Suicide Med (37 page)

A blind monkey would have seen where this was going.

“At this point in my life, I don’t care about looks anymore,” Patrice said.
“It’s what’s
inside
that matters.”

And now her hand was on my knee.
A year ago, I would have killed to have Patrice’s hand on my knee, even if she did it while telling me how unattractive I am like she just did. Now I felt nothing but disgust.

“Please don’t touch me,” I said to her.

Patrice looked at me, plainly shocked I’d have the nerve to refuse her. “Matt…”

“G
et out of my house,” I said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone what you did, but only for Rachel’s sake. I don’t want to speak to you ever again. I want to have nothing to do with you.”

Patrice shook her head as if she thought I might be joking.
Ha ha. Really funny. You’re a murderer—get out of my house.

I called Rachel as soon as she was gone and I had every intention, once again, of ending things with her.
I’m always full of good intentions, aren’t I?

When Rachel
returned to my house, I could see the red around the rims of her brown eyes just before she fell into my arms. She’d been crying. It touched me that she’d actually been crying over the idea that we might be over. That’s when I really started loving her.

Have you ever heard of the five stages of loss and grief? It’s something the kids learn during their behavioral sciences class at the end of first year. The first stage is denial, followed by anger, then bargaining and depression, and finally, acceptance.

I went through each of those stages when I found the last page of the final exam in my printer.

Denial:
Yes, Rachel was just in my office, but it couldn’t have been her. Anita must have printed it out for me, even though she’d actually never ever do anything like that.

Anger:
How could she do this to me? How could she use me this way? I believed she was reformed—that little lying bitch!

Bargaining:
If I just rewrite the questions, I don’t even have to mention this to her. It will be like it never happened.

Depression:
Rachel never loved me. No woman will ever love me. Even Patrice was only interested because she felt like she was old and couldn’t get a real man.

Acceptance:
Rachel betrayed me.

That night, I went to the medicine cabinet above my sink and I contemplated taking every pill in there.
Hell, it wouldn’t even have to be all of them—just the bottle of painkillers would be sufficient. If I did it, nobody would have found me until the morning, and by then, it would be too late. After all, somebody has to die every year at Suicide Med—I figured it may as well be me.

In the end, I couldn’t make myself do it.
I was too chicken. Also, I was raised Catholic and we’re not supposed to do things like that.

Do I believe Rachel when she says she was blackmailed and that’s the only reason she took the exam?
Maybe. I guess I do. Nobody’s that great an actress. It’s easier to believe Rachel because I love her. Even when I hated her, I still loved her.

And because I love her so much, I refuse to let her die today.

_____

Now we come full circle, back to that pesky gun pointed at my face.

Honestly,
Mason is much more frightening as a shooter than Kurt was. Part of it is how disheveled he looks, his face covered in a half-beard, his dark hair greasy and uncombed, his clothes clearly slept in for the last several days. Yet his hand holding the revolver is unwavering and steady, whereas Kurt was shaking like a leaf. Mason looks like a guy who knows how to handle a gun and knows exactly what he’s doing. And he seems so
angry
.

Most people who get shot in the head don’t survive.
In that sense, I really am lucky. Surviving two gunshot wounds to the head doesn’t seem within the realm of possibility. I am done here. And this time, there’s really only one thought running through my head:

I can’t let him kill Rachel too.

“I’m really sorry,” I hear myself say out loud.

I’m not saying it to Mason.
I’m saying it to Rachel, partially for having taken advantage of her when she was my student. And partially for getting myself killed when I know she loves me.

But mostly I’m saying it for
my dead students. For all of them. I can’t help but feel that somehow it’s all my fault. And if anyone is listening, I want them to know: I’m sorry.

I believe in the curse of Southside Medical School, and moreover, I believe I’m responsible for that curse.
When I first came to work here, I was so resentful of the kids, and especially that spoiled brat Brett Shelton—I wanted to be a physician and it didn’t seem fair that they were going to live my dream. It’s like what Kurt did to me sixteen years ago tainted me, and when Brett killed himself, I felt responsible in more ways than one. I vowed to be kinder to the kids, but it didn’t work—year after year, I kept losing students. Each time it happened, a little part of me died.

Brett—he was the first.
Hung himself with a belt.

