Black Monday [Archive]

T. Morgan

02-05-09, 08:15 PM

(Solo. This is the 'gun quest'. Enjoy.)

The stainless steel of my Beretta glittered under the soft light of my electric lamp. It was a 9 millimeter, semi-automatic, that had a clip which carried eight rounds on a good day. It didn't have the stopping power of a .357 magnum, but it had the accuracy to make up for it. It still had two copper slugs, custom-made, left from last night, which on any other day I guess I could consider a bonus. Eight rounds, three people dead. Two left. But, today, I'd only need one to get the job done.

With my hand upon the firm, black leather grip I felt a tense moment of anxiety wash over me followed by a violent shudder. I wasn't ready. Not being able to look at my gun, I set the ugly thing back onto my desk and reached for my shot glass and the bottle of whiskey that sat off to the side. I had to get good and drunk before I followed this through, and even as I tipped the bottle and watched the golden-brown whiskey splash into my glass, my hands shook. I didn't have the nerve yet, even after seven or eight shots in the last couple of hours. Which, I guess, if I didn't do myself in soon, the booze would shock my liver into finishing the job.

I had been sitting in the bedroom of my apartment for hours, and since lost track of time, not bothering to check my watch to keep up on it. The place was a mess. Empty bottles, discarded trash and magazines cluttered up most of the room to the point I was lucky I hadn't caught sick from living in my own filth for the past week. I had normally not taken very good care of myself and rarely cleaned up, but this was low, even for me. I remember reading off a pamphlet somewhere, probably at Lu'Aville-- My sister's place -- that the quacks they call doctors over there would say that the way I'm living now would be a 'strong indicator that a loved one is suffering from suicidal depression'.

Two weeks ago when I had read it I said it was bullshit. Today, I'm not so sure.

Tipping back my glass, I closed my eyes and drank deeply. My throat was already raw from the fiery whiskey but had long since gone numb from the other strange effects alcohol often had. Only once the booze hit my gut did my brain even register that I had drank the stuff at all in the first place. It was a weird feeling, but it passed. Setting down my glass, even without thinking straight, I knew if I wanted to do this right it'd have to be my last.

In about ten minutes I was going to put my hand upon the grip of that gun again and see if I could force myself into trying again. By now, most people would be asking me 'Why? Why are you doing to this all to yourself, Morgan?'. Again, two weeks ago before I fell into this death spiral, I'd have agreed. It wasn't something that I convinced myself of overnight.

On my desk, pocked with circles of coffee stains and chunks of eaten food laid the letter that had started it all;

November 15th
Office of Doctor Paul Jonns
Lu’Aville Sanitarium

Mr. Morgan,

As promised, I'm writing to update you on your sister's current condition should anything peculiar arise. Although treatment of her consumption has been difficult, during your last visit, I remember telling you that we had finally gotten it under control through radiotherapy and the new medication I put her on. It is with great regret that I write to inform you that Kristina’s condition has progressively worsened since your visit. A day after you left, your sister suffered a serve string of seizures and vomiting—I had originally thought this to be one of the normal side effects of the radiotherapy and took action, but with further investigation we found that her tumor has metastasized and has begun to spread towards the center of her brain.

These tumors, malignant as they may be, often grow like plants with their roots invading various tissues and corrupting them. Unfortunately, it isn’t so much the spreading to be the worst news but the fact that the tumor on her temporal lobe is growing at an alarming rate. Because the skull cannot expand with the growing tumor there is pressure building that damages healthy brain matter and is causing a blockage of cerebrospinal fluid.

This increase in intracranial pressure is what has us so worried. Although we’ve taken measures to relieve the pressure by drilling holes in her skull in order to stabilize her, we’re afraid that we aren’t equipped to halt the growth of her tumor for much longer. We’ve made her comfortable and given her the proper medications to bring her seizures under control and stop the vomiting, but there is not much more we ourselves can do at the sanitarium.

Though I’m sure you of all people are getting tired of hearing the word after all these years, her condition is terminal. My prognosis is that she will not survive the coming months without a miracle or some sort of radical treatment. I’m referring to the treatment you’ve violently opposed for the last three years.. the temporal lobotomy. Now I know you’ve taken the advice of my colleague, Dr. Monsk, to heart that she’ll become a human vegetable if we perform this operation, but I would like to reassure you that isn’t the case. I urge you to revisit this option because this might be the only thing that could save your sister's life.

But, I must warn you that we might even be too late for this treatment to work because of the consumption beginning to taint other parts of her brain.

I would give it some serious thought, Mr. Morgan and weigh your options heavily. We at Lu’Aville Sanitarium send out our deepest condolences and invite you to be at your sister’s side no matter what it is you decide. Kristina is a fighter, Morgan, and I have all the faith in the world that you’ll reach the right decision.

Whatever you decide, young man, I would do it fast.

My sympathies,

Dr. Paul Jonns

For almost eight years, my sister had been fighting a losing battle with the sickness she had in her brain. She and I must have spent our entire inheritance on different treatments to help buy her more time for a cure. Some worked, most didn’t. That was the way a sanitarium worked these days, operated by second-rate doctors who took on patients who rightly didn’t belong there but actual hospitals wouldn’t admit. I never took much stock into them anyway, since the first one to actually diagnose her right with this shit more than eight years ago said she'd be dead inside of six months.

Fucking quacks.

But, this is serious. Occasionally one of these bozos would get something right, and even though I hated to admit it, I began to saw that Kris didn't have much time left. And that was what really scared a hard-nosed crook like me. She's the only blood I've got left, and if she dies, what will become of me? I couldn't live with that. Fixing my eyes back on the semi-automatic, I remembered through my drunken haze the real reason I was about to blow my brains out. It wasn't out of cowardice or depression or some sort of psycho-crap people like Dr. Jonns would have you believe.

No, no this was about money.

To put it short, I had myself insured years ago from one of the biggest creditors in the city, Don Gregory, and in the event of my death a shitload of money--about 15,000 crowns--will be awarded to my sister to help keep her on her feet. Though suicide is a kind of wishy-washy gray area in the policy, I know my gang would make Gregory honor it.

Though I'm sure many people think it'd be used it to buy that lobotomy for my sister, less than half of what she'd be awarded, the answer is a firm no. I've visited parts of the madhouse where they keep their fleshy vegetables locked away. The kind of people who drool and stare into space endlessly, not even able to clean up whenever they shit themselves. I won't put my sister through that and would never expect her to ask for something so terrible.

No, instead, I'd be buying her into a program with some kind of experimental treatment I heard about in another part of the country. The best doctors, top of the line care, and the best medicine money can buy. All the crowns gets her a seat. Of course, I wouldn't be around to see it through, but wouldn't that be a better gift from her big brother than a go-ahead for one of those clowns to cut her head open? Staring hard at my gun, a big part of me already knew what the right choice should be.