13. I Think I Smell A Rat
THIRTEEN
I THINK I SMELL A RAT
MILA
Immediately, I regret giving Demetri a headstart, counting to seventy-three before I lose track and realize I’m on a made-up number. My head isn’t great; I’m still scatterbrained and struggling to keep my thoughts together.
By the time I scurry past the nurse’s station, Demetri’s already gotten to her. Jean lays on the floor, her head turned unnaturally.
“Should we pray, Jean?” I mock their constant prayer-pushing, as if it’s somehow equivalent to medicine.
Patting through her pockets, I rummage for the keys. My eyes catch on Dr. Valerian’s office door already slightly ajar, the keys hanging from the lock.
It is so like Demetri to be this thoughtful.
And I’m glad, because there are about twenty of those bitches attached to the loop, and it would have taken me a decade to get through them.
Once I’m inside, it feels like time has frozen, like I’m readying myself for another one of his cross-examinations where, in an attempt to make me feel normal, he succeeds in making me more sad about myself.
There’s nothing special about Dr. Valerian’s office.
I realize now he keeps it this way for a reason.
This isn’t a passion; this isn’t a place where he feels fulfilled.
This place isn’t meant to make us better, cure or heal us. We are where mind and spirit get devoured.
Where souls go to be consumed.
So, he keeps as little of himself here as possible, lest the cattle know their butcher.
I’m frantically pulling open drawers, rummaging through the filing cabinets and digging through his things, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
My head aches when I try to regain clarity, my gaze drifting to the top of his desk, where two manila folders are spread open.
There’s a smaller key hanging from an open drawer, other folders labeled I, J, K, and L tossed on the floor.
It means Demetri has already seen everything.
The level of his rampage will be determined by what’s written on these documents.
I sit, flipping through the papers inside the first manila folder, hunching over the desk like a madwoman. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, but I’m certain it’s my right to know.
There are some notes on my behavior, my so-called delirium, how I’m unstable and depressed.
There’s nothing about procedures or electroconvulsive therapy.
Nothing about the secret medications he’s been giving me in his office.
Nothing about the antipsychotics he’s prescribed during the day.
Nothing about the antidepressants or the night time sleeping pills.
There is nothing in these notes about my progress, my healing, or my mental health.
There are emails printed in my folder, a back and forth with someone named the Organ Farmer, with requests for updates and possible timeframes.
Patient will soon be ready for harvesting, once we’ve tested how far we can push the interactions of the SSRIs along with the ECT treatment. Check back early next week.
There’s a document right below it that looks official as fuck.
In big print, the words CAUSE OF DEATH and CERTIFICATION stick out first. It’s me, all my information—my birthdate, my social security number, and even a copy of my driver’s license is scanned into this fucking thing.
There’s a date for November 8th for my passing, and cause of death listed as pneumonia.
My knees go weak, my mouth numb as bile pushes its way up my throat. I grab the bottom folder, the one with Harkins’ name on it. I open it to find a single piece of documentation that reads: Dead on Arrival: Patient committed suicide, staff unable to stop the bleeding. Time of death: 22:11.
“No, no, that ca—” I can’t get the words out. I’m pulled back by hands covering my mouth and nose with a cloth.
“Let’s see if we can’t get you to cool down a bit so we can save what’s left of you. What do you say, Miss Machado?” Dr. Valerian’s voice is hushed and low in my ear.
I can’t respond. The strong smell invades my senses, and I feel the sharp prick of a needle in my arm.
My body becomes weighty, and my head goes light.
Darkness.
I hate the ocean.
I don’t like lakes.
I’m not a fan of rivers, and beaches give me a rash.
Maybe it’s the depth I fear. Maybe it’s the unknown. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t like being wet. Bodies of water aren’t my jam. Even in my dreams, I stay away from those motherfuckers. So, when I find myself gasping for air, pulled under by a heavy current, the fog lifts, and my eyes open.
The cold doesn’t fade, the wetness dragging me down deeper.
I thrash, but I can’t move, water rushing into my nostrils and filling my lungs.
A burning tears at my scalp, and I’m pulled upwards.
I gasp, oxygen stabbing into me, finding space where there wasn’t before and expanding.
I cough and choke, but before I can get a full breath in, I’m dunked under water again.
When I come up, it’s Naya’s hands that clutch my hair, it’s her smile on the doctor’s face, and it’s her rage that pushes me under. She throws her head back, laughing like a villain with swallow of water I choke on.
The cold permeates deep into my muscles, injecting itself into my bones where it makes permanent residence, changing the very essence of who I am.
I swallow down another mouthful of water and air all at once, unable to free myself from the sensation.
Another forceful pull lifts me by the roots of my hair, just enough to bring my head above the surface, where fresh oxygen violently attempts to clear any obstructions from my airway.
The cycle repeats until I forget I’m real, that my body holds a physical form, that I’m not just these thoughts bouncing inside my skull. The cold becomes a part of me, numbing every inch of my body, confusing pain and heat and frost all for the same sensation.
My lungs burn.
My heart freezes.
My thoughts disintegrate.
Until nothing is left of me.