Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

  DeWitt continues to inject for a few more minutes until I notice that the sticks from the needle feel more like pressure than pain. I’m numb. I look back for a split second and see DeWitt reaching for the scalpel.

  Even with all the lidocaine that’s been injected, I still feel pain when the scalpel enters my skin. Horrible, excruciating pain.

  I scream—I can’t help it. Nobody can hear me in this place anyway, which is undoubtedly how DeWitt likes it. I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. This is truly the worst pain I have ever experienced in my whole life. I don’t think the lidocaine helped at all.

  That’s when I notice that my vision is fading. First I assume that I’m passing out, but then I realize that the images of the room are being replaced. Replaced by images of…

  Heather. Beautiful Heather, with her heart-shaped face and dirty blond hair. Heather, writhing in pain, in agony, crying for help. Clutching her face as she sinks to the floor, screaming.

  And me, standing over her, watching.

  And laughing.

  Suddenly the room is back the way it was. The excruciating pain has subsided to a dull throbbing.

  “Done,” DeWitt says. “And I’m keeping the eye.”

  I blink, in disbelief about what just happened. After all these years, I’m normal. I’m actually normal.

  “You got it all out?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” DeWitt says. “And I took out that gray tissue too.”

  The eye is gone. He’s gone.

  Somehow I feel unsettled. Even though I got exactly what I wanted, something doesn’t feel right about this. I feel different somehow, but I can’t say quite what it is.

  “If you want narcotics for the pain,” DeWitt says, “it’ll cost you.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

  I figure I could just pop a few Ibuprofen if the pain gets too severe. Right now, it’s pretty tolerable.

  DeWitt looks down at his watch, “I got a patient in half an hour. You can stay here until then.”

  “But what if—” I start to say, but DeWitt has already walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

  I reach behind my back and feel the gauze that DeWitt has taped over the scar. I lift the gauze, feeling for the area where the eye used to be. In place of the eye, I feel some stitching through my skin. It doesn’t hurt much, although I figure it probably will once the lidocaine wears off. But I don’t care. I can’t believe that freaking eye is finally gone, just a memory.

  I roll over and pushed myself off the stretcher. My feet touch the ground and immediately wobble, then give way underneath me. I stay sprawled on the floor for a minute, then try again to get up, this time holding onto a chair and going more slowly. My legs still feel a little weak, but manage to support me this time.

  Okay, the worst of it is over. I’m alive, I can still walk. I’m fine.

  Of course, I don’t really believe that. I still have that same bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. There will be consequences to what I’ve done.

  _____

  It’s very dark out when I leave DeWitt’s office. I’m in a lousy part of town and the street outside is desolate, but I’m not really scared. Who would attack me? But if I were a little old lady or something, I’d be pretty terrified.

  I see this guy in a trench coat approaching me on the street. There’s something kind of ominous about him—I’m much bigger than he is, but that’s not a match for a gun. His head is down and as I pass by him, my arm brushes against his.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Watch it, asshole,” the guy grumbles, shooting me a dirty look.

  In that instant, any concern I had about a gun flies out of my head. I’m filled with a sudden irrepressible rage, like nothing I’ve felt before in my entire life. It consumes my entire body, flowing through my veins, and I feel my large hands ball into tight fists. I whirl around and stare at him.

  “What did you call me?” I say.

  The guy stops and sneers at me. “I called you an asshole.”

  He looks like he’s about to laugh and then he sees the look on my face, and suddenly, he realizes maybe it’s not so funny. That maybe he’s in big, big trouble.

  And then I lose it.

  I’ve never thrown a punch before in my life, but my left fist lands square in the center of the guy’s face. The sickening crack of his nose breaking is incredibly satisfying. My second punch lands in his gut, and my third just below his eye. His head slams against a brick building and he sinks to the ground. He’s unconscious.

  Holy shit.

  I stare down at the bloody stranger in disbelief. I spread my hands apart in front of me—my knuckles are bleeding and my fingers are trembling. What the hell did I just do? I just beat a complete stranger into unconsciousness for absolutely no reason.

  I can almost hear Mason’s voice in my ear:

  Hulk smash.

  Except this time it’s really not funny.

  Chapter 37

  I drive straight home from Dr. DeWitt’s office. I wanted to change clothes, maybe take a shower or at least tend to my bloody knuckles, but something draws me to the second floor. I find myself outside the door to Heather’s room. Without hesitation, I knock.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot until the door swings open. I expected that Heather would send Rachel to do her dirty work again, but instead I see Heather’s sweet, heart-shaped face before me. She looks up at me.

  “Abe, what are you…?”

  “Shhh,” I say.

  I grab her by the waist with my left hand and pull her close to me. I kiss her the way guys do in movies—hard and rough.

  A minute later, we’re tearing each other’s clothing off in Heather’s bedroom. I’ve never gotten past first base before with any girl, but now I’m crossing second, clearing third, and before I know it, I’ve scored a home run. Every time Heather touches me, it feels so good, it’s like agony. How could I have waited so long to do this?

