September 21
Hello, old friend. Why journal? When it was, supposedly, a time suck? Just a few minutes a day can’t hurt. Right? Clear out cobwebs, rinse away doubts, tackle nagging questions…Like, what if medicine was a mistake? And I married into a myopic fraternity? And…is it too late?
Blasphemy!
I know. I know. Red Ed wouldn’t approve of this (introspection?). “A brain dead end,” he’d snarl. Well, that old fart can roll over in his urn; I can’t help myself. When the muse sings, you can’t cover your ears. Pen to paper, I press on.
September 22
Must clarify: the Muse doesn’t actually sing to me – I’m not a schizo! She is real. Flesh and bone. Bona fide and beautiful.
Her name? Veronica Hawthorne, MD, pathology. She is, according to Carl, our new P.I., though she’s much, much more than that; she’s a spectacle. A sun beam for this dungeon.
How do I describe her? Well, she doesn’t merely walk in beauty; she glides through it, her white coat billowing like a sail. Waves of undulating blonde hair. Shimmering eyes, a pair of kaleidoscopic gemstones. Amethysts one minute. Emeralds another. She is the goddess, and I can’t do her justice.
Piff. You, self-loathing sack!
Can you blame me? I’m a student of medicine (not of fine arts), resigned to this lowly rotation. Slice and stain. Slice and stain. Slice and stain and…fantasize.
September 23
She noticed me! She even spoke to me! I’m at loss...for words and…thoughts.
Let’s rewind. I was slaving away at my bench, cleaning Crusty Carl’s biopsy cassettes, when I (sensed?) her. Chills. Tingling. Suddenly, a scent. Like (augmented?) roses. Fascinating pheromones. Cleaves through paraffin. So potent, I lost focus and dissolved into a daze: her white coat transformed into a toga; my hand replaced her stethoscope; my mouth burrowed into her sweeping neckline, the perfume burning my…
With a sharp giggle, she reeled me back to reality. A favor was requested. Something about a pet peeve. Say no more, goddess. I dropped my slides, flew to processing, and snatched the cross off the wall.
Oh, the looks of horror from the techs! Bent necks and widened eyes. Like a (congress?) of owls. All warranted; just who removes a cross from Saint Andrews?? Well, this heretic was undeterred. I collected every cross, crucifix, and rosary in a Hefty bag and stashed these with the Christmas decorations. Never - not once! – did I give it a second thought. Why should I? Doctor’s orders! ho ho
September 24
She’s taken.
Coulda’ told ya that!
I was so naive…
September 25
Drake Stryker, MD. Cardiology fellow. A syrupy name that rolls off the tongue like hot fudge. Dashing Drake!
I discovered him in the cafeteria, with Veronica. Two crows, necking and pecking one another in the shadows. She was stroking his thigh! Oh, how the beautiful can be so bold…
I’ll concede: he’s a handsome mate. Glossy goatee. Ralph Lauren attire. Jaw that could snap steel beams like toothpicks. Don’t get me started on his eyes. Volcanic craters, steamy and simmering.
Such a sad demeanor, however. Brooding and stoic. Curious. Is he always like this, Veronica? Or is it just a bad day? Patient’s pain too burdensome? Or is it something else…
October 1
Well, well…she needs me after all. Well, not exactly; he needs me. Her blackbird.
I know what you’re thinking: I should’ve refused. Spurned her and stamped back to my bench, to my slides (and my pride.) But I didn’t – I couldn’t! It’s indefensible. Try all you want, you can’t hate your idols. So, like a beta-cuck, I inquired into his condition. Diagnosis unknown. Treatment: infusions, i.e., bags of blood.
oh
Before discussing the prognosis, those clouds creeped in. I became dazed, insensibly offering my services. Anything, Veronica! Consider it done.
October 2
Do you hear that? That’s me, patting myself on the back – take notes, Ed!
All it took was a covert trip to the blood bank. Swipe the badge, stash a couple bags, then the hand off. Like slinging smarties. A Type O drug deal ha ha.
Where’s my reward, you ask? My doggy treat? See Veronica’s serrated smile. An orchid, her abstruse beauty unfolds before me…
I am hers. Forever.