Jason.
He jumped off the roof of the hospital.

Alice.
Pills. A bottle of Tylenol. Most people don’t realize how easy it is to kill yourself with something readily available at any drug store.

Olivia.
Pills again. Tranquilizers.

Patrick.
Stabbed himself then threw himself into a river for good measure.

Jared and Mary.
That one nearly destroyed me.

I’ve got to make it stop.
I don’t know why, but I feel like somehow if I can save Rachel, I can stop the curse. I’m an intensely logical person, but I believe this with all my heart.

Rachel
keeps tugging on the leg of my pants and I can tell she’s worried. She wants to come out. That would be incredibly stupid, but it’s very hard to transmit that sentiment to her without giving away to Mason that there’s someone hiding under my desk. It’s a very delicate situation.

I’ve got to save Rachel.
If it’s the last thing I do. And it most likely will be.

Rachel, stay down!

My head is still oozing blood a little when we get back to the dorms, but it’s much better. Heather tries to convince me to go to the ER, but I really don’t want to have to explain this to the emergency room doctors. Anyway, I’m fine. I’ve got a hard head.

I
walk Heather back to her room just because that’s what I always do. She lets me do it, which I take as a good sign. I’d really like to try to hold her hand, but she’ll probably pull away. Too soon. Anyway, my hands are all bloody.

She stops
short at her door.

“Okay,” she says.
“You walked me home. Now go lie down.”

“Can I come in?” I
ask. I’m partially kidding.

“Absolutely not,” Heather says.

“How about tomorrow?”

“No.”

“How about next week?”

Heather
narrows her eyes at me. “We’ll see.”

“Really?”

A small smile touches her lips. “We’ll see.”

She still likes me.
Incredible.

When I
return to my own room, I almost expect the police Patrice threatened to call to be waiting there to arrest me. But there are no cops around. Maybe she never called them. Actually, the apartment is completely empty, which is a relief—I don’t need Mason around asking questions about my head injury. Not that Mason says much to me lately. When is the last time I’ve even seen that guy?

I go
to the bathroom and wash my hands off, then strip down for a shower. The dark red blood runs down my body and disappears into the drain. The scar on my back aches and burns, but the pain is tolerable.

All I can think about in the shower is Heather.
I want her back. I know my brother was with me tonight, and if he’s still around, I can still be a good person. I can still be a good, gentle boyfriend to Heather. But somehow, I need to find a way to deal with those angry impulses I get. I have to figure out a place to channel my anger.

What did Patrice call it?

Oh, right. Sublimation.

Hey, maybe I should be a surgeon
?

After the shower, I put on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt and go back to my
room. Our anatomy final on Monday and I’m way, way behind. Luckily, I did well on the first two exams, so I can afford a grade that isn’t perfect. Good thing, because my head still hurts too much to do any real work. I sit down in front of my computer and check my email.

There’
s only one email waiting for me and it’s from Mason, which seems odd. Mason sometimes texts me, but rarely emails me. I read the content of the message:

“
Abe: If I don’t return tonight, make sure the police know that Dr. Matthew Conlon killed Frank.”

Huh?
What the hell does that mean? Frank, meaning
our cadaver
? What the heck is Mason talking about?

It must be some kind of mistake or joke.

Then I look over at Mason’s desk. It’s a complete mess. I don’t really want to invade Mason’s privacy, but I can’t help but rifle through some of the papers.

Okay, this is really weird.
These pages don’t have anything to do with anatomy or biochem or any of our classes. All these pages contain articles about the Southside students who have committed suicide. And there are random sentences highlighted, notes scribbled in the margins. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s really weird.

I
’m definitely going to have to ask Mason what it is in the morning. I’m way too tired to figure it out right now.

I’m about to
start getting changed for bed and shrug the whole thing off, when I see something that stops me cold.

It’s a
lone bullet lying on the edge of the desk.

I
’ve never seen a real bullet before. Why would I? My dad is a dentist and my mom is a real estate agent and they live in the safest neighborhood in all of Connecticut, where the gun ownership percentage is practically negligible. But I’ve seen enough movies and TV shows with gun violence to know immediately that this is a bullet. I stare at it, a chill going down my spine. That’s when I pick up some of the papers from Mason’s desk and start scanning the notes in the margins, growing more and more disturbed with every word I read.

