This was written in one sitting, no editing (yet).
It was the screaming I wanted to stop. Confined as she was to the bed, it still grated in my head, over and over and over and over and over again. Ever increasing, never stopping. Never, ever stopping. Even during the respite I afforded her, I could hear the screaming, when no noise came from the small room. I can see the room from where I am reading the paper. Down the end of a corridor, scrubbed clean, doused with antiseptic, cleansed of all dirt, germs and anything that could infect. I don't like infection. That would spoil my plans. In the same way her incessant screaming is interferring with my plans. In the same way her entire life has interferred with my plans. But it has come to here, and now, and she is in the room and I am not. A single flourescent tube cackles in derision above me, mocking my attempts to forget about the room, the corridor, her, the future. The future that has yet to be decided. How did I get here? It was her fault, she asked for it. Her decision, not mine. I was just a bystander. Everything she is going through, she brought on herself. And she deserves it all. Folding last week's newspaper, I lift the sterilised scissors from the dish beside me and stand up, stretching and narrowing my eyes down the gloomy corridor, towards the single room that hasn't moved, is still there. My gloved hand, feeling slick with whatever compound they add to the inside of surgical gloves, sweeps the air, moving imaginary insects from my line of sight, left, right, left, right, the flash of the scissors reflecting the light only when the tube is alive. There is nothing in front of me, I am sure, all entrances have open-barred electocution devices to stop, and kill anything from reaching this point of the complex. But a nervous tic is a nervous tic, and all rituals must be completed before I enter her presence again, so I swipe the air one last time. And it very much is a court visit. She, on her throne, on the bed, in charge of proceedings she can't control. I would like to say I control them, but I don't, I will only finish them. Finish them in a flash of gaping blades, cutting the final wound, severing the life connection. It is for this I am preparing. It is for this, which I wasn't ready for, in which she made the choice, not me, not me, her choice, it is for this I am willing to step forward and be counted. To be the alpha male, to prove it was me, and I can take it to completion. To prove I am worthy. My steps echo, in the way steps do down a long corridor. Her screams have returned, probably as she can hear me coming. She asked for it, though, and I willingly gave it to her. And more than once, too. I never even thought of myself. She deserves this. This is her reward. Do I need to say it again? I cling to the idea, all the same, it comforts me. Actually, as I approach the door, my foreboding is lifting, I think I will enjoy it. There won't be much blood, I have researched the procedure, and I think it will be clean, if noisy. Sure, there are after-affects, but nothing I can't handle. For that, though, I need another knife. Another knife. I forgot that. Did I bring one? Did I leave it in the room with her? That would be a mistake, a big mistake on my part. But she hasn't moved from the bed, and in her state, pain by now racking her entire body, with no relief, she couldn't. So she can't have seen it, tied to the bed now more through pain, suffering and stretching beyond her limits, unable to get up and free herself, than physical restraints. Her vision must be blurred with the violence of the pain and hatred by now. It must be. My knife will be there. No need to count primes, to practise my breathing control, it will be there. My doctor said I overplay the worry, I shouldn't give into it. So I don't. I don't look back, I don't consider getting another knife. I hold the scissors tighter, then relax, tighter, relax, and feel the calm flow through my head. I can see clearly again, I know what I have to do. With my knife second, and scissors first. The door isn't locked, there is no need for it to be. Why would I lock it? She isn't going anywhere, there is only me. But that is a lie, I do have a willing accomplice, she will return with the needles presently, in case we decide to go down that route. I could tell stories about her, she could tell stories to me, of the times she has done this before, but never with me, this is special, this time, this place, this woman, us. All of time have converged on us, her, me, me, her. A trinity joined in a single point of pain. I can hear the clatter of a trolley, with its collection of needles, vials and dishes, even some alternative knives if we need them. A smile passes her face, with an incline of the head her fringe falls over one eye. I almost consider her as another willing victim, but only briefly, as my mind returns to the room, the bed, and what is about to come. But maybe