Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

_____

  It’s better when I’m alone.

  At least when I’m alone, there’s no chance I’ll hurt someone. I really just don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s what I’m frightened of, most of all. And I know I’m capable of it. All those years of weightlifting have paid off.

  I’m afraid to even touch my weights now, because I don’t want to make things worse. So instead, I sit on my bed, throwing a tennis ball against the wall. I keep doing it, over and over, thunk thunk thunk, trying to keep disturbing thoughts out of my head. It seems to work for a little while, but then I throw it just a little too hard and the ball takes a chunk of the plaster out of the wall. That kind of freaks me out. A couple of nights ago, I punched a hole in the wall in my sleep. I guess we’re not getting our deposit back on this room.

  My cell phone rings and I jump to pick it up without even looking at who’s calling. When I hear my mother’s voice on the other line, I sort of wish I had checked. I’m not in the mood to talk to her right now.

  “Abe,” she says. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “How are you doing, sweetie?” she asks. “How’s Heather?”

  Oh yeah. I haven’t told her that Heather and I broke up.

  “Are you eating enough?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I mumble. I could probably afford not to eat for a year and be fine.

  “Do you need me to bring you a warmer jacket?”

  Okay, I’ve had enough this. I take a deep breath.

  “Mom,” I say. “How come you never wanted me to get rid of that eye on my back?”

  Well, that’s cutting right to the chase.

  She’s quiet for a long time. I’ve never asked her so blatantly about it before. She was so weird about it, I felt like I didn’t have the right to ask her. Like it was off-limits. Well, nothing is off-limits anymore.

  “Why do you ask?” she finally says.

  I practically lose it. “Can’t you just answer the goddamn question, Mom?”

  “It’s… complicated.”

  “Try me.”

  She sighs, long and heavy. “It’s going to sound silly,” she says. “But the thing is, you were such a good little boy. You were the sweetest, most considerate, most loving child anyone could imagine.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I know I’m being a jerk, but I can’t help myself.

  “But you’d have these episodes,” she goes on. “Usually it would be in the middle of the night. You’d wake up and you’d just be doing something horrible. I mean, really horrible. One night, you got into our paint cans and splattered paint all over the walls. And one time you even killed our canary. It was frightening.”

  A chill goes through me. “Oh?” I say.

  “We even took you to a child psychologist,” she said. “He told me you were fine, but I knew you weren’t.”

  I swallow. “So what happened?”

  “We started to notice,” she explains. “Whenever you were acting that way, that eye on your backside, it was always closed. Like it was asleep.”

  “Oh,” I say again, because what else could I say?

  “It just seemed,” she says, “that the eye was somehow making you into a better person. That it was controlling you, keeping you from doing crazy things. I know it’s silly but…”

  None of this is making me feel any better. In fact, it’s making me feel about a hundred times worse.

  “Anyway,” she says. “As you got older, the episodes stopped. So I guess we were probably wrong about the eye.”

  Not as wrong as she thought. But I can’t tell her that. I thought that the eye belonged to my evil twin, but it turns out that I was the evil twin all along.

  I have only one more question.

  “Mom,” I say. “When you were pregnant, did a doctor ever tell you that you might be having twins?”

  She’s quiet, and that’s my answer. “He did say he heard two heartbeats initially,” she admits quietly. “But then the second heartbeat went away and he told me I must’ve miscarried the other baby.”

  Christ. It’s true. Everything Dr. Petrov told me was true. I had a twin and I killed him.

  “Abe,” Mom says. “What’s going on? Please tell me.”

  How can I tell her that I murdered her other son?

  I’ve got to make this right again.

  _____

  I sit in my car, outside the office of Dr. Jefferson DeWitt, trying to work up my nerve to go inside. I turned off the engine in the car and it’s beginning to get very cold. Not that there’s any chance DeWitt’s office will be heated.

  I look over at the dilapidated building where Dr. DeWitt sees patients. I climb out of the car and stride up to the front entrance, staring at the door covered in peeling red paint. As I press the buzzer to be let in, I feel my heart slamming in my chest. I’m even more scared now than I was before the initial surgery.

  The waiting room is empty yet again and DeWitt waves me right in. I note the fact that we’re probably the only two people here. I guess there might be a reason for that… and it’s not for the patients’ protection.

  “I told you that you could cut out the stitches yourself,” DeWitt tells me, slightly irritated.

  “It’s hard to reach back there,” I reply lamely.

  DeWitt nods. “All right, but it’ll cost fifty bucks.”

  “Okay,” I say. I clear my throat, “Also, I’m wondering if I could have back the tissue that you removed.”

  I know that Dr. Petrov’s morals wouldn’t allow him to remove the eye and brain tissue from my body, but I hope that maybe he’ll be willing to put it back in. It’s my only hope.

  “Yeah, right,” DeWitt says.

  My left hand balls into a fist. Before I can stop myself, I jump off the table and grab DeWitt by the collar and throw him against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. I then grab the “doctor” by his arm and twist him around so that his chest is pressed against the wall.

  I lean in close to DeWitt’s ear and growl, “Where is it?”

