Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(40)

Ten minutes.

More than anything, I wanted to rest. The thought of finding a waiting room and falling asleep on a couch seemed very appealing. I’d sleep through my opportunity, and none of it would be my fault. Jonathan would die tomorrow or the next day, but I’d be okay. I’d go to work on Tuesday, and just go on like I had before. Except for never touching him again, or hearing his voice, or kneeling before him like the slave I was, all the other chunks of my life would be the same.

Ultimately, I was being selfish. I wanted him to live for my sake. Because knowing he was there soothed me. Because I didn’t truly believe I had any control over myself or my life if he wasn’t there. Because without him, things were wrong.

The wrongness was my perception. The world would be fine without him. Really. He wasn’t Mother Theresa.

Five minutes.

Are you talking yourself out of this?

Calm, yet somehow panicked, like a wheel moving so fast it appeared to be still, I went up the stairs. I knew where I had to go, physically, but mentally, I felt as if I’d painted the floor from door to corner in blood.

I pushed open the door with my fist and walked into the second floor. It was after 2am. Skeleton crew. No visitors. I made eye contact with the cop reading the paper, because any less would make me out to be suspicious before I did this thing. And this thing needed doing.

Three minutes.

I went to the bathroom. The mirrors were streaked with cheap cleaning fluid, and my face looked poorly-wiped, tired, too f**king thin by a lot. I didn’t look strong enough to do this. I looked like a wax doll.

One minute.

No. I couldn’t do it. I was going to have to just deal with life without him and everything we could have been to each other. I was going to have to let him die. I couldn’t rescue him. I wasn’t strong enough, and it wasn’t the consequences that would break me, but the act itself. I didn’t have the spine for brutality. I was a child in over her head. A spineless coward, and an exhausted, hungry, stupid child.

A light flashed, and a squeal cut the air.

I was going to stay in the bathroom and watch myself fail in the mirror, and when they came to evacuate me for the drill, I’d run out with the crowd in a nice, orderly, single file line.

I wasn’t going to do it.

CHAPTER 42.

MONICA

People in movies, apparently, manage to obtain reflexes in moments of stress, and the rest of us dream that this will happen to us; that when we’re at the edge of the cliff we can jump to safety, or to rescue, magically stronger and faster then we’d been an hour earlier. We’re entertained by the idea that we could be that capable when it’s necessary, and our daily incompetence is simply that we’re not challenged enough.

That never happens, of course, because you know, life doesn’t happen on the edges of cliffs. It happens in bathrooms and hallways. It happens when a fire alarm goes off and all the avoidance slips away like a silk nightgown. For me, it happened by the second whoop of the siren, when everything clicked together.

Go time.

This was my purpose. Every choice I’d made had led me here. If I denied it, I’d be the walking dead.

Humanity scurrying, shouting, parts of a machine spinning and thrusting, patients wheeled down the hall, a nurse demanding I go left, me doing it, then flipping back as soon as she turned away. A security guard shouted to me. I gave him the thumbs up and continued, grabbed some coat slung over a chair as if I’d turned to retrieve my things, and again, I turned another corner when his attention shifted.

There would be cameras, and they’d see me. I didn’t waste my time trying to dodge them. I was going to get caught and I was going to take my lumps. Shame. Prison. A destroyed career.

Patalano’s hallway was clear. Declan must have taken care of this. A fire drill was a diversion so obvious, the police would have planned for it and even the stupidest mobster would have dismissed it, yet, they were gone.

I walked into his room.

It was dark, and he was alone, lying on his back. Everything was exactly what I expected, like I was walking into a familiar place. The whoosh and hum of the machines was drowned out by the siren. They were bigger than the ones in Jonathan’s room, with more dials and gauges. Patalano’s face was hidden by tubes going down his throat, and a bandage on his head. His neck was kept stable by a plastic apparatus, and the eyes taped shut.

I waved my hand in front of it. Nothing happened. I don’t know what I was checking for, or what about this mattered. He was brain dead. His body was a life system for a functioning heart muscle. End of story. I tore myself away from him and focused on the machines. There had to be a switch or a plug. Right?

There were switches and plugs everywhere, and nowhere. All the wires ran behind a two ton apparatus and disappeared.

Fuck. Why did I think this was going to be simple?

I flipped any switch I could get my hand on, and though the thing whined, there was no way to tell if what I was doing was having the necessary effect.

“That does absolutely nothing,” came a voice from behind me. I recognized it immediately in its shocking cold efficiency. Jessica.

“Get out,” I said.

In two steps she was at the machines, flipping everything back to the way it was. “You don’t move a girl in a vegetative state and care for her for ten years without learning something.”

“Get out!” I shouted.