  Half an hour later, I find myself lying in bed next to Heather, exhausted. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the mild throbbing pain where the eye used to be. Heather cuddles up close to me, pressing her naked body against me, and I put my arm around her instinctively.

  “That was wonderful,” Heather murmurs.

  “Uh huh,” I say.

  She runs her finger down the length of my chest, “Rachel won’t be back for a while. I think she’s hooking up with someone else in the class, but she won’t tell me who.” She nuzzles into my neck, her blond hairs tickling my chin. “I’m so happy to be with you again,” she says. “I missed you so much.”

  “Mmmm,” I mumble.

  She pecks at my earlobe. “I love you, Abe,” she says.

  I feel her hot breath against my neck. It feels so good.

  “I love you too,” I say.

  I run my fingers gently along the line of her jaw, but the muscles in my hand tense up. I feel my whole body tensing up. And that’s when I realize I don’t want to be gentle with this girl anymore, not the way I used to. I want to throw her against the wall like I did with that stranger in the street.

  I want to hurt her so badly, I’m not sure I can stop myself.

  My heart is racing as I sit up in bed. Heather is still lying next to me, calm and trusting. My hands have balled into fists and I have to use all my willpower to loosen them up.

  “Abe?” Heather says. The sound of her voice almost makes me jump out of my skin. “What’s that bandage on your back?”

  “Huh?”

  I feel Heather’s fingers sliding behind my abdomen, reaching for the gauze that’s covering my scar.

  “That bandage. What happened?”

  I grab her wrist with my left hand. I feel the fragile bones of her forearm between my fingers. I could crush her so easily. I’d barely have to try.

  “Abe, you’re hurting me,” she says, but she’s smiling. She thinks all she has to do is tell me and I’ll let go. Like it’s th
at easy.

  I wrench my hand away from her and leap out of bed. I feel like I can hardly breathe.

  “I’ll be right back,” I manage.

  I venture out into the living room, where thankfully, Rachel is nowhere to be found. I go to the bathroom, lean over the sink, and splash water on my face. It helps a little bit. I stare up at my face, my two green eyes staring back at me. They seem darker somehow, but maybe that’s my imagination. My face isn’t nearly as scary as the rest of me, probably due to my red hair and freckles. I used to have far more freckles as a kid, but they faded as I got older, now only scattered dots remaining on my nose and cheekbones.

  Anyway, I don’t look like a bad guy.

  My eyes stray to the shelves above the toilet. It’s mostly moisturizer (how many bottles do these girls need?), a few jars of foundation cream, body spray, a pair of tweezers, and one pair of scissors.

  My hand is steady as I pick up the shiny metal scissors in my left hand. They’re small but extremely sharp. I test their weight in my hand then close my fist around them. I straighten up and make my way back into the bedroom, where Heather is waiting for me. I’m gripping the scissors so tightly, I can feel the metal biting into my palm.

  Heather is lying in bed, her eyes closed. She’s cuddling with her blanket, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she sings softly to herself. She’s waiting for me. And I’m waiting for her. I feel my hand holding the scissors raise into the air and…

  No!

  I jerk my hand open and the scissors clatter to the floor. Christ, I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

  Heather cracks her eyes open at the noise.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, frowning.

  I start pulling my jeans on. “I’m getting dressed.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But… why?”

  Because, Heather, if I don’t get out of here, I’m going to hurt you. Badly. I might even kill you.

  I can’t very well say that though. So instead, I just say, “I’ve got to study.”

  It’s a pretty flimsy excuse though, even for a med student.

  The hurt is plain on Heather’s face. “All right,” she agrees in a small voice.

  My hands are shaking violently by the time I get back to my apartment. I have no idea what just happened to me. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone in my entire life. Even when I see a big spider, I usually just capture it and release it into the wild. But now… it’s like something’s changed. Something primal within me.

  I reach behind my back and feel the soreness underneath the gauze bandage.

  _____

  “How do you think you’re different now?”

  I cut class for an appointment with Patrice. I begged her to squeeze me in as soon as possible, whenever she had time. I had to talk to someone about what’s been happening with me. It’s tearing me apart inside.

  But now that I’m sitting here, I can’t seem to get the words out. If I tell her that I nearly stabbed Heather to death with a pair of scissors, she’ll think I’m some kind of monster.

  So I just say, “I’m more… angry, I guess.”

  Hulk smash.

  “Maybe you’re resentful over the number of obstacles you had to face,” Patrice suggests, pushing her pseudo-intellectual half-glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “Maybe you’re displacing your anger at Dr. Adamsky.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I say. “I’m just…”

  Patrice frowns. “What?”

  I shake my head.

  “You feel guilty,” she says.

  “I don’t feel guilty,” I say.

  I can’t tell her what I’m really feeling or about that stranger I beat half to death. She’d probably be terrified.

  “You went through a very traumatic surgery,” Patrice says gently. “You have a right to feel some post-traumatic stress.”

