dinner table. Half of Vivian’s possessions were thrown on the lawn by the time her mother calmed him down. Of course, the rites of punishment didn’t end there. He wanted to transfer Vivian to a sex therapy program called the Magdalene Midnight Mission.

  Supposedly, it would mend her woefully flawed character.

  The idea of living as a prisoner for something so insignificant proved too much to bear.

  Vivian opted to live on the streets rather than share a room with other wayward girls. Life on the streets almost seemed like a paradise compared to life in a cage. Alas, anything but paradise waited. Her descent into depravity accelerated as she resigned herself to prostitution as the only means to survive.

  Of course, she differed from the typical caterers by specializing in the taboo realm of pain and pleasure. Within weeks, her cruel methods earned her the moniker “Red Widow.”

  In many ways, she resembled the brutal red widow with her violent demeanor toward males. Vivian also plummeted into the underworld of recreational drugs.

  Sometimes after serving clients, the only solace she could find was at the tip of a psychotropic-laced needle. With the drug scene freshly exploding onto the streets of Prague, Vivian found herself drifting ever more into listless daze of pleasure, guilt, and rage.

  On one such unforgettable night, she transferred that rage onto one of her clients. Vivian would never forget his bizarre request: to be brought to the brink of death.

  After much hesitation, she greedily obliged. Blinded by the anger she felt for feeling like a failure, an object, and a disappointment in her father’s eyes, she almost murdered her client.

  Before she could inflict the killing blow, Detective Nikolai Koslov detained her. Faced with the threat of prison, Vivian promised to serve as his informant in the search for the serial killer. If she proved a valuable asset, her criminal record would be expunged.

  Adding another layer to his growing list of temptations, Nikolai promised to help her re-enroll in school and rise above her failures.

  She also met Camilla Vesely, the crime reporter for Blaze. Camilla was sniffing out the trail out of the Prague killer when she found Vivian. Ever since, they became steadfast companions who helped each other elude death more than a few times.

  At the end of their journey, Nikolai proved to be a traitor concealing his own dark secrets sprinkled throughout the investigation. He turned on Vivian and triggered a spree of violence that ended with innocent blood on his hands, including Vivian’s father, Keung Xu.

  Keung was still recovering in the University Hospital from another surgery.

  He owed his near death experience to Nikolai, who shot him as he tried to interfere with Vivian’s arrest. Her arrest had no legal grounds to execute. Nikolai pinned a murder he brazenly committed on Vivian to tie up the loose ends. Apparently, Vivian knew enough about Syllax to jeopardize Nikolai’s career—only because he was addicted to Syllax.

  The bullet Nikolai fired paralyzed Keung from the waist down, confining him to a wheelchair or a bed. After several months of resting at home, he returned to the hospital for chronic pain in his spine.
He was scheduled to undergo another operation within weeks. Perhaps Vivian would stop by his room today after clinicals.

  Those memories scattered like windblown frost and she found herself back in the University Hospital. She felt Milo’s cold touch on her arm as the needle pressed against her skin.

  She winced as it slid into her vein like a sliver of ice.

  “All done,” Milo said. “It wasn’t too bad, I hope?”

  “I’d be lying if I said yes, but don’t feel too heartbroken.” Vivian stroked her arm. “I have a phobia of needles.”

  “I think you picked the wrong career if you want to stay away from needles. Give it a few months and drawing blood will become second nature to you.”

  “I don’t mind giving someone else a vaccine. I’d just rather not be on the receiving end.”

  Milo stripped off his gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin.

  “So tell me, Vivian, what made you go into nursing?”

  “My aunt played a key role in my decision. I used to visit her all the time at her nursing room. I did my best to take care of her even when the nurses were trying to shoo me out of the room. She seemed so vulnerable and disconnected from the nurses and I thought that was wrong. I wanted to do anything I could to make the pain go away. Sometimes I’d visit her every weekend and chat about how things were turning around in my life. She’s had such an impact on me.”

  “She sounds like a wonderful woman to have inspired you. You’re lucky to have such a special bond. Does she know?”

  Vivian’s eyes glossed over.

  “I hope so.” Vivian’s aunt had passed away two years ago. Her death came only a month before Vivian ran away. Milo seemed to catch her meaning and he quickly occupied himself with his chart.

  “I’m sure she knows.”

  Their eyes locked and Vivian’s heart leaped into her throat.

  “Any advice for a newbie like me?”

  Milo leaned in close and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “Stay clear of Dr. Crenshaw. He has a habit of wiping the floors with students here.”

  Vivian grinned.

  “Thanks.”

  She hopped down from the examination table, feeling recharged and keen to begin the next chapter in her life as a nursing student.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Vivian,” Milo said, clasping her hand. “Maybe we’ll see each other again.” His touch conveyed a depth of two close friends reuniting after years of separation, not the touch of two crossing strangers. It filled Vivian’s body with a warm glow and she blushed again, much to her irritation.

  “You too, Milo.”

  She smiled sheepishly and left before her face could match the color of her scrubs.

  She was anxious enough about her first day at the hospital without adding heart throbs to the mix. Still, the young man lingered in her thoughts as she started her first day of clinicals in the emergency wing.

  TWO

  “Code blue!” The doors burst open to the emergency department as a gurney plowed through.

  A woman in critical condition was rushed into the emergency room with the cardiac arrest team in tow. Vivian steered clear of the nurses as they checked for a pulse and prepared an oxygen mask for ventilation. Everyone seemed to have a role to fulfill except her. She was delegated to a passive bystander with little direction.

  A nurse applied leads to the patient’s chest and hooked them up to a monitor while Vivian watched. Perhaps it was the voyeur in her but she scanned for any sign of injury on the patient. Instead of bruises and broken bones, strange lesions marked the woman’s body. The raw skin encircled her neck and cheeks like a pustulous growth.

