Cortical - Fictional Horror Short Story
Cortical
By Chris Lamonica
Written for Senior Creative Writing Seminar at Kean University
~2017~
~Start~
Note:
The story within this book is pieced together from a collection of journal entries. These entries were found in thirteen small black leather journals, hidden beneath the false bottom of Montecristo cigar box. I purchased that cigar box, unknowing of its contents, at a small and signless thrift store off of Route 9 in New Jersey. Each of the journals had the name, “Robert Cambridge”, written in perfect calligraphy on their inner front cover. All journals were completely written in, from front page to back page, except the thirteenth journal of which abruptly ended a couple pages in with the simply quote of “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”
The complete contents of these journals, and this assembled chronological account, have been submitted to the authorities.
January 6th, 2017
I am not a sociopath, but I do believe I am the second coming of Christ.
That may be an exaggeration, but I feel the need to make up for the laziness of the ethereal being lying heavy on the clouds above.
I feel empathy for the organisms of this planet—the supreme suffering that will slowly drop from the sky like a feather from the brittle wing of an old bird—and as it drifts downward in its descent—if it lands on your lap—it can contain years of cancer, tumors, or even tuberculosis until your eventual end.
What type of life is that to live?
If I were to get diagnosed with cancer, I would take a gun, press its muzzle heavy against my temple and end the whole thing in one big blast. I can see the newspaper headlines now: “St. Augustine’s Medical Center’s Head of Emergency Room takes own life.” They’d attribute it to stress, or depression, but they’d never write, “He refused to suffer, he took control of the situation and brilliantly ended it before he was shitting his pants in a hospital bed”. Honestly, have you seen some of these people? When I leave the E.R. and walk through the hospice wing, they’re just laying there; drool dripping from the side of their mouths as they await death. If a breathing machine is keeping you alive—are you truly living?
My addiction is starting to rear its head again.
I felt it last night with the stress of that poor teenager in my emergency room. He had drank so much with his friends that he had fallen down the stairs, hit his head, and was unresponsive. I was able to save him, just barely, but he will never be the same again: the equivalency of a stroke; he will have to relearn all of his motor functions. The ball dropped, and he spent the first minute of 2001 laying on a table in front of me—his mother crying behind a curtain, chanting prayers in Spanish to a god that spoke every language except hers that night.
Had that god payed more attention in his high school Spanish class, maybe her son would have only fallen down the stairs, missed his head, and simply puked at the bottom. Maybe, then he’d realize he had drank too much, and a friend would have gotten him some water so he could sober up. Maybe the time he spent in an ambulance in Manhattan traffic due to the New Year’s celebration in Times Square, he would have instead spent drunkenly flirting with Maria. Just then, if both that god and Maria could understand the Spanish words slurring from his tongue—at midnight his lips would have been pressed against lips of Maria rather than a breathing tube in my E.R.
But alas, it was all lost in translation, and god had no mercy.
January 7th, 2017
She is the only thing I care about in this world.
Monica, Chief of Medicine at St. Augustine’s Medical Center. Great at her job, but not good enough to noticed the trail of my dirty habit—she’s missed it for so long. She left the hospital three hours before me.
I finished a twelve-hour shift, with multiple frostbite victims, and would now traverse the same storm that created them to get to her apartment. Considering the affair we’re having is supposedly secret, the snow on the ground had become dangerous. My paranoid brain pictured an intern following my footsteps in the snow, putting his feet in the size twelve holes that I had created all along the way to her. He’d look up at the window of 19 W. 46th Street, and see me walking into her door—putting my hands against her warm cheeks as my cold lips met her warmth. He’d call one of his intern friends, and within hours everyone would know that the Chief of Medicine and Head of the E.R. were having an affair. But that was only in my head.
I was putting on my coat when I saw them wheel in an old man. His bones poked through his pale white skin like twigs through pantyhose—at some points, the bones were punctured through his skin like they were trying to escape their 80-year-old slumber. He was hit by a taxi skidding in the snow, and was somehow still alive. I felt my addiction dominating my thought process, and though I could have stepped in—I slipped out of the E.R and into the snowy New York streets. Monica is waiting.
