Suicide Med
Suicide Med
a novel by
Freida McFadden
Suicide Med
© 2014 by Freida McFadden. All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1500420536
ISBN-10: 1500420530
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Lauren
Part 1: Heather
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part 2: Mason
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part 3: Abe
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part 4: Rachel
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Part 5: Ginny
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Part 6: Dr. Conlon
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Part 6: Abe – Sublimation
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue: Carly
Acknowledgements
What do you call the guy who graduated medical school last in his class?
Doctor
What do you call the guy who graduated medical school first in his class?
Dr. Asshole
Prologue: Lauren
“I wish I had become a ballet dancer instead.”
I use the back of my forearm to swipe at strands of dark hair that have come loose from the tight bun at the back of my head. The attempt fails and the escaped locks fall back into my field of vision just as my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose. This is getting annoying—I wish I could use my hands to clear my vision. Unfortunately, my hands are clad in two pairs of latex gloves that are covered in preserved bits of Agatha’s insides. Agatha is dead.
“Or maybe a figure skater…”
I try to tune out the ramblings of my lab partner, Wendy Adams. It seems like Wendy’s irritatingly bubbly voice has been a soundtrack to every dissection I have ever done. It might have been more tolerable if Wendy offered to help. Instead, she sits perched on a stool, intently watching my handiwork. I’m tempted to rub my dirty gloves in Wendy’s face.
“Anything but a doctor,” Wendy concludes.
You’re not a doctor yet, I nearly point out, but I hold my tongue. I need to focus right now and the last thing I want to do is to get drawn into an argument.
It’s close to midnight on a Saturday night, and Wendy and I are the only two medical students in the first-year cadaver lab. I specifically chose this time, because I knew the lab would be quiet and free from any distractions. I was right—all I can see are rows and rows of dead bodies covered in a layer of clear, thick plastic to prevent desiccation; all I can hear is the whir of the fans working above my head. It would have been the perfect studying atmosphere if Wendy hadn’t insisted on coming along.
“I had a dream about Agatha last night,” Wendy says in a hushed voice, even though we’re the only two people in the room.
During the first week of anatomy class, we named our cadaver Agatha. I hadn’t wanted to name her—after all, this had once been a real person who had a real name of her own. But I felt silly voicing my objections, so I stayed quiet as the other members of my lab group tossed around name suggestions. It had eventually come down to Agatha or Medusa. I was relieved when the group settled on Agatha.
Agatha does seem like an appropriate name, somehow. “Agatha” is a frail old woman who has metal rings around her sternum and blood vessels grafted onto her heart. Of course, it’s impossible to know for sure, but I can make an educated guess that Agatha died of heart problems.
I try to imagine what sort of woman would make the decision to dedicate her body to a medical school. After everything I’ve seen this year, I know that’s one thing I myself would never do. The last thing I want is a bunch of snotty twenty-two-year-olds making fun of all my subcutaneous fat.
“Do you want to hear my dream, Lauren?” Wendy asks.
Do I have a choice? “I’m trying to learn the brachial plexus,” I mumble.
“It was so freaky,” Wendy says, shivering under her green scrubs. “I was lying in bed and I saw Agatha walk into my room. Alive. She was wearing this long, fancy dress, but the weird thing was that she had gloves on her hands. Then she told me…” Wendy leans forward, her blue eyes wide, “that she was going to dissect me. That’s when I realized that I was actually on a lab table and I was naked. And my abdomen was—”
“Listen, can we focus, please?” I snap. I don’t want to admit how disturbing Wendy’s dream is, especially in a deserted cadaver lab on a Saturday night. Since I started gross anatomy class, I’ve had many dreams that it was me or a loved one lying on the table before me. “Our final is Monday morning and I don’t want to fail, okay?”
“I’m going to fail anyway,” Wendy sighs. “I just can’t… focus.” She picks up the lab manual and flips through it. “This is like gibberish to me. It’s impossible.”
I hold up the musculocutaneous nerve between my forceps. The nerve is thick and yellow.
“I’m hungry,” Wendy announces. “Are you hungry?”
“You’re kidding. You want to eat in here?”
When I’m in the anatomy lab, food is the last thing from my mind. The smell of formaldehyde combined with the image of lacerated flesh is enough to kill any appetite I might have had. A few times, I’ve seen one of my classmates popping candy in their mouth and I’m always in awe.
“Of course I wouldn’t eat in here,” Wendy snorts, even though it wouldn’t have been the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done in anatomy lab.
