They had stitched the gash closed, and each stitch had left its own scar, very Frankenstein. He could feel his blood beating
in his fingertips. She had felt his pulse, too, when she had cut him, would have used it to gauge the location of the carotid artery, careful to miss it as she pulled the blade through his
flesh.
Life was a series of near misses. Car accidents dodged by quick reflexes. Railings that broke falls. Antibiotics. Seat belts. Helmets. We should all be dead a hundred times over.
Archie had tried to kill himself with pills. Slow suicide, the shrinks had called it. Archie wasn’t sure he believed them. He had a gun. He knew how to put a bullet in his brain.
He hadn’t taken the pills to die, he’d taken them because they were the only way he could stay alive.
His artery throbbed.
He could feel the scar under his fingers.
She had missed his carotid by one centimeter. About the width of an average shirt button.
Lucky, they had said.
But bleeding out from an artery was not a bad way to go. He’d seen it. Death came quickly. He’d watched a young man die after Gretchen took her scalpel to his femoral artery. No
centimeter reprieve that time. She’d cut clean through it. That man’s life had seeped away in minutes.
Another person Archie hadn’t saved.
The screech of metal against concrete echoed through the open windows and Archie stretched his head to his shoulder until he heard a satisfying crack. Then he lowered his hand from his neck and
inspected it. His palm was wet with sweat where Susan had wrapped the gauze. He unwound the bandage, now specked with dry blood, and then got up and walked into the bathroom. He tossed the gauze in
the trash and ran his hand under the cold faucet for a few minutes, until it stopped throbbing, and then he splashed some water on his face.
When he looked up, he was faced with his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. His curly brown hair, gray flecks at the temples. Crooked nose. Skin scattered with broken blood vessels.
He’d gained back the weight he’d lost during the two years he’d spent on medical leave after Gretchen had tortured him, but he’d never look the same as he did before. The
deep wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes made him look ten years older than his forty-one years. Even his pubic hair was graying.
Pearl had been right. He did look old.
Archie smiled.
He wondered what Gretchen looked like. Right then. Locked up at the State Hospital.
He hoped she had a mirror, too.
Archie lingered on that thought. The water from the sink ran in rivulets down his face and along his neck. His hair was damp with water and sweat.
Patrick’s kidnapper had been drenched—his hair matted with blood—in those last moments when they grappled with each other in the floodwaters.
Archie turned away from the mirror, pulled a towel off a rack, and dried his face and hair. He could still feel the resistance of the man’s head as Archie held it below water, his hand
knotted in the dying man’s hair.
Archie slung the towel around his neck and felt for his pulse in his throat. When he found it he dug his fingers into his neck and kept them there. He counted to ten.
There was something comforting about that throbbing. His heart was still pumping. His body hadn’t given up on him yet.
After a few moments, he was able to look in the mirror and see only himself, hair disheveled, face a little raw from the towel-scrubbing, but still Archie. He was still here, wasn’t he?
She had marked him with her fingerprints, the scars, literal and figurative, but he was still himself, he was still in control.
He opened the medicine cabinet and removed four large prescription pill bottles.
The labels on the pills read Prilosec and Prozac . He opened one of the bottles and tapped out a few white oval pills onto his palm. The sound of the pills tumbling out of the
plastic bottle made his mouth water. Each pill was stamped with the letter V
in his fingertips. She had felt his pulse, too, when she had cut him, would have used it to gauge the location of the carotid artery, careful to miss it as she pulled the blade through his
flesh.
Life was a series of near misses. Car accidents dodged by quick reflexes. Railings that broke falls. Antibiotics. Seat belts. Helmets. We should all be dead a hundred times over.
Archie had tried to kill himself with pills. Slow suicide, the shrinks had called it. Archie wasn’t sure he believed them. He had a gun. He knew how to put a bullet in his brain.
He hadn’t taken the pills to die, he’d taken them because they were the only way he could stay alive.
His artery throbbed.
He could feel the scar under his fingers.
She had missed his carotid by one centimeter. About the width of an average shirt button.
Lucky, they had said.
But bleeding out from an artery was not a bad way to go. He’d seen it. Death came quickly. He’d watched a young man die after Gretchen took her scalpel to his femoral artery. No
centimeter reprieve that time. She’d cut clean through it. That man’s life had seeped away in minutes.
Another person Archie hadn’t saved.
The screech of metal against concrete echoed through the open windows and Archie stretched his head to his shoulder until he heard a satisfying crack. Then he lowered his hand from his neck and
inspected it. His palm was wet with sweat where Susan had wrapped the gauze. He unwound the bandage, now specked with dry blood, and then got up and walked into the bathroom. He tossed the gauze in
the trash and ran his hand under the cold faucet for a few minutes, until it stopped throbbing, and then he splashed some water on his face.
When he looked up, he was faced with his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. His curly brown hair, gray flecks at the temples. Crooked nose. Skin scattered with broken blood vessels.
He’d gained back the weight he’d lost during the two years he’d spent on medical leave after Gretchen had tortured him, but he’d never look the same as he did before. The
deep wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes made him look ten years older than his forty-one years. Even his pubic hair was graying.
Pearl had been right. He did look old.
Archie smiled.
He wondered what Gretchen looked like. Right then. Locked up at the State Hospital.
He hoped she had a mirror, too.
Archie lingered on that thought. The water from the sink ran in rivulets down his face and along his neck. His hair was damp with water and sweat.
Patrick’s kidnapper had been drenched—his hair matted with blood—in those last moments when they grappled with each other in the floodwaters.
Archie turned away from the mirror, pulled a towel off a rack, and dried his face and hair. He could still feel the resistance of the man’s head as Archie held it below water, his hand
knotted in the dying man’s hair.
Archie slung the towel around his neck and felt for his pulse in his throat. When he found it he dug his fingers into his neck and kept them there. He counted to ten.
There was something comforting about that throbbing. His heart was still pumping. His body hadn’t given up on him yet.
After a few moments, he was able to look in the mirror and see only himself, hair disheveled, face a little raw from the towel-scrubbing, but still Archie. He was still here, wasn’t he?
She had marked him with her fingerprints, the scars, literal and figurative, but he was still himself, he was still in control.
He opened the medicine cabinet and removed four large prescription pill bottles.
The labels on the pills read Prilosec and Prozac . He opened one of the bottles and tapped out a few white oval pills onto his palm. The sound of the pills tumbling out of the
plastic bottle made his mouth water. Each pill was stamped with the letter V
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