  “Get the fuck off me,” DeWitt responds, struggling against me.

  Does he honestly think he has any chance of overpowering me? I twist his arm harder and he screams.

  “Where is it?” I repeat.

  “Look, I don’t know,” DeWitt says. “Eye parts are worth a lot of money. I already sold it.”

  The rage I feel is almost blinding. I release DeWitt, allowing him to turn around, then I slug him in the belly with my left fist. DeWitt gasps at the force of the blow and doubles over, curling up on the floor. But I’m not done yet, not even close. I slam him with punch after punch until he’s coughing up blood. I destroy him. And damn, it feels good. By the time I wear myself out, he’s collapsed on the ground, unconscious.

  For a second, I’m scared I may have killed him. But I check for a pulse, which is strong, and he seems to still be breathing, although I wouldn’t be surprised if I broke a few of his ribs.

  I remember the word that Patrice had used during their therapy session the other day: sublimation. If I don’t rid myself of my dangerous impulses one way or another, it’s going to come out when I don’t want it to.

  _____

  It’s two in the morning and a sound in my bedroom jars me awake. I sit up in bed and see Mason lying on his own bed, his laptop open in front of him. I squint at the light and rub my eyes.

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s two in the morning, Mason,” I say. “Why are you awake?”

  “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

  I shut my eyes again but the light from his computer is too bright. It’s keeping me awake.

  “Hey,” I say. “Can you shut that down or go in the other room?”

  Mason doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring at that goddamn screen.

  “Hey,” I say again. “Shut that down or go in the other room.”

  It’s not a polite request anymore.

  Mason doesn’t reply. He just mumbles somethi
ng to himself. I feel that familiar rage bubble up inside me and I rise from my bed. I cross the room and stand over Mason.

  “Shut that down,” I say in a voice that’s more of a growl, “or go in the other room.”

  Mason isn’t a small guy by any means. He’s actually somewhat built, although I suspect he’s gotten softer in the last few months. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still a lot bigger that he is. You can’t underestimate the damage that a large mass can do.

  Mason is quiet for a minute and I wait. I’m almost hoping he’ll refuse. I want him to refuse so I can bash his skull into his brains. I feel my left hand balling into a fist, ready to do it the second he says the word “no.” I can almost taste it.

  But then Mason lifts his eyes and says, “Sorry.”

  He picks up his computer and goes into the other room, allowing our bedroom to fall back into darkness.

  But I can’t sleep. I’ve got to get out of here.

  _____

  The sun is down and I’m the only person in the anatomy lab. I rip the plastic covering off of the dead body. Frank. That is what Mason started calling him and the rest of us followed his lead. Frank is partially, but not entirely, dissected. His abdomen and pelvis as well as his face had been mostly ripped apart, but his arms and legs are intact, for the most part. Except for the left arm, which Rachel dissected the other day.

  I pull a scalpel from the dissection kit. I look down at the tattoo on Frank’s arm: To serve and protect. Frank had probably been a cop. His job had been to protect the public. And he’ll keep doing that, even in death.

  I dig the scalpel into the center of the tattoo, slicing clear through the skin.

  Three hours later, I’ve shredded Frank’s remaining arms, both his legs, and several of his internal organs. I initially tried to stick with the instructions in the lab manual, but in the end, I wound up simply carving Frank up because it relieved the pressure in my chest.

  I hate myself for doing it, but I’m beginning to realize that there’s no other way. Frank couldn’t feel what I did to him. This aggression, this anger… it has to go somewhere.

  I keep slicing until I feel too tired to go on. I put back the dissection kit and cover up Frank’s body. I pull off my gloves, then go straight to the bathroom and cry for the better part of an hour.

  Chapter 39

  I’m not sure what it is, but Patrice looks really beautiful today. Something about the way her skirt rides up over her slim knees. Something about the way her blouse stretches over the curves of her still firm breasts. I can’t stop staring at her.

  “You’re very quiet today, Abe,” Patrice notes. “Especially considering how eager you were for an appointment.”

  My hands are restless, especially my left hand. I have them at my sides, then on my lap, then grabbing onto my knees.

  “Is there something specific you wanted to talk about?” she asks. She checks her notes. “Heather?”

  I can’t focus. I keep staring at her breasts.

  “Abe?”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs.

  “Patrice, if you had somebody like… I don’t know, Ted Bundy, as one of your clients, do you think you could have helped him?”

  Patrice becomes quiet. She absently tucks her very short hair behind her ear. Her tongue moistens her lips.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Have you done something you’d like to tell me about?”

  I can see that Patrice’s hand holding the pen is trembling slightly.

  “It’s just a question,” I say innocently.

  “Then the answer is yes,” she says. “I believe I could have helped him. If he got to me early enough.”

  Do I believe her? Does she even believe it herself? “What would you have done?”

  “I would have reminded him that he’s in control of his actions,” Patrice says. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, and her skirt rides up to mid-thigh. She tugs on it slightly to pull it down. “No matter what your impulses are, you are always the one in control.”

  “Do you really think that would have worked?”