I find it most bizarre that Wendy always applies a fresh coat of make-up just before starting lab. Although the uncomfortable heels Wendy wears to lab are a close second. I always wear sneakers and haven’t put on so much as lipstick in months.
�
�I’m going to the vending machines,” Wendy says. “You want something?”
“No,” I say. Take your time, I’m tempted to add.
Wendy hops off her stool and clip-clops out of the lab. I hear the heavy metal door slam behind me and the room is plunged into complete silence. It’s heavenly. I let out a deep breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.
Our final exam in anatomy is on Monday. It’s the biggest exam we’ve taken so far in the short course of our medical school career and I want to do well. I’m not as competitive as some of my classmates, but I hope to land a position in a good neurology program when I graduate. As part of our exam, we have to go around this very lab, identifying labeled structures on different cadavers. I have to know every identifiable structure back and forth if I want to do well.
It’s not that Wendy is a bad person, but I’ve always considered myself a loner. I prefer solitary activities and I hate when solitary activities turn into group activities. I definitely consider studying a solitary activity.
“Now it’s just you and me, Agatha,” I whisper. I add apologetically, “Although I know that’s not your real name.”
I dig my fingers into Agatha’s forearm, attempting to separate the muscles. When I tug on the muscle I’m holding, Agatha’s fingers curl into a partial fist. I shiver slightly.
I hear a loud noise and look up sharply. The door to the anatomy lab is opening slowly. I glance at a clock up at the wall and see that only a few minutes have passed. How could Wendy be back so quickly? The nearest vending machine is all the way across the building and Wendy always takes forever to choose a snack.
I squint through my thick lenses and see the unshaven face of one of my classmates. Wonderful. It’s bad enough that I have to share the lab with Wendy, but now there’s going to be yet another person here to distract me. Still, it’s pointless to get upset about it.
“Come to study?” I ask him, forcing a smile.
He’s dressed in filthy street clothing, which I find odd. Nobody wears anything but scrubs to lab. But he’s dressed in jeans and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his dark brown jacket. He walks towards me, his expression blank.
“Is it raining out?” I ask him.
I posed the question because his hair is so damp that it’s plastered to his skull. Then I reason that if it were raining, his jacket would be wet. His hair isn’t wet from rain—it’s sweat. As he approaches me from the other side of the lab table, I see a drop of saltwater trickle down the side of his face.
“Mason, what—”
Before I can complete my sentence, something dark obstructs my vision. I instinctively blink and take a step back. That’s when I realize that there’s a gun pointed at my face.
I feel my knees go weak and my bladder trembles. I grab on to the edge of the table, trying to keep myself upright. I lower my eyes and see Agatha’s mutilated corpse, clearly unable to offer anything in the way of aid. The gun is inches from my forehead and I can feel the heat radiating from it. Why is the gun so hot? What does that mean?
Oh God. I don’t want to die like this. Not here, not now. It can’t end this way. I know I’ve done some bad things in my life, but I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve this…
All I can think about is how pathetic it would be to die in anatomy lab on a Saturday night. The janitor will probably discover my body tomorrow morning. Will he even notice that I’m a medical student and not one of the bodies?
Wendy, where are you? Get your goddamn cheese doodles and come back here!
Of course, maybe Wendy isn’t coming back. Maybe he ran into Wendy first and she’s already dead.
“Please…” I whisper.
His eyes are as black and impassive as the barrel of the gun. When he speaks, his voice is flat and toneless: “Do exactly as I say if you don’t want to die.”
Part 1: Heather
Chapter 1
“Look to your left and look to your right.”
My eyes lift when I hear the words of our Dean of Students at Southside Medical School, Dr. Marvin Bushnell. He’s one of those men with a huge, Santa Claus-esque belly who sweats just with the effort of speaking. He’s been talking to us for about five minutes and he’s already got a shiny forehead and huge pit stains. But he barrels on, totally oblivious to the amount of fluid his pores are secreting.
I obligingly look to my left because it’s clear everyone else in the auditorium is doing it. Two seats over is a male student with a messy brown ponytail and a ratty leather jacket that smells of cigarettes and possibly some other illegal substance. I can understand not dressing up in a suit and tie for your first day of medical school, but I’d think at least you’d want to shower.
And now for the look to the right: that one is my new roommate, Rachel Bingham. Rachel is not looking left or right. Rachel is rolling her eyes quite dramatically.