Oh God.
Mason is really sick.

I
pull on a pair of jeans and hurry downstairs to Heather’s apartment. I bang on the door several times before she opens it, an irritated look on her cute, heart-shaped face.

“
You don’t need to knock it down, Abe. I heard you the first time.”

“Heather, I need a ride to school,” I
say.

“What?” She frowns
at me. “Why?”

“Please, Heather,” I
say. “I… I can’t tell you, but it’s important.”

She looks
at her watch, “It’s really late…”

“Please,” I
beg her.

She sighs and crosses
her arms. “Yeah, okay. But you owe me.”

Actually,
I don’t mind owing Heather.

Okay, yes, I knew Mason had been acting strange lately. But I’d been a little bit preoccupied with my own problems. Mason’s a big boy—I figured he could take care of himself. I admit, I saw Mason a few days ago and noticed he looked… well, awful. But I hadn’t been feeling so hot myself either.

But
forget all that. Mason has completely lost his mind and I’m convinced something terrible is going to happen tonight if I don’t try to stop it. I don’t know what Mason is going to do, but I’m fairly sure he has a gun and thinks Dr. Conlon is responsible for some sort of giant murder conspiracy. Not a good combination.

Heather asks me what’s going on as we drive to the school.
I can’t tell her the truth—at least, not the whole truth. Instead, I give her some jumbled story about how Mason is pissed off at Dr. Conlon and I’m worried he might trash his office. I don’t know if it makes a lot of sense, considering I still have a concussion. But she seems to accept it.

Heather
pulls into the parking lot and unbuckles her seatbelt. I look into her face, and remember the first time I saw her, when I knew this was the woman I wanted to spend my life with. If anything were to happen to her, I don’t think I could deal with that. I make a decision.

“Heather, I want you to stay in the car.”

“What?”

“I want you to stay in the car,” I
repeat. “And if I don’t come back out or call you in fifteen minutes, I want you to call the police.”

Heather’s eyes widen
. “Abe, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No, of course not,” I lie.

“Maybe we should call the police now,” she says.

She’s probably right.
But if the police catch Mason wandering around the hospital with a loaded gun, I’m afraid he’ll get kicked out of school. I don’t want to wreck his life.

“It’ll be fine,” I assure her.
“Come on, I could take down Mason no problem. Right?”

“Yes,” she agrees,
only because she doesn’t know about the gun.

For a moment, I’m almost hoping she’ll
try to talk me out of this. But instead, she reaches over and squeezes my hand.

“Okay,” she says i
n a small voice. Then she adds, “Please be careful.”

I
get out of the car and walk toward the entrance. I glance back at the car and see that Heather is watching me. I hope I’m overreacting. But there
is
an unbalanced person walking around the hospital who might have a loaded weapon. You can’t be too careful.

The hallways seem
very deserted at night—every footstep sounds like thunder on the floor. Only half the overhead lights are lit and several hallways aren’t lit at all. I hate being here so late and I want to get out as soon as possible. I decide to check Dr. Conlon’s office to satisfy my fears.

I’m on my way to the office when I
pass by the anatomy lab—I can see through the window in the door that the lights are still on in there. That’s no surprise since our exam is in only two days and I’d assume there are at least a few students squeezing in some last minute studying.

I’m about to move on when I
hear a familiar voice from inside the lab: “Do exactly as I say if you don’t want to die.”

I
stop in my tracks. I quietly move towards the door and peer through the window. What I see is a realization of my worst fears:

Mason is pointi
ng a gun straight at one of our classmates, Lauren Chou.

Holy shit, what do I do?
I should have listened to Heather and called the police right away. If I call now or even find a security guard, how long will it take for them to get here? Lauren could be dead by then.

I know what I’ve got to do.

I take a deep breath and crouch down on the floor. As quietly as possible, I punch in the code that opens the door to the lab, and slowly turn the doorknob to enter the room. The fans in the lab are very loud and I pray I can sneak in unnoticed and that I don’t knock down something on the way inside, giving away my position. I wish I weren’t such a clumsy oaf.

