The air in the room was stagnant, thick with the smell of unwashed junkie. The only things not covered in dust were his clothes, bloody and lying at the foot of the bed. A shaft of light boldly asserted its rightful place through a broken blind, relegating the darkness to closets and dusty corners. Nausea first and then the pain, faithful as always. Pitted hardwood met his face with a sound not unlike that of old, soggy meat against a butcher’s block. The poppy required penance and what better time than now.

So there he sat, Eric Sommers, MD, gagging on the stream of crimson that pooled in front of him. He could have laughed had it not been for the red hot poker that languidly worked its way into his brain stem. Managing something between a grin and a grimace, he looked inwards and snickered. With his first PhD at 19, he was the pride of family and friends. By 24 he was a successful surgeon, basking in the light of youth and success, a rare combination for his blood. Now here, at 27, he sits in a pile of his own vomit, scanning the room for a way to ease the pain. A half-empty bottle of cheap gin caught his eye.

As he stumbled across the filthy room towards distilled contentment, he saw his reflection in the mirror. Frozen by his own stare, he stood there, stiff and hurting. Once emerald eyes now seemed a dull shade of moldy green, glazed and sunken into his skull. His oily skin clung desperately to his face, betraying the frail bone structure that had plagued him since childhood. Straight, short, brown hair fell awkwardly about his head, matted and foul. He did not always look like this. He was the typical teenager, naïve and ambitious, full of dreams that he just knew would one day come to pass. Days spent getting high at the beach with friends gave him a natural tan and participating in every athletic program available kept him lean and in good health. The only difference between Eric and your typical mall-rat was an IQ of 157. A blessing quickly becomes a burden when it doesn’t work right.

It was when Eric was a sophomore in high school that he first began to show signs of a behavior problem, but therapists quickly labeled it as depression, nothing out of the ordinary for his type. However, the “depression” quickly spiraled into innumerable suicide attempts and a blur of drug rehabilitation centers. At night he was ravaged by invisible demons, raining blasphemy on the heads of those foolish enough to offer comfort or company. His parents would sit in the kitchen despondent, with fingers in ears, petitioning God for an ounce of mercy. He spent his days sedated, traveling between the myriad of hospitals that promised a solution.

And as quickly as the chaos began, it ended. Eric awoke one summer morning, walked down the stairs of their chic suburban dwelling, and told his parents that he felt fine. Eric received his GED that fall and began college the following spring. It was a miracle. He became the topic of local church sermons; living, breathing proof that prayer worked. Every therapist Eric ever saw claimed that their method was the one that had cured him. With medicine and faith, they said, he would never need to worry about a relapse. They were wrong, every fucking one—he was insane, he had just finally come to terms with the fact.

Eric peeled his eyes away from the mirror. Where was I now…Oh…yes…my goddamn medicine. He washed down a few anti-psychotics with the gin that was sitting on the dresser. His sins were great and he was aware of that; his place in hell somewhere in the eternal glacier of Cocytus. He would spend his torment gazing upon the faces of those treacherous three, forever in the jaws of the great Beast. If Dante was still around he might even have created a new circle, just for him. Eric never expected to be understood. To Eric, the typical person on the street was the lowest form of excrement. Those nine-to-fivers, somnambulist fools! He was never a part of them, thanks be to whatever power cursed him with life. He was Nietzsche’s Overman—he had truly gone under and emerged as something greater. No, humanity is not an end, nor is it a bridge, for a bridge serves some purpose. To Eric, humanity was the highest sustenance, and nothing more. He never expected to be understood, so he turned inward and gave the world a façade they could be comfortable with. Eric killed the bottle in a few desperate gulps, downed some Xanax to steady his hands, and grabbed his things. He had to get to work; his dinner had to die on the table.

*************************************************************************

Oh, she was so scared…that deathly pallor struck a nerve somewhere primal. He couldn’t quite reach her hand. Blood streamed from between her perfect legs, a scarlet deluge that spoiled the nurse’s pretty white shoes. Chaos engulfed the delivery room. “For the last time, sir, I need you to wait outside!” It was all a blur; he was being pummeled from every direction by rushing doctors and attendants. Tears obscured his vision, he couldn’t take this anymore. She was dying goddamnit, his baby was dying! Somebody fucking do something! His legs betrayed him and his consciousness fled. He met the sanitized tiles with a groan.

“Wake the fuck up Markie, we got another one.”