next time, if this doesn't work out, I could change, attach myself to my accomplice. There are possibilities there, she more-or-less said so herself. Maybe not in so many words, but I can tell. The doorknob is brushed brass, spherical and doesn't turn in one motion, but jerks and slips as I rotate it. The door slides noislessly, opening with less effort than it took me to turn the handle. There is more light in this room, having windows allowing the almost-full moon to shine in on the scene. And the scene that is before me is different from the one I left. When did I last come in here? No more than an hour ago, to check she was still with us, that the pain hadn't overcome her. It would be an unfair ending if either of us were to miss the climax. She is sweating, whether through the pain, or the exertion, I don't know. Her hair is matted, dark and limp by the sides of her face. She is wearing a shrift of some sort. I don't remember her changing. Did I help with that? It seems so long ago since I put her in this room, but it can't be more than a few hours at the most. The fraught journey, loading her into my small car, restraining her from the initial stabs of pain, not inflicted by me, of course not, she brought them on herself. A few hours? Is that all? And she is already in this state? Why is she so weak? I move to draw her hair away from her face, but she snarls, lashing out at me with razor sharp talons, grazing my skin. I jump back, glad that she didn't see the knife on the sideboard. The sideboard that, apart from the bed, is the only other piece of furniture in the small room. Don't do that, I say quietly, I am only here to help you. The pain will be over soon. She screams an obscenity, at me, at the world, at God knows what. But it really is her own fault. I show her the scissors, and she whimpers. The door opens again, and the trolley of implements appears before the blonde, all smiles, ready to enjoy and savour the final push. For we are in the home straight now, we all know it. We all know it. There is no sound, but we can imagine it as the blonde taps a small flask, inserts a hyperdermic into it and draws back the plunger, dragging the liquid into the chamber. Just one shot, to help at this point. You'll still know what is going on, and be able to see, just enough of an effect to keep you with us, watch the fireworks, and not miss the fantastic conclusion, the conclusion we all know is going to happen. We are all smiles, her with the needle, me with the scissors. We can ignore the screams, that have just started, we can ignore the obscenities, as we know what is coming, as does she, as we have told her, before we took her to this room, to this, her here and now. Pain has a funny way of bypassing time. All she knows is pain, this moment. It would be cruel of us to prolong it, but this moment is all hers. Telling her that doesn't help. Does pain affect thinking? I would have thought it provided clarity to the world, the edge of life and death giving an insight I don't have. Can't she appreciate what a blessing we have given her? She isn't showing much clarity, becoming more incoherent as we get closer to her moment. I look again at the scissors, and can feel the rush as the time of my participation gets closer. Blonde assures me we are close now, I can hear her over a single elongated primeval scream. Her breathing has changed, too, deeper, more accepting. Good, the end must be closer than ever. She drops her head backwards, onto a thin and grey pillow, rolling her eyes towards the top of their sockets. Just while I was enjoying the quiet, she thrusts herself forwards, grabbing my arm completely, both her hands unshakeable from their vicelike grip. Panic hits me for the first time. I don't want to share her pain, we have done all this for her, all the pain should just be hers. I can feel her nails, slowly, inexorably, continually working their way into my flesh. Moving deeper, causing me discomfort, then actual pain. Red hot, the same colour I made her paint them. She should always look good, regardless of where she is. I have told her this, and she obeyed. Even growing to enjoy it, I reckon. Maybe I should share this final moment. Blonde has set the syringe down, mewed in her ear that she doesn't need the relief, it will be all the more special through the halo of positive pain, because at the point, so very, very close to the end, that is what it is. I decide to relax and join our agonies, poles apart in intensity, but both our own personal closures. The room is spinning, a mixture of sound, blood, finality and pain. My pain, her pain. I reach for the scissors, I can sense it is now. Voices mingle in the tiny room, meat and bone crunch, coalesce, separate. The final separation is mine, I make the final curtain call, me and my clean connected double blades. Me. I do the final act. Baby is in my arms, mother is spent on the bed. Both have come through, I am a father.