I don’t want to spin my wheels too fast, burning myself out before I’ve fully realized the correct solution. It is a fine line between contemplation and constipation of the mind. I’ve got to let those synapse fire at their own pace; if I force them, the ideas will just get caught on each other and ball up into a big mess somewhere in my neocortex.
“Patience is a virtue and a tool of this trade.” My old mentor would say. “Deep breaths and a steady heart beat will be your road to salvation.”
Too many of my colleagues catch themselves on the hooks of hasty decisions, but not me. For me, everything is planned and timed out with precision.
“Time is of the essence, doctor.” He says, the lab assistant that I never really wanted. I shift my body to hide my process, making it harder for him to spy. My employer insisted I have help this time, I’m not sure why.
“Don’t rush me son.” I say, condescending and small. He is only a few years younger, but lacks the decade of experience I’ve acquired working outside of the limitations of the legal system.
I was hired because I am a pioneer. I am an explorer of the unknown, darker parts of science. I am an expert in the unusual, the unnatural. I am a magician to some, a god to others and a mad scientist to most.
Outside, my employers pace in the hall, their hurried staccato steps clacking on the linoleum, a metronome of worry. One of them bangs on the door.
“You do it yet?” he yells.
“Keep it down, will ya? He’s doing complicated work.” says another, trying to calm his colleague.
The first one mumbles and resumes his pacing. I take this moment to have a seat on the newly upholstered couch of this hotel room. It is comfortable and relaxing and for a moment my mind wanders.
“Doctor?” coughs the assistant.
I hold up my hand, politely asking for silence. I close my eyes and think.
It is important to note that death does not happen in an instant. Death is a process, a wave of nothingness that crawls through the body. Even in death, parts of you are alive and thriving, but all it takes is the signal to shut down, and it moves cell to cell until you are no more. So I asked, if all it takes is a signal to turn them off, there must be a signal to turn them back on. From the sea to the womb, our bodies waited for that signal to live. Some call it the God Switch, the ultimate power button; I call it a chemical reaction.
“Doctor, we are now one minute past the point of no return.” He says, annoying and distracting.
“One minutes past your point of no return. She isn’t lost until I say she is.”
“But your notes.” He says, his voice cracking.
I hold my hand up for silence. He grants it.
Mary Shelly was right about the need for a spark and Lovecraft was correct about the chemical solution and the time frame. But until now, nobody had combined the two as I have.
Each death is situational. Some require surgery before the injection, some require it while the process is taking effect. This woman though, her damage is internal and chemical. There is no quick fix and I am not entirely sure where to start my process. I consider eating the multigrain nutrition bar in my coat pocket.
