Mercy

John sat at his desk, running one hand through his thinning hair. It came away greasy; too many late nights at the office, too many fast food meals, no time to shower or wash his clothes. He’d been working late a lot recently, researching and considering.
His notes lay on the table in front of him, simplifying the dilemma he faced into solid black and white words, equally spaced and devoid of emotion.

20mg/kg thiopental sodium. Rapid onset, fast acting anaesthetic. Used in some countries as a ‘truth drug’ as it decreases brain function.
20mg pancurionium dibromide (Pavulon). competitive acetylcholine antagonist on neuromuscular junctions; or to put it another way, it will lead to total body paralysis in less than four minutes.

It read like a recipe. Add the ingredients, stir, and leave to set.
Inject the drugs, and within ten minutes, death will occur.


John had been treating Bethany for four years now. He could still remember the first time she had walked into his surgery pale and with shaking hands; he had known even before he examined her that something was very wrong. He himself had looked at the scan and seen the white tumour blossoming on the screen like some terrible rose. She hadn’t cried until she lost her hair; when he came to visit her one morning he found her curled up, wracked with silent sobs, clutching a handful of her beautiful black hair.

He had sat with her as she stared unthinkingly at the ceiling, the vomit-stained basin clutched in claw-like hands. In those moments it felt to him like he could sense the cancer spreading though her body; not as a mass of cells but as a cloud, engulfing all the life and joy within her. In last few months they had only spoken once; after that he had left her hospital room and retreated into his office.

Running his hands over his creased shirt, John turned slightly to look out of the window. The seasons were changing so quickly now, it seemed. Now it was autumn, and the leaves were blowing off the trees, circling around the hospital in a frenzy of auburn and gold, and finally slumping to the ground in soggy drifts. As he watched, a couple walked through the drifts. They were maybe twenty years old, with rosy cheeks and white smiles and the rest of their lives before them. The girl broke away from her boyfriend to leap into the pile of leaves, scattering them as she landed. Laughing, the man pulled her up and they embraced; having seen enough, John wrenched the curtains across his window angrily and sat back.

His notes mocked him; he didn’t even need them. 20mg/kg thiopental sodium,
20mg pancurionium dibromide, etched into his memory in solid black type. The repercussions rattled around his head, taking his breath away and drying out his mouth. Instant dismissal, unemployment, prosecution, lawsuits. He’d have all of that and more to look forward, as well as some of the choicer names he’d heard mentioned in the media. He would live, however, in the knowledge that he had freed Bethany, and it was that thought that forced him to his feet and over to the closet.

Shrugging on the white coat, John steeled himself with a deep breath, sucking oxygen into his tissue, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his veins. With shaking hands he opened up the locked drawer under his desk and drew out the two small glass ampoules: 900mg thiopental sodium, 20mg Pavulon. They went into his pocket, followed by a pair of medical gloves and two clean syringes, and he pushed the door open with clammy hands and followed the passage of the corridor without even thinking. The route to Bethany’s bed had been walked so many times that it felt to John as though he was following imprints rather than making his own way. Today the hospital felt threatening and empty, and part of him expected a security guard to apprehend him at every corner. Still he walked, one foot in front of the other, regular as clockwork, until he was there.

“John?”

Bethany’s voice was rough from disuse; she tried to sit up, but didn’t have the energy. He moved across the floor and put a hand on her back, feeling her bones through the thin nightdress.

“I’m back,” he said, fighting to keep the emotion from his voice, “If this is still what you want, I’m prepared.”

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes flat, and John was thrown back to the sight of the young couple in the park. That was something neither he or Bethany would ever have now.

“I’m ready to die.” she said hoarsely, knowing that he needed to hear it. The words still stung him as sharply as the first time he’d heard them and he rested his hand on her cold one.

“I love you,” she murmured. “Don’t ever forget that.”

John’s thumb traced the golden band of her wedding ring, trying not to let himself think back to their marriage and honeymoon. There had been so many wonderful memories, but all too quickly their lives had become grey and meaningless.
Pulling away in the knowledge that if he lingered much longer he wouldn’t do it, he settled the contents of his pocket on the sideboard. Bethany watched his every move with flat, tired eyes as he filled the first syringe.

20mg/ml thiopental sodium. That concentration multiplied by 45kilograms, all that was left of his wife, meant that the dose needed was 900mg, which all but filled the syringe. Biting his lip, he found the vein he was looking for and positioned the needle.

“Are you sure?” he asked, wishing with every fibre of his being that the answer was going to be different. His heart shattered as she nodded with a small smile, but he forced a mask of professionalism over his grief and slid the syringe into the vein through her papery skin. As soon as the drug was released he could see Bethany relax, her pain finally fading. Her eyes closed slowly and her breathing evened out, and at the same time monitors began to flash as her heart rate dropped. Fumbling slightly, John repeated the procedure with the Pavulon, unable to stop the tears rolling down his face. Her arm blurred in front of him but with surgical precision he levelled the needle and depressed the end. Emotionally spent, he sank back into the chair. Around him, machines beeped and hummed, telling him that her heart rate was plummeting, that her respiration was becoming laboured, that her nervous system was failing. He didn’t move until the noises stopped to be replaced with a long flat beep, one that he knew he’d have to live with for the rest of his days.

Calmly laying the syringes on the table, John straightened up and shrugged his white coat off, laying it over his wife’s still form. He ran a hand over her bald head and closed his eyes for a moment, before turning and leaving the room.

His feet guided him outside, and over to the pile of leaves he’d been watching earlier. Already it felt like the seasons were moving on; a cold wind chilled him through his shirt but he ignored it as he lay down and closed his eyes. The wind blew away his words as he spoke quietly to the memory of his wife, and finally he lapsed into silence before rising again and walking back to his office to carry on with the rest of his life.