Suicide Med (21 page)

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.

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 that 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.”

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 word 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.

_____

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?” s
he 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 hav
e 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 something 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.