He opened his eyes slowly and took a quick look around the squad car. His partner, Louis, was leaning in the open passenger window, hands full of coffee and the best goddamn Reubens in town.

“How many times do I have to tell you Lou, don’t fuckin’ call me Markie.”

He leaned over and unlocked the door. Louis was a fatass, there was no other way to put it. It looked as if his badge was always on the verge of being consumed by his enormous breasts. Mark watched with disgust as his pathetic partner squeezed every roll and bulge into the vehicle.

“What are you waitin’ for, hit it. St. Judes, another crack-head with a gun.”

Mark glared at him, shook his head, and turned on the car. With sirens screaming and blue lights blinding the eyes of whores and dealers, they headed toward St. Judes Memorial Hospital. If you were in need of serious medical attention, St. Judes is not where you’d want to go. That place saw more ER visits for stab wounds, ODs, and gunshots than anywhere else in this God-forsaken city. In fact, he doubted the staff even gave a shit if most of those people lived or died.

“I’m tired of that place, Lou.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of this fucking beat.”

“Too much runnin’ for ya?” Mark laughed, that man hadn’t ran in years.

“Go to hell, Markie,” as he wiped the ever-present sweat from his greasy brow.

Mark Callahan really hated going to that hospital. Every night he spent at least three hours taking down incoherent statements from guys that probably couldn’t remember their own name. Mark Callahan hated being a police officer, but he had no choice anymore. After Laura passed away he knew he could never leave the force. Beating the shit out of hapless lowlifes was a form of therapy for him, and it worked so well. Plus, the benefits for his son, Jimmy, were too good to give up. If he died in the line of fire, which he would, the city would pay for his college. That meant Mark had six years until he needed to be on the other end of a bullet. He would die content in the knowledge that his boy would get an education and a way out of this hellhole.

Mark killed the lights and sirens as they pulled up to the hospital. It was an old building, turn of the century, and in desperate need of renovation. The majority of the grey brick exterior was covered in graffiti, urine, and the make-shift hovels of the city’s hordes of homeless.

“Where’s he at?” Mark asked, stepping out of the car.

“Third floor, and there’s no way in hell I’m walkin’ up those stairs.”

“Elevator’s broken again?”

“Again? Fuck, Mark, they haven’t worked all month, and those prick doctors won’t let me use the staff elevator.”

“You know, a few flights of stairs wouldn’t hurt ya, you fat fuck.”

“Fuck you, I’m sittin’ my fat ass in the lobby, hurry up.”

Mark left Lou to peruse the lobby’s assortment of vending machines and hurried up the nearest stairwell. I’m fuckin’ tired of that guy, Mark thought to himself, I’ve been waitin’ for him to stroke out for months now. Breathless, he flung open the door to the third floor and found his way to the triage station. Am I fucking invisible? The nurse smacked her gum and flipped another page in the newest issue of Cosmo.

“Excuse me!” he hissed, “I don’t mean to interrupt your research nurse, but we got a call about a gunshot victim and –”

“Go that way through those double doors, take your first right, fourth room on your left...or is it right?... I dunno, it’s around there,” she smacked.

Stupid bitch. He found the room, in spite of that worthless nurse. Mark shuddered as he walked in. These rooms always reminded him of Laura. This one especially since the table and floors were painted with blood. Even the smell is the same. Once acquired, the smell of death is never forgotten. “Can I help you officer?” Mark, startled, spun around. He was looking into the strangest green eyes he had ever seen. The man in front of him was gaunt and pale, holding a blood-soaked brown paper bag.

“Umm,” he stammered, “I’m here to take the state—”

“He didn’t quite make it, as you can probably see…”

“Right, right, looks like it got kinda bad in here.”

“I tried to remove the bullet without hitting his spine, but I’m just a doctor, not a god.”

“That killed him?”

“It was in an awkward place, now is there something I can do for you?”

Mark was beginning to feel very uncomfortable; there was something about this man that didn’t feel right.

“Officer Mark Callahan,” he said, offering his hand.

“Dr. Sommers, excuse me if I don’t shake your hand,” he said with a silky voice, like that of a serpent, “they’re a bit messy.”

Mark fished a pad and pen out of his pocket. “I still need to put something in the report or my Sergeant will bitch…”

He looked up and the doctor was nowhere to be seen. Confused, he dashed back into the hallway. He saw white coattails disappear around a distant corner and hurried after them. Arrogant piece of shit, how dare he just walk away from me. It being such a late hour, and the hospital’s diminutive budget being almost laughable, the halls were otherwise empty.