  “What’s the story on her?” a reedy voice snapped. The voice belonged to a balding man with tuffs of receding hair cropping up behind his ears. Horn-rimmed glasses rested on his beaked nose and his eyes were locked in a perpetual grimace. This short-tempered surgeon was unmistakably Crenshaw.

  “We don’t know her name. She’s been having fits since the ER brought her in. She collapsed of cardiac arrest in the lobby.”

  Vivian quickly put two and two together after a quick study of the woman’s clothes and hygiene. She was homeless and endured too many nights in the cold alleys of Prague. Her clothes were soiled and the smell she exuded turned Vivian’s stomach.

  What didn’t add up were the markings on the woman’s skin. The angry blister encircled her neck and crawled up to her left eye. Similar abrasions erupted across her arms.

  Her skin was tinged blue, especially her fingertips and lips.

  “She’s deteriorating—quickly, let’s get her prepped for an endotracheal!”

  Without warning, the woman convulsed and spewed bloody phlegm from her lips. She flailed and attending nurses were forced to pin her down.

  In the midst of the chaos, Vivian felt helpless. As voices shrieked around her about fluid aspiration, blood pressure, and adrenaline injections, she froze.

  Crenshaw inserted a laryngeal blade in the unconscious patient’s mouth and swept the tongue to the left. Once the vocal cords and glottis were in sight, he slowly advanced the endotracheal tube inside. The device would suction and clear the airway to prevent any further obstruction.

  Vivian couldn’t understand why her brain felt detached from the rest of her body. Why couldn’t she move when someone’s life hung in the balance? She’d faced a killer before without breaking a sweat, for God’s sake.

  “Is her blood pressure hanging in there?”

  “No, we’ve lost heart activity!”

  Suddenly, Vivian was shoved aside as a nurse stormed forward to apply CPR compressions. AED pads were promptly slapped onto the patient’s bare torso while the device charged.

  “Everyone clear!”

  The team receded as a shock was delivered to her faltering heart.

  “Do another round of compressions before we shock her again.” The routine repeated for the next two minutes in a battle of suspense before divine judgment was handed down. The defibrillator monitor revealed no signs of heart activity.

  Another shock wouldn’t change the outcome.

  “We lost her.”

  The stillness that fell over the room was palpable. Vivian stared at the woman’s body lying under the blue drapes. Blood and medical supplies littered the floor in testament to the team’s valiant but ultimately fruitless attempts. Crenshaw was the first to break the silence.

  “Take note of the scarring here.” Other students present in the team drew closer to ogle their morbid specimen. “See the sores on her nose and lips? And notice the damaged veins. What conclusions can you draw based on this? Any pre-existing conditions?”

  The few students assembled didn’t dare answer wrong and invite his mockery.

  “Heroin abuse,” the doctor said, poking the marks on her arms with an instrument. His disgust shined through with a wicked scowl.

  Vivian’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe how apathetic he was to the tragic loss, as if she was beneath his saving talents. Vivian immediately took a disliking to Crenshaw. She had seen her share of heroin victims in the alleys of Prague when she lived as the Red Widow. That being said, this woman didn’t fit the traditional cast of drug users.

  “That doesn’t look like a heroin overdose to me.”

  Crenshaw’s fiery eyes looked like they might roll out of their sockets.

  “And would you be so kind as to enlighten us with your drug expertise?”

  “These lesions look characteristic of a disease. Don’t you see the scabbing?” Vivian blushed as chuckles ignited around her. She tried to recall the diseases she read about last week to back up her theory. Of course, that knowledge escaped her when she was on the spot. “It could be impetigo, which forms scaly lesions on the face and neck. It can also lead to ulcers or sores—”

  “Impetigo doesn’t strike adults. It’s a children’s disease so your theory falls short. Maybe it would be smart to have a firmer grasp of disease before you start d
iagnosing adults with diaper rash.”

  A few students smirked at Vivian and cast admiring glances at the hideous Crenshaw.

  “And you’d have to be blind or stupid to overlook the needle tracks on her arms,” Crenshaw added. “As for the lesions, heroin users will often pick at their skin because of uncontrollable itching. This can lead to all manner of ugly scabs and scars. There is nothing remotely extraordinary about this woman’s condition except how she managed to stay alive as long as she did. It looks to me like she spent one too many nights shooting up dope.”

  “As opposed to catching a disease without proper shelter or food? Did medical school also teach you to stereotype your patients?”

  “I have over thirty years of experience in the medical field over you. Count yourself lucky if you survive a few days without becoming an embarrassment to your program.”

  “Is that what thirty years in the ER does to your conscience? Turn you into an insect?”

  Her jab was too weak to penetrate Crenshaw’s hide.

  “Impetigo,” he chuckled. He may as well have spat in her face.

  Incensed, Vivian shouldered her way out of the emergency room. She had only gone ten paces before a rough hand seized her.

  Vivian spun around to look into the porous, hateful face of the surgeon.

  “I don’t like being humiliated in front of my team,” he breathed. “Least of all by a smart ass who barely knows one end of a stethoscope from the other.”

  “Let go of me now.”

  Vivian’s muscles bunched. It required all of her strength not to break his nose.

  “I don’t tolerate disrespect from anyone, student or not. You’d do well to let that lesson sink into your brain now. Trust me, it will make your life much easier here or it could shorten your stay in the program. I can have you booted from here in the short time it took for the heroin to stop that woman’s heart. Maybe if you took the time to learn from your betters instead of pretending to be smart, you’d have a better idea of that. Is that easy enough for you to understand?”

  “You have five seconds to let me go.”

  It would only take a small spark to set off the lethal pair.