Chapter 3 #3
Thankfully there’s no one else in the bathroom stall. I don’t want people thinking I’m some crazy psychopath who talks to herself about a murder that hasn’t even happened yet. That would be so embarrassing.
I rummage through my bag, pushing aside my scrubs and scalpel to reach my strawberry lip gloss stashed deep at the bottom.
Squaring my shoulders, I apply a fresh coat and exit the bathroom.
Walking back across the club, I convince Jackson to stay for fifteen more minutes, just to ensure he drinks more.
After about an hour or so, Cami hands me my coat and I grab the rest of my belongings and settle the tab — it’s the least I can do given what’s about to happen to him soon — and offer to walk him back to his apartment.
“You’re so pretty,” he says as we exit the club, walking together toward the intersection.
I press the walk button to stop the traffic. “I’m already going home with you, there’s no need to fluff my ego.”
The night is clear, clusters of stars decorating the sky and a full moon illuminating the rows of Brownstones. We keep walking and Jameson leans on me, blabbering something about my hair or my eyes, his whiskey breath falling flat against my shoulder.
Ten minutes later, we enter his apartment. I tell him I need to pee.
“Sure …” he slurs. “It’s uh … the bathroom’s that way, to the left …”
“Thanks.” I push the bathroom door open with my hip, careful not to touch anything, turn on the light switch, and…oh my God.
Bright green wallpaper. Doilies and potpourri bowls, flowers stenciled around the mirror, pink cherub-shaped soaps in a basket — wow. Did a Martha Stewart ad throw up in here?
Shaking my head, I pull out the blue nitrile gloves from my bag and slip them on, stretching my fingers, enjoying the way the material feels around my skin.
Taking a second to admire my wig in the mirror above the sink, I call out to him.
“Yeah?” he shouts back.
“Um, can you please help me with my top? I spilled something on it, and I need to take it off.”
Any normal person would probably question why I’m trying to take off my top in their bathroom in the first place. But not this guy. This guy’s way too drunk and way too eager.
And lucky for me, it’s about to cost him his life.
He hurries to open the door and the second he does; I slam my elbow into his face. He falls to the floor, crying out in agony, while clutching his nose.
“Hands on your head. Get in the bathtub.”
“Wh-what?” he sobs as I approach, watching me with wide, terrified eyes. “What the fuck!”
I take out my scalpel and hold the shiny blade up, right next to his face.
He looks confused for a second. “What the fuck, you fucking bitch!”
He tries reaching for my scalpel and I simply sidestep, dropping the blade into my right hand as I strike him hard across the face with my left. A cry of pain rips from his lips.
“Was that motivation enough or would you like me to repeat myself?” I ask politely.
“Please!” He squeezes his eyes shut, like a pathetic child thinking he’s invisible.
“Open your eyes,” I say.
He doesn’t.
His silence gets on my nerves. I grab his hair and yank his head back. “Open your fucking eyes or else I will cut your eyelids off your pathetic face and make you eat them.”
He shakes in fear, his body trembling and eyes fluttering open. “Please! Wh-what’s happening…who…who are you?”
Ugh. How original. “If I tell you my name, there’s no way you’re walking out of here with a pulse.”
“What?” he asks in a tiny whimper.
Is that the only word in his vocabulary? I twirl my scalpel between my fingers and his eyes widen with horror. “It’s Holly. Holly Moore. What’s your name?”
“Help!” he screams. “Help! Somebody!”
“Not to sound like a total cliche, but there’s no one around to hear you.” I’m actually not very sure about that part, but I’ve always wanted to say it like how they do in the movies.
“Help!”
“Stop it.”
“Help! Please! Somebody, help!”
“I said stop screaming.”
He doesn’t. He keeps calling for help and the shrill sound pierces through my skull, making my head throb. If he keeps this up, I’m going to cut the bastard’s tongue into tiny pieces and feed them to the stray cats outside.
I place the scalpel on the bathroom floor and once again slap him across the face. Hard. “What part of stop screaming do you not understand?!”
Tears feverishly pour down Johnny’s cheeks and he begs, whimpering. Something incoherent. Save me, help me, no, stop. All that usual bullshit.
“Hands on your head. Get in the fucking bathtub.”