“Hey! I need to ask you a few questions!” Mark yelled as he turned the corner. The doctor kept on walking with a slow deliberate stride that kind of pissed him off.

“I said wait goddamnit, I need to talk to you. I have a job to do too.”

“You can ask while I eat. I’ve been here all day and I’m starving. Care to join me?”

“No, thank you, I’d just like to get this—”

“That’s fine then,” the doctor quipped as he turned yet another corner, this time into a break room, “Have a seat.”

Dr. Sommers placed the bloody sack in the freezer and removed a plastic container from the refrigerator. He removed a spice rack from a nearby cabinet and began to season his dinner. Mark slid warily into a dilapidated, off-white excuse for a chair and clicked his pen. His first question died in his throat as a seemingly familiar smell began to tickle his nostrils. The asshole is going to have dinner… great. The microwave hummed and the doctor just stood there, back turned as if he wasn’t in the room.

“Ok, I’ll just go ahead and start asking, answer as best you can.”

“Of course officer,” the doctor said as he removed the steaming heap of meat.

“Approximately what time did the victim—”

“Would you like some? The meat is a bit tough. I’d assume a long life of labor was to blame.”

Fuck! “NO, thank you,” Mark spat, trying to stay calm, “please just answer the question.”

“About ten after ten,” he answered, slightly annoyed, as if he had pressing business to attend to elsewhere, “I knew he was done with, but I’m required to try.”

Mark watched as the doctor slowly ate. Each bite was calculated—every morsel of curious meat savored. The doctor’s beeper went off, startling both of them and breaking the silence.

“I apologize officer, we’ll have to continue this another time.” And without another word he rose, grabbed his dinner, and left the room.

Mark felt glued to his seat. Something was wrong here—he felt some kind of hidden truth deep in his bones. Something is wrong with this whole fucking town. He stood, shook off the odd feeling of angst that had begun to creep into his spine, and hurried for the stairs.

**************************************************************************

“Hey dad, can I go downtown with some friends tonight? There’s a party at Bobby’s parent’s apartment and I really wanna’—”

“Fuck that, no, you have school in the morning and nothing good happens downtown after dark anyhow.”

“But dad—”

“I fucking said no! Would your mother have let you go? I don’t fucking think so, now go to bed,” Mark screamed as the sniffling twelve-year-old ran for his bedroom, “And don’t think I’m gonna get you outta’ bed in the morning. You better be up!”

He shook his head and collapsed into his favorite chair. The leather was soft, supple from many years of use and little remote control knobs teased the tension from his spine. Mark sighed. He loved that boy to death—he looked so much like his mother. But he just couldn’t figure out what had been happening to him lately. He was all attitude now, disrespectful and unpleasant.

It wasn’t long before Mark heard the telltale crack of Jimmy’s bedroom window opening. The little bastard was sneaking out, and this time Mark was not going to spend half the night searching for him. He’ll learn eventually. I’ve done too much for that kid, he needs to grow up.

Mark cheered silently when he realized there was still a six-pack of Blue Moon in the refrigerator. He grabbed two beers and a bag of chips and decided he wasn’t going to move from his chair again for the rest of the night. The slew of tired sitcoms and infomercials filled the room with their phosphorescent glow. His eyes were trained on the television, but he was not watching. Images of that strange doctor kept reappearing before his mind’s eye. When he tried to grab hold of the thought it would vanish like fog under the gaze of the morning sun. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open. The Blue Moon, greasy chips, and the days stress became too much for his exhausted mind. “He’ll be fine,” was his last thought as the dark, warm shroud of sleep enveloped his consciousness.

**************************************************************************

Eric didn’t nap like the other doctors. He had access to everything he would ever need to fend off the constant threat of fatigue. He slid the needle out of his arm, surprised he had found a vein so easily. He leaned back on the cheap porcelain and felt the fire roar through his veins, revitalizing his tired flesh for another eight to twelve hours. His eyelids fluttered as the overwhelming ecstasy began to subside. It always took a little while to even out, and the trembling never lasted for more than a few minutes. Awake, refreshed, this place smells like shit. Eric blinked a few times to steady his vision and looked around. For some reason it always came as a surprise that he was sitting in a bathroom stall. After the few minutes of existential bliss he found it hard to believe he was actually in a room with urine-soaked floors and particle board dividers.