While I was trudging through the snow, I thought about that old man’s family and how they (despite his condition and age) would prefer him to live through that accident. Even if they were able to stabilize that man, between the broken bones and possible internal organ damage, his road to recovery would be stark and painful. He’d soon wake up and feel the pain of being hit by a car radiate through his entire body. He would then sit in a hospital bed for weeks, maybe even months, and deal with the dullness of cable television and even worse, the nuke warm temperature of hospital food. His family would come visit and they’d all painlessly wish for his recovery beside his bed, while he’d press the little red button at the end of a grey cord in hopes of the pain medication numbing the feeling of his brittle twig like bones being cracked, pushed, and placed back within his pantyhose thin skin. Maybe he’d have a catheter inside him, and when the nurses came to shift him in bed to avoid sores, maybe he’d feel it pull in and out sending pain through his bladder and up into his throat. He’d cry out in pain, and the nurses, new and in training, would feel bad—feeling like they did something wrong—and suddenly he’d be moved less often. He’d then slowly develop bedsores, or pneumonia, and minutes would tick down on the clock as he looked up at it wishing the next one would be his last. All the while, his family beside him would argue and yell with the hospital staff, ”MY FATHER NEEDS TO LIVE”, “MY FATHER WILL MAKE IT THROUGH THIS”, but he won’t. Months to a year later, he would fall asleep, to never wake up again—and what was proven? The marvels of modern medicine’s ability to keep a man alive—until it couldn’t.
Just as I realized I had been thinking about this for too long, I felt the cold chill of the wind penetrate my scarf and ricochet off my neck. I used wide and working steps to get through the snow that was up to my calves at this point. I was seeing my black, perfect fitting, Christian Dior slacks ruined step by step. I was almost at Monica’s apartment when I saw a small kitten lying in the snow. It was orange, with white paws that were lost in the white of the deep snow. Kittens, as young as this one, are unable to regulate their body’s temperature—so it was slowly feeling the pain of freezing to death—and was completely unable to counter it. I took off my gloves and held it in my hands, it was soft and wet, and it vibrated against my palms. With the feeling of warmth from my hands, it slowly raised its head and opened its eyes to look at me—it let out one feeble meow. There is no way this kitten was going to survive out in the snow, so I…
**Note from the Author: At this point there was a page ripped out of the first journal. The following text is a continuation of this date’s entry after the page that had been ripped out**
I arrived to Monica’s apartment and felt the warmth of the building surround me—I said hello to her building security guard Jeff and proceeded to the lobby bathroom. They always have the foamy soap in there of which I personally prefer. I slathered my hands in suds and then put my hand under to motion sensitive sink where the feeling of tingling from hot water meeting cold skin engulfed my hands. I dried my hands and proceeded to leave the bathroom. While waiting for the elevator, I looked up at the lobby. Formerly a swanky hotel in the 1920s called The Plainfield, the lobby ceilings were vaulting and ornate—gold and mahogany fought for fame throughout the decor. In the winter with the heat on, the smell of the building is warm on the nostrils—like an oversized Victorian home that held gin soaked parties—the old wood and paint nearly float through the air. With a ding, I stepped onto the elevator, and it slowly brought me to her floor. I exited the elevator and walked through the perfectly symmetrical hallway—with a gold and burgundy patterned rug crisscrossing under my Saint Laurent ELI 25 Monk Shoes—starting to finally dry from the soaking they went through on the way. The hall was long, and I heard screaming. The screaming was getting louder as I approached the end of the hall. I reached her apartment—and the screaming was coming from the other side of the door. I quickly put my key into the lock, and swung the door open.
There she was, sitting on her bright yellow couch, spread out amongst a vast sea of multi colored blankets. Drool bubbled at the edge of her pink lips, her right hand levitating above a bowl of popcorn—her red nails contrasting with the pale yellow pops. The screaming, of which surprisingly got my heart pumping at faster than normal pace, was the sound of Amanda Wyss being murdered on screen—her thrashing at the hands of Freddy Krueger’s sharp gloves in “A Nightmare on Elm Street”. Freddy seemed to be far away from Monica’s dreams—she was deeply asleep—an ugly crash of cells attacked by carbs—unrolled on her couch.
I must admit, there are few things I care about in this world—and with the urges persisting despite how hard I have fought them, it seemed like Monica was the last remaining organism I could even consider “caring” about. I can’t say I love her—I’ve never had the strong emotional feelings people say accompany “love”—but she is the only human on this god-forsaken rock that I can tolerate. She was spread before me in a stunning display of REM, not even disturbed by me entering her apartment. I looked down upon her—jagged ribs lifting and falling beneath her tight white tank top, which was nearly camouflaged in the paleness of her skin. Disheveled black bangs fell on her forehead, criss crossing in their slow race to her dark eyebrows. I stalked above her like a heavy cloud, moved her bangs aside like curtains starting a show, and dropped my cold wet lips directly in the center.
