expect me to just leave well enough alone.”
He raised his eyes. It seemed to take intense effort. I tilted my head to the side and made eye contact.
“No, Tim. That’s not how it works. I can’t just forget about it. It’s like me asking you to forget about the holes in your hands. Stigmata? I think it’s called stigmata.”
I had spent the time spinning a blade in my fingers. I threw it one last time, finding my mark in the dead one. The body swung gently.
“Yeah, I guess so. Have to try, I suppose.”
Before I sealed the doors, I looked Tim in the eyes again.
“I like you. Maybe I won’t kill you,” I lied.
***
Tim was right, but I knew that it wouldn’t help. I found myself reliving the suicide, over and over again. The Midnight Hour didn’t help either. Valerie was all too keen to facilitate my many addictions. I couldn’t even sit in my favourite mall-perch. The monolithic RailTech building teased me from across the perimeter. Instead I lurked around Vincent’s train station, soaking in the must and the silence.
On the Sunday—a week into my deliberations—I decided to tie off Sturrock. It would calm me down and stop him from becoming a recurring plot point. Tim and his lady-friend had started to bore me.
I walked in through the front door, wrapped androgynously in surgical scrubs. In my right hand was a clipboard. In my left I carried a cooler box. A security guard, wearing the traditional blue faux-officer outfit, stopped me in the lobby. My eyes twitched.
“Liver,” I said curtly. “Fourth floor, room four. They’re operating within the hour.”
I knew the layout of Riverside Mercy well. Sturrock was probably on the third floor, the long-term ward. The guard snapped something into his radio, and I tapped my foot impatiently.
“We don’t have a scheduled surgery.”
“Check again.”
More radio-whisper.
“I’m afraid we do—”
I pulled the lid open and waved the contents at him. Not strictly sterile procedure, but it had the desired effect. He put a hand over his mouth and went silent.
“This has been on ice for two hours,” I hissed, making up numbers on the spot. “If you’re not going to let me go to the fourth floor, at least let me into a cold-room on the second.”
He hesitated, but nodded, and pulled me through into the elevator.
“Thanks, Tim,” I whispered to the cooler box.
My annoyance returned when it became obvious that the guard was sticking with me. With short, stubby fingers he pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed, and I took a deep breath.
What’s blue and white and dead all over?
They opened again, briefly, on the second floor, and again on the fourth. I pressed the basement button and stepped out before the doors closed, taking care not to get blood on my shoes. I had to work quickly. I took the stairs down to the third floor and scanned the whiteboard.
3.02: A. Sturrock.
Found. I wheeled a lunch tray down the hall, and took the second door on the right.
Sturrock was awake. A nurse leaned over his bed, adjusting his tubes. She straightened her back and turned around to face me.
No, she turned around to face the doorway. Or did she turn around to face me?
Tingle, tingle.
“We’ve already got lunch.”
“Strange choice of dying words.”
I grinned broadly from beneath the mask. I opened the cooler box and dug my hand past the ice and meat until I felt the freezing touch of steel. She dropped, quieter than the killing shot, facial expression caught between surprise and curiosity. Sturrock gasped in shock, but no scream for help was forthcoming. His eyes were fixed on the gun in my hand. I peeled the mask off my face and treated him to my most welcoming smile.
Nothing. No recognition in his eyes. Not a flicker. I sighed. Sturrock clearly had no recollection of who I was, or how he got here.
“Everyone’s so fucking boring these days,” I growled as the hospital alarm bells started to blare. I still had
He raised his eyes. It seemed to take intense effort. I tilted my head to the side and made eye contact.
“No, Tim. That’s not how it works. I can’t just forget about it. It’s like me asking you to forget about the holes in your hands. Stigmata? I think it’s called stigmata.”
I had spent the time spinning a blade in my fingers. I threw it one last time, finding my mark in the dead one. The body swung gently.
“Yeah, I guess so. Have to try, I suppose.”
Before I sealed the doors, I looked Tim in the eyes again.
“I like you. Maybe I won’t kill you,” I lied.
***
Tim was right, but I knew that it wouldn’t help. I found myself reliving the suicide, over and over again. The Midnight Hour didn’t help either. Valerie was all too keen to facilitate my many addictions. I couldn’t even sit in my favourite mall-perch. The monolithic RailTech building teased me from across the perimeter. Instead I lurked around Vincent’s train station, soaking in the must and the silence.
On the Sunday—a week into my deliberations—I decided to tie off Sturrock. It would calm me down and stop him from becoming a recurring plot point. Tim and his lady-friend had started to bore me.
I walked in through the front door, wrapped androgynously in surgical scrubs. In my right hand was a clipboard. In my left I carried a cooler box. A security guard, wearing the traditional blue faux-officer outfit, stopped me in the lobby. My eyes twitched.
“Liver,” I said curtly. “Fourth floor, room four. They’re operating within the hour.”
I knew the layout of Riverside Mercy well. Sturrock was probably on the third floor, the long-term ward. The guard snapped something into his radio, and I tapped my foot impatiently.
“We don’t have a scheduled surgery.”
“Check again.”
More radio-whisper.
“I’m afraid we do—”
I pulled the lid open and waved the contents at him. Not strictly sterile procedure, but it had the desired effect. He put a hand over his mouth and went silent.
“This has been on ice for two hours,” I hissed, making up numbers on the spot. “If you’re not going to let me go to the fourth floor, at least let me into a cold-room on the second.”
He hesitated, but nodded, and pulled me through into the elevator.
“Thanks, Tim,” I whispered to the cooler box.
My annoyance returned when it became obvious that the guard was sticking with me. With short, stubby fingers he pressed the button for the second floor. The doors closed, and I took a deep breath.
What’s blue and white and dead all over?
They opened again, briefly, on the second floor, and again on the fourth. I pressed the basement button and stepped out before the doors closed, taking care not to get blood on my shoes. I had to work quickly. I took the stairs down to the third floor and scanned the whiteboard.
3.02: A. Sturrock.
Found. I wheeled a lunch tray down the hall, and took the second door on the right.
Sturrock was awake. A nurse leaned over his bed, adjusting his tubes. She straightened her back and turned around to face me.
No, she turned around to face the doorway. Or did she turn around to face me?
Tingle, tingle.
“We’ve already got lunch.”
“Strange choice of dying words.”
I grinned broadly from beneath the mask. I opened the cooler box and dug my hand past the ice and meat until I felt the freezing touch of steel. She dropped, quieter than the killing shot, facial expression caught between surprise and curiosity. Sturrock gasped in shock, but no scream for help was forthcoming. His eyes were fixed on the gun in my hand. I peeled the mask off my face and treated him to my most welcoming smile.
Nothing. No recognition in his eyes. Not a flicker. I sighed. Sturrock clearly had no recollection of who I was, or how he got here.
“Everyone’s so fucking boring these days,” I growled as the hospital alarm bells started to blare. I still had
Similar Books