I had this fantasy in my head that my med school roommate and I would become BFFs and we’d braid each other’s hair and have pillow fights, et cetera. So far, I’m 99% sure Rachel hates me. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it’s something about the way she’s looked at me since she arrived a week ago in our shared suite, her stringy brown hair falling in her face, ripped jeans held together by the grace of God, and only a single suitcase to her name. Of course, you can save a little bit of room in packing if you don’t bring along any bras, a decision that I’m pretty sure Rachel has opted for.
I turn my attention back to Dr. Bushnell, who is about one passionate speech away from a serious cardiac event.
“In four years,” he says to the hushed crowd, “both of these people will be physicians.”
Well, duh.
Rachel snorts audibly now. I try to flash a friendly smile in her direction, but she’s having none of that. She rewards me with another eye-roll and I focus my attention back at the dean. Fine, Rachel won’t be my friend. I’ll find another friend in the class.
Probably.
“It’s not true anyway,” Rachel hisses in my direction.
I raise my eyebrows at her. I’m so pleased she’s talking to me that I don’t even care that she’s speaking over the dean on our first day of medical school.
“What isn’t true?” I ask.
“We won’t all be doctors,” she says. She tucks her dark brown hair behind her ear so that I can actually get my first good look at her deep brown eyes.
“We won’t?”
Rachel laughs. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
Her lips curl into a slightly evil grin. I think my roommate may actually be genuinely evil. Are people really evil in real life? Or just in comic books?
“In every class,” she says, “ten people flunk and need to repeat the year. Five drop out, never to return. And of course, every year there’s always one…”
Now she pauses and draws an ominous line across her thin white neck with a well-chewed fingernail.
“One what?” I prompt her.
Rachel frowns at me. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Rachel shakes her head. “Why do you think the school is nicknamed Suicide Med?”
I did not know that.
She can’t be serious. She’s just messing with me. She’s just pissed off that I left too many bottles of moisturizer in our bathroom. (I have really dry skin.)
Dean Bushnell is saying something that I completely missed and I hear a round of applause. I need to start actually paying attention and quit my doomed attempts to befriend my roommate. The dean shifts away from the podium and another man walks up to take his place. This man is far younger than the dean, maybe in his late thirties, but he carries an old man quad cane in his right hand and walks with a pronounced limp.
“Hello,” the man says, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. I can’t help but notice he’s wearing a bowtie. Who wears a bowtie in everyday life? “I’m Matt Conlon, your anatomy professor.”
Right—Dr.
Conlon. When I interviewed here at Southside, the first years had been singing praise about this guy. “Dorky but really fun,” they’d said. “He’s the best thing about first year.”
Up on the stage, Dr. Conlon is now gesturing wildly as he describes how totally awesome anatomy is.
“The human body makes perfect sense,” he explains. “It’s the most perfectly constructed machine in the world. And after you finish my class, you’re going to understand how that machine works, inside and out. And you’re going to realize how amazing it is.”
I don’t even need to look at Rachel to know that she’s rolling her eyes.
“Thank you for letting me act as your guide on this incredible journey,” Dr. Conlon says, and he gives a little bow.
Really, he bows. God, could this guy be any dorkier?
Following Dr. Conlon are a string of other professors: an elderly guy with a monotonic voice who will be teaching us biochemistry, a wild-haired female epidemiology professor, and a short dapper man who will be jointly teaching physiology and histology. Lastly, a thin forty-ish woman wearing a sharp blue dress suit steps up to the podium.
“My name is Dr. Patrice Winters,” she says. “But you can call me Patrice. I’ve been acting as the school’s wellness counselor for the last two years.”
Have you ever met a person who you just disliked instantly? For me, that’s Patrice. I don’t know what it is about her exactly. Maybe it’s the way her make-up is applied so perfectly and not even a single hair in her pixie cut is out of place. Maybe it’s the way she talks to us, like we’re a bunch of children who need to be told what to do. Maybe it’s her voice, which somehow grates on my very soul.
“Whatever happens to you,” she says, “I’m here for you. My doors are always open. No matter what’s going on in your life, I want to be there for you. Just think of me as a big sister.”
Rachel leans in toward me now and whispers, “You know why they hired her, don’t you?”
I’m afraid to hear the answer to this one. “Why?”
“They don’t want any more of us offing ourselves,” she says. She shrugs. “It doesn’t seem to matter though. Every year for the last six years, someone has done it.” She hesitates, then adds, “Well, except for last year.”