January 8th, 2017
I feel lately that I lack control of my urge—my dirty little secret—and I hate being out of control.
It is the exact reason I gave up smoking pot in high school. I can vividly remember the horror of sitting around in a cold Staten Island backyard (the only place you could hang out as a teenager on that god-forsaken-island). Steven, an acquaintance at most, would be breaking small pieces of marijuana on the clear glass table—using his lunchbox like hands to shield the small pile of green specks in front of him from being swept up by the wind. My hands, long and lanky, were so cold that it felt like a quick movement would rip my knuckles from beneath my paper-thin skin. He would carefully create a train of dried plant matter between the well known stations of the Juicy Jay cigarette paper—blackberry flavored—as if it would matter after it reached the disgusting lips of each member of the slobbering smoker’s circle. With hands as steady as the surgeons I pass my patients to, he’d finish rolling up the joint—and then the ceremony would begin.
Puff, puff, pass—puff, puff, pass—puff, cough, pass—and then it would reach me. I’d take one long pull, and hold my breath—an audience of anxiously freezing faces waiting for my exhale to continue the assembly line. I’d pull on it one more time, abiding by the rules cast forth by a board of pot smokers that have long dictated etiquette, and then I’d pass the joint along to continue its journey. At first I’d feel fine, only feeling the pain of bitter cold on my skin and the contrast of the hot burning at the back of my throat. Then, the cold would fade. I was shaking, but I couldn’t feel heat nor cold. By the time the joint reached me again, I was no longer able to calculate my mannerisms. Was I smiling? Did I look worried? Could everyone else tell how high I was? Did I already take a hit from the joint pinched between my numb fingers?
“C’mon man, pass it!” Reprimanded by the council of kush—I’d take two more hits, and along it went again. The vacuum-sealed silence around the table intensified—and I wasn’t able to tell if it was because my fellow smokers bronchial cords had frozen from the low temperatures. Like a sole LEGO piece pulled from a completed structure, the world would detach from me—and I’d be left floating in a lonely feeling of anxiety and paranoia. What felt like 30 minutes, was actually 10.Was I sitting like a normal human? Were my feet facing the correct direction? What was that sound from the other side of the backyard? I couldn’t control the world around me, nor did it even make sense to me—it would fill me with despair, with dread—and further, with the question of why everyone else around me seemed to be enjoying themselves. Those around me were riding their buzz happily, while what I was feeling felt more like 30 minutes of a bee buzzing by your ear—a bee that you can’t see, can’t turn towards, and could sting you at any moment.
I slowly realized that there were two types of people in this world—those who were comfortable with their control being taken away, in fact found it fun, and those who prefer to be in the driver’s seat at all times. I was undoubtedly the latter, but lately, with this thing, this urge I can’t help but act on, I’ve felt like the former.
I started doing it only occasionally, the urge would bubble for a couple months—and then like a “social smoker”—I’d act on it, be able to justify it. I was nothing like the guys you hear about on the news. I was not dangerous. I was simply acting on behalf of fate—moving the clock hand a little forward.
Now. Now it’s all I can think about. I want it out of my head, but I can’t seem to get it out. I’m acting on it more often—but I refuse to believe “it” controls me.
Only I control me.
But it slips in sometimes. It used to only be when I was aggravated. While I’m sitting on a crowded R train. When someone bumped into me on the street—but now—now it’s random and dominating. Just last night, I was lying in bed with Monica, tracing a path from her ear to her collarbones with my lips—and it popped into my head, and sat there—distracting me from the task at hand.
So when I went into work today, I acted on it...twice.
I’ve never done it twice in one day—I thought it was too dangerous. Yet today, I convinced myself.
I convinced myself—but when “I” feels like someone else—who is “I”?
Are there two “me”s? I mean even as I write that, it feels that way. If only “I” control “me”—who is the “I” and who is the “me”?
This is ridiculous—I wasn’t philosophy major. I can’t be thinking in this way. I’m not high—I have complete control over myself.
I will repress these disgusting (though justifiable) thoughts.