October 3
The blood was no good.
YOU LIMP-DICKED DUMP OF DONKY SHIT!
Drake, Veronica clarified, has a very rare condition. A case study for the ages. His body requires pure plasma? No preservatives, saline, adenine, etc.? And now time is running out??
A grim prognosis. Although if she was on the verge of tears there was no flash flood warning. Unblinking, she just stared at me, an agonizing silence broiling between us.
APOLOGIZE, NUMB NUTS!
She apologized! For involving me (go figure?). She apologized then - like all the others - fled.
P.S.: Later on, I again found myself in a fugue state. I was wandering the morgue, searching for an (empty?) cold drawer. Could I, I thought, just crawl inside? Just for a couple hours? To hide my ugly mug?
October 4
My boss is my passport. My path to redemption. Carl is the key.
Oh, don’t give me that look! Look at him! Sweaty J Crews. Crooked, black teeth. Smells like a dead possum soaked in sour milk. If that possum whined like a clogged garbage disposal. No family. No friends. Nobody will miss him. Not even Saint Andrews – the latest analyzer can detect cancer faster than those foggy eyes. No doubt about it: he’s the one.
Veronica agrees, she had me pitch it to Drake in the break room. My god, does he look worse up close. Anemic. Aged beyond his (35?) years (e.g., sunken eye sockets, turkey neck, etc.). He ought to be admitted. Never blinked. Never interjected - I was barking at a crater-less moon! He just stared into his tea, his nose teetering on his sagging face, before finally asking for my price.
What’s this, I thought? A bounty? Flabbergasted, my eyes darted to Veronica. Wasn’t it obvious??
Yesterday’s price would’ve been an Alienware, a trip to Tulum, a Brigham residency. But now these things seem trite - for God’s sake, I’m about to break the Hippocratic oath! Who I was before this rotation is moot. Hobbies, trips, dreams…evaporated. Everything’s inconsequential compared to what they can offer. I must join them. Today’s price: immortality.
I was on the cusp of saying as much when that damn fog returned. Lost, I started rambling, dusty memories pouring out as if my hippocampus had sprung a leak. I was a kid again, dreaming about becoming…a writer? Yes, a great writer! Some generational sage. Cringey, but true. I even reeled off titles from that pewter bookcase. Those classics. Homer to Hemmingway. Plato to Poe. But then I was led astray: the bonfire; Red Ed and his ax; the devilish smile, awash in flame; the pyre of pages…
Whiplashed, I slammed the brakes and skidded to safety, out of the fog. Batting my damp eyes, I ducked into my cave, my trembling palms. I was about to apologize, to drop the whole charade, and walk when a hand seized me. Reaching for my neck, I found Drake’s fingers clawing into my shoulder and fell under his mystifying gaze. Here, the earth tremored. Thunderclaps pounded my eardrums. I watched rivers of molten lava spill seamlessly into sea foam. I was terrified. I was mesmerized. It was dangerous, yet wholly hypnotic. Petrified, I couldn’t break away from his swirling stare - why would I?
We then sealed our pact: he would turn me.
October 5
Sabotaging a lab is child’s play. The path from processing to diagnosis is pocked with potholes, tree branches, dead squirrels, etc. Busted analyzers. Lost specimens. Expired chemicals. We say that science is a puzzle; so, what happens when a few pieces go missing?
Suffice to say, Crusty Carl wasn’t pleased - he had another date with his Captain. Instead, the yellow-eyed bear was stuck at lab. Stuck with me and my fabricated backlog. After choking out a limp apology, I got to re-slicing the samples. Re-embedding. Re-staining. Buying time.
Unfortunately for Carl, he could only twirl his thumbs. He’d pace the lab, stopping occasionally to admire the centrifuges – if only the clock could spin that fast! “Hurry up!” he’d then grunt. “Where is?!” Yet I stood defiant. Carl might be my boss, but he is not my master.
Only after the one-armed janitor turned off his waxer, did I finally surrender my magenta slides. Without a word, Carl hauled these away like a deer carcass. Jittering like a juvenile prankster, I grabbed my Northeastern hoodie and texted Veronica: “Host ready.”