  “I’m telling you, something is different!” I snap. “I’m a completely different person!”

  Patrice blinks. I’ve been upset in our sessions, but I’ve never yelled like that before. She crosses her legs and sits in silence for a minute, waiting for me to calm down. I try to get my anger in check. I know she isn’t going to talk to me while I’m so riled up.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “But… I’m just worried that the brain tissue that they removed… that… it actually is important, somehow.”

  “There have certainly been reports of personality changes after a brain injury,” Patrice says, “but it is my understanding that they did tests to show that the brain tissue in your lower spine had no effect on you.”

  “Yeah, they did, but…” I bite my lip. “I don’t know… they tested my memory and my problem-solving ability, but that is it. I mean, how could they know whether or not it affected… other things?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. My emotions?”

  Patrice frowns, “I think that’s very unlikely.” But she doesn’t elaborate.

  I sink down into the couch. This isn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted her to laugh me off, tell me with some psycho-babble that my rage and my desire to hurt people is all a normal reaction to my surgery. But I’m becoming more and more convinced that my twin brother had an influence on me that was stronger than I could ever have known.

  “What am I going to do?” I murmur.

  “Abe, I think the things you’re worried about are possible, but very unlikely,” she says. “I really think what you’re experiencing is simply guilt from the procedure you underwent. If it wasn’t, then you wouldn’t be sitting here, terrified that you changed in some way.”

  “And what if it isn’t?” I challenged her. “How can I become a doctor if I’m always so angry all the time?”

  Patrice smiles, “I think you’re going overboard, but I think there are plenty of doctors who have anger issues or other psychological problems. In fact, many great surgeons have exhibited a classic antisocial personality disorder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a cluster of personality traits,” she explains. “People, usually men, who are deceitful, impulsive, show disregard for others, and show a general lack of remorse for having hurt other people. The famous serial killers are all examples of antisocial personality disorder.”

  “So you’re saying some surgeons are serial killers?”

  Patrice smiles and shakes her head. “Not exactly. I’m saying that sometimes becoming a surgeon can be a healthy way to live out these impulses without actually hurting anyone. The psychological term for it is ‘sublimation.’ If a person wants to, say, cut people up with a knife, he can turn these impulses into something beneficial by becoming a surgeon.”

  Does she know? Oh God. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “I don’t want to cut people up.”

  Patrice puts her pad of paper and pen on her desk and leans forward to look at me.

  “Abe, no matter what happened during that surgery, you are still in control of your own actions. You control everything you say or do. No matter what, if you hurt Heather, you are still the one doing it.”

  I can’t bring myself to say anything so she repeats her words: “You control your actions, Abe. Always remember that.”

  Chapter 38

  I try to keep Patrice’s words in my head, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult. I’m still able to study and retain the names of different nerves and muscles, perhaps even better than before, but I’m beginning to sense that my entire personality has changed.

  In lab today, it’s just me and Rachel. She’s been showing up a lot lately, and it seems like it’s paying off. She actually knows her stuff. And for some reason, she’s being really nice to me today. She’s actually trying to give me a pep talk about Heather.

  “You know Heather’s a sucker for flowers,” she says. “And chocolate. If you buy her enough of those, I’m sure she’ll forgive you for everything.” She adds, “And I’ll put in a good w
ord for you too.”

  “Thanks, Rachel.”

  “I don’t mind,” she says. “I still don’t know what you did to piss her off, but I know you left-handed folks can be very volatile sometimes.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not left-handed.”

  Rachel raises her eyebrows at me. “You’re not?”

  I look down at my hands. I’m gripping the scalpel with my left hand and cutting expertly with it. I don’t know how this is possible. I’ve always been right-handed. Why am I suddenly able to use my left hand so well? That’s weird. It’s actually really creepy, but I don’t let on to Rachel.

  “Oh,” I say. “I guess I’m ambidextrous.”

  Rachel shakes her head at me and leans over the body of our cadaver (Mason has nicknamed him Frank) to dissect the right arm. Rachel’s T-shirt has become stretched out in the course of lab and I catch a glimpse of her breasts through the V-neck when she leaned forward. Rachel never wears a bra and her tits are amazing. I knew it’s rude, but I can’t keep myself from staring.

  I guess I’m being pretty blatant about the whole thing, because Rachel seems to notice. She straightens up and glares at me.

  “Hey,” she says. “Eyes are up here, mister.”

  I just stand there, my mouth hanging open. I can see the curves of Rachel’s hips under her T-shirt and scrub pants. I never noticed how sexy she was before. I feel my fingers curl into a fist around the scalpel I’m holding.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  I looked over and see that Dr. Conlon has approached our table. His dark eyebrows are raised at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s something a little threatening in the way that Dr. Conlon is looking at me.

  In any case, he’s broken the spell. My fist loosens.

  “No problem,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m just… not feeling that good.”

  “Do you need to leave?” Dr. Conlon asks me. His brows are furrowed in concern now.

  “Yeah, I think I better…”

  Before I do something terrible.