What am I saying? Justifiable? I can’t possibly think that.
Enough, I’m going to bed.
*There was no entry for January 9th, 2017*
January 10th, 2017
I’ve started to feel better today—I’m regaining control over myself.
Push the thoughts away.
I am in control.
January 11th, 2017
Today, I told Monica that I love her. I don’t know if I truly grasp what love is, if I truly feel “in” love, but I know I never want to lose her. We’ve started talking about a future.
One of us would have to change hospitals if we were to ever become public with our relationship. Sneaking around is starting to get old, and my possessiveness is making me want to make clear to every other human on this earth that she is mine—she belongs to me.
Maybe we could both leave.
We discussed possibly getting out of this city—away from the overcrowding, the high prices—before the Summer returns and brings the smell of piss and garbage that is carried in the heat.
We’d go somewhere with more trees and less people.
I’m not much of a romantic, but the idea of returning home to an old Victorian deep in the trees of Maine—away from people that aren’t her—sound like damn near paradise.
I can picture sitting on the porch with her on our days off, the sun squeezing its rays through white lattice—scattering shadows softly on her cheeks—her big green eyes playing hide and seek from behind diamond blocked shadows.
I can’t stand animals, but she would love a dog—a big drooling English Mastiff laying its head on her lap.
I have never felt so strongly about another human being—she makes me feel like I’m not an alien on this planet.
If there is anyone on this earth that can help me through the problems I have, it is her.
She doesn’t know about my secret, and maybe she doesn’t ever need to—if I can just power through it and dispel it from my life.
January 12th, 2017
I feel I have regained control—regained composure.
January 13th, 2017
Today, a 16-year-old girl was wheeled in.
She was walking through Central Park at around 10:00PM when a man knocked her out—pulled down her leggings and raped her.
He raped her in the middle of the park.
She stood no chance.
She woke up, her pants still down, and he was already gone.
She sustained no injuries except that of her innocence.
This world is a sick place, filled with disgusting creatures, and I feel pity for that poor girl.
January 14th, 2017
I’ve just awoken from a horrifying nightmare.
I was walking through a dark and frigidly cold Central Park—there was a small centimeter of snow on the path beneath my Saint Laurents. Each footstep made a satisfying crunch as the frozen molecules of H2O compressed beneath my weight. I felt the cold cling to the saliva on my lips—capturing their color and turning them from deep blood red to pale white.
Then came a yelp.
Not a scream, not a screech—but a yelp in the distance, like a puppy kicked hard in its small ribs.
Like a runner hearing the gunshot at the start of a race, I jolted into a sprint.
My long overcoat was capturing air behind me, pulling me back—but I kept running.
I ran hard, so goddamn hard, but the path just kept going.
I shouted, “Where are you?!”
I just kept shouting it, feeling it rip raw the back of my throat.
“Where are you, tell me where you are, where the fuck are you, where are you?
“Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
until my feet just—stopped.
No sound would come out.
I stood alone, paralyzed.
Darkness enveloped everything.
I heard material ripping.
I heard grunting, and the sound of a belt buckle being unlatched.
Then I heard someone spit.
At that moment, I woke up.
January 15th, 2017
The urge has returned.
My head is a viscous mixture of pity for that poor girl, disgust with humanity as a whole, and wanting to do—it.
I wish my addiction was as easy as being a cigarette smoker, but I can’t buy this release at the bodega down the street.
Monica said I looked like I was in a completely different place tonight. She was right.
But she calmed me better than anyone ever has—I suddenly realized that she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
January 16th, 2017
The E.R was packed and I was in a bad mood.
I did it once today—it was an easy one—no one noticed.
It didn’t satisfy me.
January 17th, 2017
Two today, still no relief.
If it could be described as a thirst, I’ve been gulping water all day and my tongue still feels like sand.
January 18th, 2017
Three today.
It’s becoming too easy—I’m getting bored of easy.
January 19th, 2017
The snow was heavy outside of the E.R. It started heavy in between shift changes, and first shift had left while train delays and traffic kept the second shift from being in full staff. In fact, this was the smallest amount of staff I had ever seen in my entire career. Four nurses, two doctors. Dr. Smith and the exhausted form of me.
First came a stabbing victim. A homeless man by Penn Station. Dr. Smith, the only other doctor on the floor, took two nurses and tended to the man.
Moments later, we got word that there was a scoop and run that was five minutes away.