“P-please…Please don’t hurt me …”
“Why are you crying? I haven’t even done anything yet.”
More tears. He tries to stand up. “Please…” he says again.
“You don’t have to beg. Not for this,” I say, instantly noticing the way his gaze shifts. He’s looking for the opportunity to hit me back. I see it happening before he launches himself at me, screaming as he tries to tackle me to the floor.
I barely intercept his fist and twist his arm behind his back, “You want to fight, is it?” I twist his arm higher, drawing a lamenting squeal out of his mouth.
“Okay, we can fight. But you will get hurt, and then I will get bored. And trust me, you’re not going to like me when I’m bored.
” I drive my knee into his shin and force him to the ground.
I read it once somewhere that the best kind of victim is one who’s easy to physically control and won’t be missed.
I’m not sure about the latter (quite frankly, I don’t care), but the tons and tons of drinks he’s ingested tonight makes the former pretty fucking easy to do.
It’s like my sister always used to say when we had just moved to the city together: “You don’t need running shoes to run, but they help.
” Sure, she used to say it to justify taking a shot of tequila before a first date and I use it to justify getting men drunk so that it’s easier for me to kill them, but whatever. The sentiment still holds.
“Stop! Please!” the man cries, his cheek pressed against the bathroom tiles. “Take whatever you want! I-I have money. My wallet…it’s in my back pocket…”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I…I have a son.”
“Don’t want him either.” Geez, who the fuck was stupid enough to procreate with this waste of space? “All right, so tell me, James. Care to explain why you slipped something into that girl’s drink tonight? Aside from the fact you clearly lack basic human decency.”
The guy stiffens under my grip. “W-what? I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tries to squirm away, so I kick his shin. Hard.
“Answer me!”
“I wasn't!” he insists as more tears flow down his cheeks. “I swear, I wasn't trying to drug her! It was just a mild…a mild s-sedative…harmless.”
I can't help but snort at his pathetic attempt to downplay the situation. I mean, honestly, his stupidity is truly astounding. Especially in the face of danger. I force him to his feet. “Get in the bathtub.”
“Wh-what?”
“I said, get. In the fucking bathtub.” I pick up my scalpel and hold it against his face. The cold edge of the blade grazes his cheek.
Tears trickle down his face. His lower lip quivers as he says, “Are…are you going to kill me?”
I nod. “But first I’m going to ride you really hard.”
His eyes widen in shock.
I laugh. Sharp and jarring, cutting through the oppressive silence. Jamie’s shoulders flinch at the sound. “Sorry,” I manage, though I’m sure my tone gives it away that I’m not. “It’s just that, look at you. I’m obviously joking! I don’t fuck ugly men.”
He doesn’t even respond. Doesn’t even try. The crying takes over. Loud and desperate. “Please! I have a wife!”
Wife. The image of him hitting on the uninterested woman from the bar replays in my mind. His hand all over another woman’s thigh. His unwillingness to stop even though she asked him to. His sinister grin and his crooked teeth. I wonder what his wife would say if she knew about it.
I smile. “She’ll get over it.” Then I grab him by the hair and start dragging him toward the bathtub myself.
He screams out a few more pained expletives, calling me all sorts of names, trying to squirm away, but somehow, I manage to push his entire upper body over the tub’s edge, and ram his head against the shower knob. Silence. Much better.
Shoving his limp legs inside the tub, I ensure that he’s lying on his back and then turn on the water.
We get a lot of these cases in the ER. Attempted suicides.
The movies show people slashing their veins while seated in a bathtub and gulping a fistful of sleeping pills after which they die. In real life? It’s not that easy.
Veins have low pressure and tend to seal off by themselves, so these people end up waking up hours later in a lukewarm bath of bloody water looking like complete idiots.
Sometimes the body is resilient, sometimes it’s fragile.
The pain also seems to vary from person to person, depending on how the cut is made.
People who do it wrong usually feel the pain much later, after the crisis has passed.
Usually, the method doesn’t work, but I guess when you really mean it, anything is possible.
There’s this one case I remember in particular.
I was just an intern back then. Someone had cut across their wrists, but very deep in an attempt to reach the arteries.
They didn’t die but instead severed a bunch of important nerves.
That person now has a claw for a hand for the rest of their life. Total nightmare.
Moral of the story? Always seek professional help.