Ch.59: The Paralytic

I walk over to the IV pole.

The bag is still hanging there. The clear, innocent-looking fluid.

Rocuronium.

The paralytic. The chemical chain that kept me a prisoner in my own body for months.

I check the line. It’s primed. No air bubbles. Aris taught me well. He taught me everything about how to maintain a specimen.

I drag the pole over to the bars. I thread the tubing through the gap.

Aris hears the wheels squeak. He goes rigid against the restraints.

"What is that?" he demands. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking your vitals," I say. My voice is cold. Clinical.

I reach through the bars.

He tries to pull away, but the straps hold him fast. He is spread wide, helpless, just as I was.

I find the vein in his arm. It’s bulging, pumped full of adrenaline and fear.

I don't bother with a numbing agent. I don't bother with an alcohol wipe.

I jab the needle in.

Aris screams. "No! Don't! Elena, please!"

I tape the line down. I check the flow.

"You're dehydrated," I observe. "Your veins are rolling."

I walk back to the control unit on the wall outside the cell. The digital display glows green in the dim light.

**DOSAGE: 0.0 MG/HR**

I tap the screen.

"Do you remember the dosage, Aris?" I ask. "Do you remember the exact amount you gave me? The amount that kept me paralyzed but fully conscious? The amount that let me feel every cut, every stitch, every time you touched me?"

"I'm sorry!" he sobs. "I'm sorry, Elena! I was wrong! I'll fix it! I'll give you the money! I'll give you everything!"

"You already gave me everything," I say. "You gave me this."

I punch in the numbers.

**10.0 MG/HR.**

Too low. That was the maintenance dose.

I want the induction dose. The amount used for rapid sequence intubation. The amount that stops the lungs in sixty seconds.

But I don't want to kill him. Not yet.

I want him to wait.

I set it to **50.0 MG/HR.**

Enough to freeze him solid. Enough to stop his diaphragm eventually. But slow enough that he'll be awake for the fire.

I hit **START**.

The pump whirs to life. *Click-whirr. Click-whirr.*

Aris gasps. He feels the cold fluid entering his vein.

"Elena!" he screams. "Don't do this! I'm your husband!"

"You're my surgeon," I correct him.

I watch his face.

The panic in his eyes—his blinded, diamond-dust-filled eyes—turns to terror.

His jaw works, trying to form words, but the muscles are already stiffening. The drug is fast. It hits the small muscles first. The face. The fingers.

His fingers stop twitching. They curl into claws.

His head lolls back against the pillow. His mouth hangs open, a silent scream frozen in his throat.

His chest is still heaving. He can still breathe. For now.

But he can't move. He can't speak. He can't close his eyes.

He is a statue. A monument to his own hubris.

I walk up to the bars. I look at him.

I should feel something. Pity. Regret. Triumph.

I feel nothing. Just a cold, hard finality.

The fire alarm is still blaring in the distance. The heat from the hallway is creeping into the room.

I check my watch.

**03:00.**

Three minutes until the gas main ruptures. Three minutes until the sub-basement becomes a bomb.

"The fire is coming, Aris," I whisper. "Can you feel it? It's going to be warm. It's going to be bright."

I reach through the bars one last time.

I touch his cheek. His skin is cold, clammy.

"You wanted to be with your creation," I say. "Well, here I am."

His eyes track me, frantic, pleading. He is screaming inside his own head. He is begging for mercy, for death, for anything but this.

I pull my hand away.

"Now you sleep, Aris."