A car accident at 46th and 5th at 9:05pm.
A man was moving furniture from his son’s dorm to his newly rented apartment. It was a long day of moving up and down flights of stairs, and he hadn’t slept the night prior being that he worked nights as a sanitation worker.
Once the truck was all loaded up, he told his son to drive the car and meet him at the apartment. Being that the weather was getting bad, he told his son to text him when he got there.
He got into the truck, cranking the heat all the way up to battle the freezing temperature outside. The cabin of the truck was warm and cozy.
As he was driving up 5th, his eyes started to feel heavy. His blinks were lasting longer.
Reaching 46th street, he blinked for a long time—long enough to drift slightly asleep with his foot on the gas—going 60mph and not slowing at the red light ahead.
Coming down 46th, perpendicular to 5th, and heading towards a green light was a woman and her teenage daughter fighting. The teenage daughter had made plans that night to see her boyfriend to cuddle inside during the snowstorm—they were going to watch scary movies and drink hot chocolate. The mother didn’t want her daughter traveling out in this weather–it was dangerous.
Just after their 2002 Toyota Camry breached the walkway into the intersection of 46th and 5th—a Penski moving truck driven by a long blinking driver struck them hard.
The Penski driver didn’t have a scratch on him due to the size of its vehicle, but the Camry—hit at its back left—spun and was flipped twice.
The female and her teenage daughter were en route to St. Augustine—both in exceedingly declining condition.
The mother was dead upon arrival to the E.R.—her head slamming into the driver’s side window—the EMTs couldn’t stop the bleeding.
The daughter was laying on a gurney in front of me.
Her legs were torn apart—her right femur was sticking directly out—white bone glowing under the fluorescent light above. Her left foot was gone. Maybe still sitting in the intersection, maybe resting against the curb of the Designer Shoe Warehouse.
I could have easily saved her. These leg injuries weren’t critical to her survival, and she miraculously wasn’t bleeding from anywhere else. Were I to save her, she’d be without legs—bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life, and without a mother to push her around.
That’s no way to live.
I was the only doctor in sight, and I had only two nurses—one on the opposite side of the gurney holding an oxygen mask to the teen’s face—the other directly to my right compressing the bleeding coming from the right leg.
I told one to go alert the surgeons that we were sending the girl up for a double leg amputation. I told the second nurse to grab fluids and hurry back.
I stared down at this girl—this poor girl whose boyfriend is wondering why she isn’t texting him back—who wouldn’t know even until the morning where his girlfriend was. Would he be there for her whole recovery? Would he be fine dating a girl without legs? Probably not, knowing how horrible most humans are.
In that moment, the urge was too strong and I gave in to it.
I grabbed the oxygen mask with my left hand and lifted it above her face.
I wrapped my long lanky right hand around her thin neck—and squeezed.
I felt the warm meat against my palm resisting my squeeze, thyroid cartilage and hyoid bone pressing against me.
I squeezed harder and felt them crack and move.
The life monitor blared as I let the oxygen mask smack back against her face.
The nurses rushed in—but in the mere minutes they were not beside me, the patient was lost, pronounced dead at 9:30pm.
I saved her.
I saved her from a horrible life ahead—a life with horrible humans who would never truly give her the care she deserved. I saved her from having to deal with her boyfriend who would inevitably break up with her because he never signed up to date a girl with no legs. I saved her from waking up in a hospital bed relieved to be alive, only to find out that she had lost both her legs along with her mother.
I couldn’t save the teenage girl who got raped in the park, but at least I saved this one.
It felt good to give in to the urge.
I helped that girl, and as I looked down at her body—I felt like she’d thank me if she could.
The autopsy would later cite the seat belt as the cause for the broken neck.
January 20th, 2017
I thought I’d wake up today feeling relieved.
I thought the urge would have gone away for a while since I saved that girl—I did my duty.
Instead, I wanted more.
I sleepily layed in bed staring at my white ceiling.
My room was covered in bright natural light from the window, but a dark shadow cast by the large chair I had by the window cast a comforter of black over my bare body.
My right hand could still feel her throat in it—like a cigarette smoker craving a filter pressed between their lips. I was craving more.
I drifted in and out of half dreams—a funky film reel changing from scene to scene. A politician at a podium calling for population reduction, then having my hand around the throat of Dr. Smith, the Staten Island Ferry sinking—and then—Monica on the porch.
