Friday, November 1, 2013

Serial Killer's Diary: The Final Cut

**Warning: these entries may be graphic and, hopefully, frightening.  Keep in mind this is merely fiction.  No humans (or animals) have or will be harmed in the production of this blog.  All names have been chosen at random and are not meant to represent anyone, living or dead.  Any similarities are purely coincidental**

10/31/13   11:30 PM

      Even now, I see it all as if was a dream.  I was outside of my own body, watching it like a crappy television program.  The doctor, I can’t remember his name even though it was something common like Smith or Jones.  He looked worn, optimistically somber, exhausted.  He shakes my hand and holds onto it just a split second longer than the typically-curt, professional handshake,  You know the kind I mean, the “I don’t really care what your name is, to me you’re just a medical records number”, kind of handshake. No, this handshake said, “I wish your doctor wasn’t dead so she could give you this news instead of me”.  
      He got right to the point though.  I barely had my butt in the seat and he said, “I’m sorry to tell you this but (the pause lasted an eternity) you have cancer.  Inoperable, rapidly spreading, we-can’t-believe-you’re-still-alive, to be quite blunt, cancer.  He put a comforting hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s almost as if your body was hanging on for something special.  It’s a miracle, really”.  Then he says, the tumor pressing on my brain is so massive, usually a patient with that kind pressure exhibits drastic mood or behavioral changes.  He asks me if I’ve noticed anything or if perhaps my loved ones have expressed a concern.  I’m guessing anyone who noticed is already dead but I don’t tell him that.  Instead, I say, “I don’t really have any family or loved ones.”  Again he looks at me with that, “aw crap, why me” look and smiles knowingly.  I tell him I haven’t got anyone, not even a pet.  I still don’t know why I said that, it must have been the tumor talking.  At this point all I can think of is Arnold Schwarzenegger in that Kindergarten movie saying, “It tis nawt ah toomah”.    
      Because the hospital had screwed up the test results and two months had passed without any treatment, they’ve volunteered to provide my treatment free of charge.  Free of charge as in please don’t sue the crap out of us.  Since I have no one to leave the money to and I’m gonna die anyway, I tell them I’ll sign the waiver.  The ink wasn’t even dry before a nurse tucked me into a wheelchair and whisked me off the room where I’m going to die.  I have tubes hanging out of me from every angle and a nifty little morphine pump so I won’t feel a thing.  I guess Blake and Richards are getting a pass.  It’s kind of a shame, I wanted to test my skills and see how far I could go.  Maybe the reason my body held out is because Jenkins and Dick needed to be taken care of.  The world is a better place without them and I guess the same goes for me too.  The pump just flushed another dose of morphine into my IV and I think I could get used to this.  I’m not in pain anymore.  Soon I’ll lose control of fingers and melt into the pillow but for now, I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.  Only, who is that huddled in the corner over there? If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was Don. Why won’t anyone answer me?  What is Don doing in my room?  Why is he wearing my Heisenberg hat?    

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