October 6
Imagine my shit-eating face – the stomach-wrenching indignation! – when I saw Carl, very much alive, stumble into lab this morning. Two hours late, he carried a large Dunkin iced coffee along with the stench of cheap rum. The swashbuckling M.D. locked the door and extracted an IV bag from his raincoat. He plopped this before me as if it were a dead fish and rolled up his coat sleeve. “Find a vein.”
October 7
“Host no good. Drake unwell. ttyl.”
All day, I have stared at these six cryptic words. If it’s healthy blood that he needs, I offer my own - anything to mask this black mark! Just say the word, Veronica. Dead or alive, I am yours.
October 8
Of course, they don’t need my blood!
Why would they, Baby Dick?!
For them, a hospital is a bipedal dealership. The ED welds together clunkers as new models hit the L&D lot every day. Need new parts? Visit the OR. Inspection? Go to GI.
But even with scrubs and stethoscopes, one can’t just take a life. Too risky. For starters, there are eyes everywhere. RNs. Cameras. Then there are alarms (sensor pads, pulse oximeters, etc.) A nasty cough can trigger a call light. Blood, blood everywhere and not a drop, etc., etc.
And yet there lies a subversive solution to our puzzle; all we need, Veronica says, is a pulse.
October 9
No, I didn’t memorize his name - I refused. In any case, only his chart matters: 75 years of age; admitted with “shortness of breath;” problem list includes dementia. The key ingredient: a healthy heart. 130 over 85. Check.
Veronica agrees: he’s a viable candidate. I have done well. My orchid is in bloom.
October 10
The deed is done.
Ducking the step-down nurse? Easy peasy. Swap out the pulse oximeter? No problemo. But the waiting? That nearly did me in. Parked on wobbly stool, the addies had me humming like a jet engine. I picked my nails, gnawed my lips, etc. Bored, horny, and anxious, I steadied my nerves by counting the central line. Drip. Drip. Drip.
After a nauseating hour, the door (finally!) creaked open. It was her, Veronica, and…a wheelchair? Who was this old toad? A different host? Had I failed them again?!
Pressing a finger to her pursed lips, Veronica closed the door and wheeled the toad into the blue moonlight, unveiling those hollow eyes. Like iron brackets awaiting a torch. It was Drake! Only he was a husk. Had it been five days or five decades? His thin, corpse white hair was yanked back in a wiry knot, unfurling a patch of encrusted liver spots. Panting, his ungainly form trembled to his labored breath, as if in sync. Drawing closer, he fluttered his long, curly fingernails wildly. He could smell warm blood!
If I looked shocked, Veronica ignored it; she had a job to do. Gingerly, she lifted Drake from the wheelchair, propping him beside the host. Less a doctor, still less a caretaker, she performed the demonic rite like a priest. Solemn, sober, and serious with every ritual. But despite my Catholic upbringing, it was the most natural union. I gleefully watched the yellow fangs pierce my host’s throat. A match was struck, igniting Drake’s cold eyes into glowing embers. He heaved and convulsed in a mad fit, but where humans might balk he pressed on, sucking and slurping until the host was a deflated balloon, expired. My patient, his panacea. Lord giveth this living on to the undead.
Having quenched his grisly fill, he climbed atop the corpse, young and triumphant. Senescence unwound. Decades rewound. Dashing Drake was back! With a bloodstained smirk, he snickered hollowly. His euphoria overflowing, a deafening howl might’ve erupted had Veronica not intervened - she too, I’ll note, was unhinged. She sniffed the deity like a rabid Doberman. With her serpentine tongue, she licked his face, his throat, and had started on his fingertips before he dismissed her with a tired flick of the wrist; it was her turn to feed.
By then, those (cozy?) clouds had enveloped me, and my night became a voyeuristic blur. I vaguely recall my superhuman accomplices feasting and fucking until dawn. Feast and fuck. Feast and fuck. Like two Greek statues (reanimated?), marble perspiring from blood lust. It was magical. Although enamored, I never wavered; as the warm-blooded decoy, I played my role to perfection. So, while I gag on envy today, I rest knowing that my turn is next.
October 11
They’re gone. Vanished. Poof!