  Patrice lowers her eyes. During our sessions, I always felt that she was the one who dictated everything that was said and done. But now it’s clear that she has somehow lost that upper hand. She looks up at the clock, probably hoping that the hour is over and she can dismiss me. I stand up.

  “Sit down,” she says.

  I don’t sit down. I move towards her.

  She drops her pad and pen on the floor and stands up so quickly, her chair topples to the floor behind her. She takes a step back, scanning the room. Looking for a weapon? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Me against her? She has no chance.

  “You are in control of your actions, Abe,” she says, the fear now plain in her eyes.

  I grab her by her upper arms and push her hard against the bookcase. She begins to struggle, but I restrain her easily. I see the terror in her face as her fears become reality. That’s what you get for working at Suicide Med, Patrice.

  I have her on the carpeted floor, ripping her blouse from her chest. She’s wearing a light pink bra underneath, pushing her firm breasts close together. Even though she’s trying to fight me, it’s almost pathetic how ineffective her weak kicks and punches are. She tries to scream, but the sound of her voice is lost through the layers of insulation in the wall.

  “You’re in control of your actions, Abe,” she says breathlessly. “You don’t have to do this!”

  I have her forearms pinned against the floor. She’s breathing very fast so that I can see her bare chest heaving.

  Don’t do this, Abe.

  I lower myself onto…

  Don’t do this, Abe.

  …her body and her skirt…

  Don’t do this, Abe.

  …is ripped open, exposing…

  Don’t do this, Abe!

  I blink.

  Oh my God, what am I doing?

  My right fist releases Patrice’s forearm, and I sort of have to pry my left off of her. As I let go of her, I can see red marks where my fingers had been. I crawl off her, staring at her now half-naked body. My hands are shaking badly.

  Patrice is struggling to her feet, wiping her hand across the smeared lipstick on her mouth.

  “I am so sorry,” I start to say, but before I can get any other words out, Patrice has slammed her desk lamp into the side of my head. The glass in the lampshade shatters on contact with my skull. I scream and grab the side of my head, which is now bleeding. I stare up at her, shocked. Well, I probably shouldn’t be that shocked.

  “There are consequences to every action, Abe,” she says. She lifts the phone off the hook. “Now get out of my office before I call the police.”

  She begins dialing a number on her phone and I scramble to my feet, still holding my head. I run out of her office, out of the hospital, and into the parking lot, where my car is waiting for me. It’s dark outside by now and it’s started to rain icy drops of almost-snow, although it does little to clean the blood from my face. She hit me very hard and I still feel dizzy. There’s blood staining my now drenched shirt and soaking through my fingers. I don’t quite feel safe to drive, but I know a security guard is going to see me if I keep wandering the parking lot.

  I get in my car, holding pressure on the side of my head. I can see my reflection in the rearview mirror and the dark red of my blood mingles with my bright red hair. I rest my head against the steering wheel for a moment, trying to figure out what just happened.

  It was like somebody was talking to me in that office. Somebody was telling me to do the right thing, to release Patrice. I know the eye is gone, but some of the brain tissue is still left. I think my brother is still alive, in some form. I think he’s still with me.

  So maybe I’m not all bad.

  I take my cell phone out of my pocket. I could have called for an ambulance, but I don’t want to attract that kind of attenti
on. I don’t know if Patrice made good on her threat to call the police. Instead, I call the first number on my speed dial list: Heather.

  I’m very relieved when she picks up the phone, even though I’ve been avoiding her for days. I hear the impatience in her voice: “What is it?”

  “I need your help,” I say. “Please.”

  I wait for her in my car, watching the icy rain fall down and hit the windshield. I see Heather’s car pull up and she comes out without an umbrella, hugging her coat around her. I unlock the door to my own car and get out to greet her. She initially looks irritated, but when she sees the blood streaking across my face and on my shirt, her own face goes pale.

  “Abe, oh my God,” she murmurs. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. I’m not about to tell Heather that I’m bleeding because Patrice clocked me with a lamp after I tried to rape her.

  “I’ll be okay,” I say.

  “Do you need to go to the hospital?” she asks, squinting up at me.

  “No, I just need to get home,” I say. “I’ll pick my car up tomorrow.”

  Even though it’s wet and freezing out and I’m still dizzy from the blow to the head, we both just stand there, not moving. My left arm twitches, wanting to reach out and touch her, but I don’t let it. It’s not the right thing to do right now.

  Finally, I break the silence: “You know I’m crazy about you, Heather. Right?”

  Heather blinks droplets of water out of her eyes as she folds her arms across her chest and sighs, “Just get in the car, Abe.”

  I decide that if all Heather is willing to give me is a ride, I’m willing to take it.

  Part 4: Rachel

  Chapter 40

  “Look to your left side, now look to your right side.”

  I roll my eyes as I look to my left. Just as I thought—Heather is doing it. Heather McKinley: my new roommate. Ugh.

  I know Heather wants to be my best friend. She keeps suggesting we go out for drinks and asking me questions about my life. But the truth is, I can’t stand her. She’s nice, I suppose. But she’s so freaking annoying.