Chapter 39 Damon
Damon
I survey the bathroom one more time to ensure everything is in place.
It’s the same set-up as before, the same two people involved.
We might be together in a confined space, but we are miles apart.
Melissa and I are separated by tension and have barely spoken since she turned up at the flat earlier carrying the same two vials of liquid, tube and drill-shaped device as before.
Last time, I didn’t ask what they are for but this time, I do.
‘Intraosseous drill,’ she explains, her voice devoid of emotion. ‘It’s used to administer fluids and meds when intravenous methods don’t work. It’s faster than an IV. So if I can’t resuscitate you, I’ll drill in the head of your humerus or the tibia and inject you with adrenaline.’
She revs the device and I flinch. She’s either testing my nerve or that it works. Probably both.
‘Will it hurt?’
‘You won’t know. You’ll be dead.’
Melissa refuses to look me in the eye. She hates me for the threat I made earlier this week.
And I know it was unforgiveable. But I would never have followed through with it.
I don’t know why I don’t admit this to her now.
Perhaps I’m afraid that, if I do, she’ll walk out.
Instead, my words hang over us like the darkest of clouds.
I overcompensate by making small talk and reminding her of that scene in Pulp Fiction when Vincent Vega jabs Mia Wallace in the heart with a shot of adrenaline.
Melissa isn’t having any of my chat and tells me I watch too many films. I doubt we’ll be rekindling our Friday movie nights anytime soon.
Compared to her, I feel a little underprepared, as all I have with me are a bath towel to stop the floor from getting too wet and some plastic ankle and wrist restraints to prevent me from thrashing around and hurting her.
‘Your next appointment at the fertility clinic is tomorrow at five p.m.,’ she says. ‘Don’t be late.’
I make a mental note to set an alarm on my phone and tablet. Then I suddenly launch into a coughing fit and spit what I hack up into a tissue. As before, there’s blood in my phlegm. I don’t mention it to Melissa.
Besides the animosity, there’s another difference between now and the last time we did this.
Melissa hasn’t once asked if I’ve changed my mind.
Neither by text nor in person. It reminds me of the last days of our marriage, before she told me it was over, when I wondered if she’d stopped caring.
Or is she now in full paramedic mode, and I am simply another of her patients?
With everything prepared and no sign of further conversation, I take a deep breath and clear my throat.
‘Right then, are we ready?’ I ask.
‘Not yet,’ she says and pulls out her phone. She taps the screen and hands it to me. ‘Record a statement of intent,’ she says.
‘A what?’
‘Video yourself setting out, for the record, what you are about to do, what you hope to achieve and why you’re doing it.
That this is your idea and it’s entirely voluntary.
And that you don’t hold me responsible in any way.
Because if you stay dead, then I am royally fucked.
I’ll lose Adrienne, my freedom, my job and my house.
My whole life as I know it will be gone because of you. ’
If she wants to pile on the guilt, it’s working. I feel terrible for putting her through this. But not terrible enough to call it off.
‘At least this way,’ she continues, ‘if you die and I have a recorded confession, a court might go a little easier on me.’
I don’t argue. I take her phone, press record and, with much stuttering and stumbling, I explain exactly what is about to happen. I end with a smile, and Melissa saves the video.
Then, without further discussion, she binds my wrists and ankles together and drowns me.