Veronica deserted her desk. Drake missed rounds. My texts are unanswered. Calls go dead.
Can’t help but wonder, was this always part of their plan??
October 12
No need to panic. They’re just laying low. Like bats in a cave. Or milk snakes. I read once that these will rest days between meals. They must be “lizard-ing” haha. But soon, they’ll re-emerge from the shadows. To make contact. To feast again. This time with me!
October 13
At last, a sign! Perched atop my papers: a blue rose!
Today beats any Christmas morning! A thorn pricked me, and I could shrug it off - mortal pain is moot. Thumb throbbing, I listlessly watched the blood ooze down the stem like sand in an hourglass.
Soon, very soon, nothing will hurt me. Never again.
October 14
No update.
October 15
See previous entry.
October 16
RUMOR MILL: Malpractice in step down? Wrongful death? An investigation???
You did it now…
Not so fast. Think. What would Veronica advise? Then again, don’t need to look far: her rose speaks to me:
Be calm.
Be invisible.
Be like us.
Humbly, I listen.
October 17
No word. Just continue to work like robot. Slice and stain. Slice and stain. Slice and stain and…STRESS!
October 18
Last night…a strange dream: an insectile stalker; six (eight?) arachnoid eyes stalking me, tracing every step, every move; I set my slides aside, and it slinks away.
Not a nightmare - I wasn’t scared. Just weird feeling. Numb. Abandoned. As if someone sealed off a draft.
Then I awoke, alone.
October 19
BREAKING: There will be an investigation. Carl dropped hammer today. Supposedly, he wanted it to come from him first, though we both know that he’s angling for my confession. He didn’t beat around bush: was it me? Did I go into room that night?
BAH! I denied everything. Or at least I tried to-
YOU TRAITOR!!!
Attempts were made! But they have evidence. Damning footage! Carl confirmed with the risk officer. They place me at the scene of the crime!!!
So, yes, I panicked. I dug my trench of lies: the backlog, an overnight shift, a cat nap, etc., etc. It was, I laughed nervous-like, too late to go home. Just borrow bed. So silly! hahaha Right?!
pathetic.
Carl didn’t bite. He removed his glasses and wiped his mushy brow. There were other rooms, he countered. Empty beds, etc. But by then I was spent. A pale-faced, stammering idiot, I grew defensive and demanded to know what else was on tape.
He just shrugged. Nothing. Nobody was there.
October 20
Fired. Mandatory leave. Insert phony baloney, HR, PC, crock-of-shit term. Point being: I’m banished from St. A’s.
And good riddance! I tossed reports, succulents, etc. in dumpster and stormed out. I take only my rose. Now, it’s my turn to lay low he he. To fade away. To disappear (for good?).
October 21
Tonight. It will happen tonight. How? Why? Just have feeling. A prickly premonition. Tonight, they come for me.
October 22
CORRECTION: Tonight, is the night. October 22, I leave this form.
They would’ve come sooner but, like a dummy, I forgot to leave window open. How else should they receive invitation?! HAHAHAHA
October 23
Today, they took me. The detectives, that is. For questioning, supposedly. No charges, not yet. Anyways, must try and relax. No reason to panic. Why else would they let me go, right??
…
Don’t worry, I kept story straight. Consistent. They released me, Veronica. They released me back to you!
October 24
Was that you last night? Tapping on the windowpane? Did you break my tree branch? It’s awfully cold outside…come inside? Please?
October 25
My rose has wilted. I request another. Or a message. A sign. Anything?
October 26
???
October 27
ARRRGGGGHHHH!!! Why torture me?!!! Just tell me what I did wrong!!!!
October 28
I secured rope today. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?! Rope has so much utility. I can already tie a noose.
I’m still useful, Veronica. I can hunt. Harvest. Kill??? Even in death, I can serve. Just give the order.
October 29
They will press charges. I know it. I just know it. It’s inevitable.
October 30
The time has come. Damage control. No more witnesses. If anything, this proves my loyalty. A chance to swear my (final?) oath to you. In blood.
October 31
Who ever said that a mess can’t be beautiful? Care to take a look at my offering, Veronica. Drake? Master?
END