Mr. Nobody(97)
Horrified, I think of how the press will twist it, of how everyone will believe I did this to myself. I think of Joe, of my mother, of Chris and everyone at the hospital thinking I chose to die just like my father. I think of the life I haven’t even really lived yet. I can’t die here, I can’t. I pull wildly at my ties and scream, straining every sinew in my body, spittle leaping from my mouth, until, exhausted, I run out of breath. No one can hear us out here.
“Well, I didn’t realize my handwriting was as bad as all that.” He laughs and pats me on the head jovially. I shrink from his touch and his face falls. He stands back, carefully setting the suicide note down on the floor just out of my reach.
“Listen,” he says, his tone serious. “I want you to know, Emma, that this is not how I wanted this to end. This wasn’t part of my plan. I don’t even know if I thought it would get this far—I can’t recall. I don’t know how I thought you could fix me. Medication, I don’t know, something manageable? But you know I can’t go back to that hospital. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I really do, but I’m not going to give myself up for you, I’m not going to prison because of you. Not over here and not back in the States. I hope you can understand that this is the only way to be sure I can disappear again.” I start to speak but he stops me with a shake of the head. “I know, I know—you won’t tell a soul. You’ll take it to your grave. Well, that’s kind of what I’m banking on with all this. Listen, you’re a really good doctor, Emma. You actually care, which is rarer than you’d imagine, but people lie and people change their minds. You’d promise me anything right now, but tomorrow? And I’m not going to hang my chances of freedom on your word when you’re tied to a chair. I’m sure you understand my logic. But I will say, I’m truly, truly sorry it’s come to this.”
He looks at me a moment before turning and moving away. My angle on the floor prevents my gaze from following him. Out of sight I hear him crack the shotgun open, then snap it shut.
Oh God. Oh God. “Please. Matthew,” I gush, “you don’t have to do this. I won’t say a word, I really promise. You can just go. I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you. Please.” And a thought suddenly comes as if from nowhere, a solution so clear and reasoned it might just save my life. “Matthew! You asked me to fix you. To stop the cycles. But this, this is the moment it all boils down to. If these memories aren’t you, if there seems like no way out, if you truly aren’t this person, then stop. Just stop, now, and we’re halfway there. You can still change this. Don’t be this person. You can stop making this happen. But only you can.”
He looks down at me, sorrow in his eyes for a moment, and then his expression falters ever so slightly. He takes me in, as if only really seeing me now, on the floor twisted and bound to my tipped-over chair. He looks down at his weapon thoughtfully before gently lowering it and placing it against the wall.
Oh God. It worked.
“I see what you’re saying. I understand. Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says tenderly. “It doesn’t look very dignified, down there. You deserve better.” He grabs the arms of my chair and hoists it and me up together, in one smooth movement, as if we weighed nothing. But he does not loosen my ties. His eyes avoid mine. And I understand that my words have only made him kinder, they have not saved me. His plan has not changed.
He scans the crime scene again. Me righted, his note before me. My exhausted face, hair plastered to my cheeks with sweat and salty tears. My broken hand, bloating and discolored. My bruised wrists bound to the arms of the collapsible metal chair. My breath is coming high and fast. I wonder how he plans to explain away the contusions on my wrists; perhaps he’ll slit them too, or zip-tie them to the gun as if I’d feared missing due to the recoil. Even if it doesn’t look like suicide, there are plenty of nutters out there who could have done this to Charles Beaufort’s daughter. I met one of them only yesterday.
After he’s shot me, he’ll cut me free, place the shotgun between my thighs just the way I remember seeing it done years ago. I watch him as he studies me and I see sadness quietly crescendo behind his eyes. I suppose this is our goodbye. The end of his dream. The end of my life.
He squats down before me. “Can I get you anything, before?” he asks gently. “Water, drink, something?”
I snatch a breath, clinging to the suggestion. A lifeline, if only temporary. If he gets water I’ll have a few more moments. More time to think.
I nod as calmly as I can.
“Just water?” he asks, attentive.
“Please,” I croak, my throat dry and raw from my screams.
“Okay.” He rises with energy, momentarily buoyed by his ability to help in some way. He turns away from me with an unnervingly innocent smile and makes his way out of the room.
As soon as he’s out of sight I desperately fumble with the ties around my wrists, scraping my skin bloody as I try to force my hand out like a trapped animal. This is all the time I have and I’d better make good use of it. I tug in sharp bursts, squeezing my jaw tight against the excruciating pain to stop myself from screaming out. But it’s useless. The ties won’t budge.
I start to panic again, struggling madly, wriggling against the binds, and then I hear it, a tiny plink. I freeze.