I hold my breath as I slide inside the room.
I don’t look up or even breathe again until I close the door quietly behind me. To my relief, Mason is still pointing the gun at Lauren, and he has no idea I’m here. I’m not sure if Lauren sees me, but she isn’t giving anything away.

Next to the door
are some metal shelves containing, among other things, unused dissection kits. I figure that if I can get a scalpel out of one of the kits, I can sneak up behind Mason with it. I’m not sure if this plan had any chance of succeeding, but when I hear a click as Mason cocks the pistol, I know I’ve got to try.

“What do you want?” I
hear Lauren whimper. She’s crying.

I
pause, my hand on a dissection kit, waiting for Mason’s answer. “I need you to help me get rid of something… someone…”

Holy shit
. What does
that
mean? Am I too late?

My
hand quivers and I watch in horror as the dissection kit goes tumbling to the floor, almost in slow-motion. The contents of the kit spills out onto the floor as Mason whirls around to see what made the noise. As I stand up, I quickly slip a scalpel into my shirt sleeve, being careful not to slice myself.

“
Abe?” Mason blinks in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Mason
, what you are you
doing
?” I hiss, taking a step towards them.

Mason still has
the gun trained on Lauren.

“Her,”
he says. “She heard the gunshot. I have to get rid of her.”

His words cause
Lauren’s sobs to escalate. She buries her face in her hands, swaying as if she might faint.

“Shut-up!”
Mason screams at her.

Please stop crying, Lauren.
You’re just making things worse.

“Mason
, you need to put down that gun,” I say quietly, although I get this sick feeling that it’s already too late. “Seriously, put down the gun and we’ll figure this out.”

Mason just stares
at me. Wow, he looks
really
bad, like he’s been sleeping in the gutter or something. How did this all happen right under my nose?

“You trust me, don’t you, Mason
?” I say. I very slowly move towards him, careful not to make any sudden moves.

“I… I guess so…”

“You need to put down that gun,” I repeat.

Mason’s shoulders relax
and his hand lowers as I continue to move closer. Thank God, it’s working—Mason is calming down.

At that mo
ment, the door to the lab opens and Mason turns his head in the direction of the sound. I see Mason taken off-guard, suddenly vulnerable, and I feel the weight of the scalpel hidden in my fist. And that’s when something overpowering awakens inside me. I lunge forward and before Mason can react, I dig the blade of my hidden scalpel into my roommate’s abdomen.

Hulk stab.

Mason doubles over then collapses onto the floor as the gun slides from his hand. The hand clutching his belly is wet with blood as Mason chokes and sputters. Man, that felt
good
. I snatch the gun from the floor and train it on Mason’s head.

“
Abe… what the hell?” Mason manages as he stares up at me. “Are… are you in on it too?”

I
don’t reply, although I’m not sure what I could have said. I tighten my grip on the gun, even though I’ve never fired one in my life, and in all honestly, I have no idea how. Although actually, I’d sort of like to learn. I wonder if there’s a shooting range around here.

Wendy Adams, another
first year student who was the one to open the door, screams when she spots Mason lying on the floor in a growing pool of blood.

“What happened?” she shrieks
.

Lauren wipes her eyes and shakily comes
out from behind the table that contains her cadaver.

“Mason attacked me,” she says
. She looks at me, “And Abe saved my life.”

Mason is still conscious but very pale
and not really moving—his breathing is labored. I hear rapid footsteps and shouting outside and guess that someone called for the security guards. Wendy runs out of the lab and now only Lauren is at my side. Lauren seems strangely calm now that the threat is gone.

“
Mason put the gun down,” she says quietly. “You didn’t need to stab him.”

“Maybe,” I
say. “Maybe not.”

“You really think so?”

It strikes me as an odd thing for her to say after I just saved her life. It’s like she knows what I was thinking. A month ago, I never could have buried that scalpel in my roommate’s belly, not in a million years. But now the compulsion to use that scalpel once it was in my hand had somehow overwhelmed me and I had to give in. The same way I felt when I attacked Patrice earlier that evening. Stabbing Mason filled me with a powerfully addictive rush of adrenaline. It’s scary, but only if I can’t control it.

“I saved your life, Lauren,” I point out to her.

“Yes, you did,” she concedes. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I won’t tell a soul, Abe.”

“Thank you,” I say.