“Welcome home, babe—you look like hell—bad day?” The massive Mastiff running from the front door and dripping long strands of drool onto my Saint Laurents—her contagious laugh echoing, spiraling around me. The panting of the dog. The fast moving shadows through the white lattice. Then my phone buzzed and woke me.
I woke up in a sweat.
It was a text from Monica, “I heard about that girl you lost last night, I’m so sorry. Come over when you wake up.”
January 21st, 2017
In the past, I had only helped relieve the old, terminal, and those who were just barely hanging off the cliff of death.
That girl was the first person that would have undoubtedly lived, and would have lived a long life at that.
People lived without legs all the time; they even had basketball teams for them. The advancements in prosthetics by the time she was 30 would have probably included a set of robotics legs that would have allowed for a long and happy life.
I’m starting to regret what I’ve done.
It wasn’t until I was with Monica that I realized that I had done something wrong.
We’ve begun discussing the genuine possibility of Maine. We have the funds, and a hospital that was less high pressure would be a relief for the both of us.
The urge is still begging for more though. I know what I did was wrong, but I can still slightly justify it. I’m second-guessing myself, and my thoughts are beginning to confuse me.
January 22nd, 2017
There was a pigeon flailing and flapping on the floor on my walk to the hospital. It looks like it struck a window while flying and its wing was broken.
As I picked it up into my gloved hands, an older woman approached me and said, “Aww, what a good guy you are to help that poor thing!”
I smiled, nodded, and retreated to the ally.
Holding it in my hands, I looked down at its jerking body. It looked up at me—as if begging me to save it.
Calmly, I applied pressure on both sides of its body until I felt its tiny bones crack in my hands. There was one last jerk, and then it went limp.
I laid it on the ground, then took my gloves off and threw them into the old dumpster nearby.
I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets and continued my walk to work.
January 23rd, 2017
Today I decided it was time for Monica to meet my parents.
I watched her get ready in her apartment. Sitting on her bed, I took in the floral scent her room always had. It wasn’t overpowering, it was like walking past a rose bush—hanging in the air only long enough for you to notice before you moved on.
She drifted out of the bathroom trailed by steam from the overly hot showers she always took. Her pale white skin vibrated with a pink hue, and when I touched her neck—I swear it burnt like touching a hot stove.
She dried her hair, whipping the cord downward every time it got caught under the lip of the granite sink. Every time she’d whip it, the muscle in her bicep would swell in a small lump during the pull back, and then melt back down on the downward motion—which made me suddenly observant of the way all the muscles in her body moved.
At the ripe age of 27, she was in really healthy shape—but her muscles always were slightly visible—even if they weren’t overly large or tone.
She asked me what she should know about my parents, prying if there was anything she should avoid talking about.
“Don’t bring up Trump unless you’re ready for a debate with my dad, a debate that you will ultimately lose in his eyes no matter what points you make. I’m convinced that the only people that voted for the Golden Cheeto were Rust Belt coal miners and grammatically deficient Staten Islanders—it’s like the goddamn Twilight Zone over there”
She made a slight smirk and continued to get ready.
She wielded her eyeliner like Picasso wielded a paintbrush, and with two swift motions, wings sprouted from the pool of green in her eyes—and like that we were ready to fly.
We took the R train up to Whitehall and then boarded the Staten Island Ferry.
Despite it being cold out, she insisted we stand on the outside deck of the boat—and with her seniority of Chief of Medicine over me—my boss dragged me by my hand to the outside deck.
With a dark hat on her head, and a black scarf covering her face—the only thing with color for miles on that winter stretch of New York Bay were her big green eyes. Like two neon bulbs burning gas, they outshone the fire in lady liberty's torch. With silent lips, her eyes alone sung for my tired, my poor, my huddled mass of a soul. I was yearning to breathe free—and those eyes were the lamps lifting me to the golden door.
I put my long limbs around her, and we watched Staten Island drift closer and closer until we arrived at its polluted coast.
Dinner went surprisingly well, my parents loved her—but she got one of those horrid headaches she has been getting more and more often. It became so bad, that we actually had to leave early.
She’s been getting them every couple of days now, and they’ve become more and more debilitating.
January 24th, 2017
After saving another person today, I think I’ve figured it out.
The only way I will finally rid myself of this curse—of this horrible urge—is to find my “Moby Dick”.
