by KS Avard
Jensen had barely gotten his pants back on when she returned, a thick sheaf of papers in her hands. “Well, I have good news for you, Mr. Howard! I think we can resolve a few of your symptoms.”
Jensen felt his breath leave in an explosive gasp of relief. For weeks he had been suffering from the severest paranoia, barely able to sleep, eat, or breathe knowing that someone was out to get him.
He had noticed the cars following him, the parade of new faces that watched his every move while they pretended to go about their own faked routines. “So you can give me something for my insomnia? And my indigestion? And my involuntary asphyxia?” He waited for her nod. “What the hell are you waiting for then?” he cried.
“Well, it’s an experimental procedure and cannot be reversed if you don’t like the result.” said his doctor. “There is evidence that it’s occasionally toxic,” she replied, chewing her lip. “In fact, there are a whole list of possible side effects.”
“I don’t care!” he bellowed. “I just want to sleep!”
His doctor smiled angelically. “Well, I think we can manage that. I will need you to sign this form here and then turn around so I can administer the shot.”
Jensen scribbled his name furiously on the sheet filled with legalese, not reading the fine print but knowing that, at last, he would finally be able to sleep. “That it?” he asked, smiling in relief as she, too, smiled nodded again. “Now the injection?” he asked.
“Yes, sir! Just turn around and I’ll handle the rest.” He began to unbuckle his pants again, his hands fumbling with the zipper when she cooed, “That won’t be necessary.”
“No?” he asked. Turning to face the wall, he heard a drawer slide open, a click or two as the doctor prepared the needle for his injection. Finally able to begin to relax, he examined the wall, for the first time seeing the most peculiar flecks of red among the whiteness of the wallpaper. A lump formed in his throat as he felt a most un-needle-like sensation. “Exactly what’s in this shot?” he asked, wincing as deathly-cold metal was pressed to the nape of his neck. “Acepromazine? Droperidol?”
She chuckled, the sound hideous and ugly. “No, Mr. Howard,” she said, pulling the trigger.
“Just a little bit of lead.”