I need to relieve someone who is in dire need of it—someone it will truly help if I were to release them from the torture that is this human experience.
I don’t know who it is yet, but I will undoubtedly know when I see them.
January 25th, 2017
It seems rash, it seems nearly crazy—but Monica and I have decided to get out of this disgusting city.
After searching Trulia and Zillow for sometime, we’ve found an old foreclosure in Maine. A second empire style Victorian in Bangor that is so low priced that it’s barely an expense for us. We’ve already reached out to the agent, and considering how long it has been sitting, they said the bank would even expedite the process and get us into the house by February 13th.
We’ve both put in our two weeks notice at St. Augustine, and people think we’re absolutely insane, but we know this is what we need.
Our savings allow us to even go without working for a year, if it would even to take that long to find jobs out there (which there is no possible way it will, considering our resumes).
The urge is there, but weaker than it ever has been—and for once, I feel happy.
Maybe I’ll find some poor guy in Maine who will end up being my Moby Dick—or maybe I can finally just get these thoughts out of my head.
There is plenty of uncertainty, but I feel ready for anything as long as I have Monica.
January 26th, 2017
House is purchased!
Triggered by a curious and meddling mortician, St. Augustine has started working with the NYPD researching some strange deaths that have been happening in the hospital—I guess it’s perfect timing that I’ve decided to leave.
Maybe it’s time I just put all of this behind me.
I’m going to repress the urge for good,
I know I can.
January 27th, 2017
After the really bad headache Monica got at my parents house, she made an appointment with the neurologist in the hospital.
We’ve also started putting our moving plan into motion, and plan to fly to Maine on the 31st to see the house in person.
January 28th, 2017
No time to write today, things are absolutely too busy.
Monica called me, with a slight shake in her voice, and asked me to come over tonight.
I’m heading there now.
January 29th, 2017
When I got to Monica’s last night, I arrived to a dark apartment and found her in bed crying.
I sat down next to her, pushed the tears from her face, moved the curtain of bangs from her forehead, and kissed it directly in the center.
I asked her what was wrong.
She seemed to have trouble getting the words out from behind her lips, but then the vicious statement came crawling out.
“I have stage four brain cancer.”
Time froze in that moment.
I imagine the calm terror I felt can be compared to that of passengers on a plane that just learned that there is no plausible way it will not crash.
In that moment, are some people screaming? Of course.
But some passengers are silent.
Those passengers, the passengers that understand the inevitable, have no reason to scream.
There is nothing but acceptance that they are living the last moments of their life.
The cabin of the plane is the last place they will be, the people around them are the last people they will ever see, will ever hear, will ever feel—and the thoughts flashing around in their brain are the last thoughts they will ever think.
In that moment, I was on one of those planes.
The ground was approaching faster and faster, and all I had was silence.
Because in the years I’ve practiced medicine, I’ve seen what happens next—and that is no way to live life.
The human I treasured beyond any other, the human I quit my job and was moving to Maine with to start a new life—was about to live a life that was not worth living.
She was going to suffer, she was going to feel pain and sadness, and then it was going to end.
With marvels of modern medicine doing whatever it could to keep her alive until the inevitable.
I’ve met my Moby Dick—and her big green eyes blurred with tears were looking right up at me—waiting for me to say something.
January 30th, 2017
This is my last entry.
I don’t have much to write, because I know that it will all lack meaning in the end.
I’m heading over to Monica’s apartment because we leave early tomorrow morning from JFK to head to Maine.
I don’t plan to return to these notebooks, nor this apartment, nor this city.
I have found that there is no controlling life.
There are two types of people in the world, those who happily take the ride, and those who pretend they are in the driver’s seat—only the realize that they never truly were.
There are millions of disgusting people in this world, and those disgusting people will do disgusting things, and they will create more disgusting people—and the cycle continues.
But if somehow, you find one person less disgusting than the rest—savor them—and then save them when they need saving.
I am not a sociopath, at least to my knowledge, and I have felt all of this—and I will feel what is to come—that is my plea, and I insist it’s true.
I tried to work past all of this, but I played God too often—and I fear the universal joke was at play all along.
You can fight and scratch and choke in defiance of the ethereal being, but his heavy cloud will inevitably fall—and show you that all of this, everything last bit of it, is impermanent.
The show will end, the curtains will close, and you will realize you are something else—not Christ, but something much, much worse.
~End~