Beauty and the Beast Within Ch. 02

"Headaches? Yes. Oh. That's right. I remember now. You're the one who complained about those horrible headaches," he said.

Needing for him to remember her, she continued reminding him.

"You told me that there was nothing wrong with me. You told me that I was a hypochondriac," she said with anger. "You told me to see a psychiatrist to have my head examined," she said wanting to say that I should have had my head examined why I'm seeing you instead of a real doctor.

"A brain tumor your size is definitely the reason for your discomfort," he said ignoring what she just said.

Even though she thought she was prepared for this news, the worst news of her young life, she wasn't prepared to hear that she was going to die. She was stunned. She thought of all the things that she still needed and wanted to do. Where some terminally ill people want to jump from a plane, scuba dive, or climb a mountain, she just wanted to write her erotica.

If anything, now that she was dying, and now that she thought more about it, she always wanted to experience a gangbang and participate in a circle jerk. Now that she was dying, she'd love to have lesbian sex with a stunningly beautiful woman who had big, firm breasts that stood as proud as the young, naked women that Hemingway wrote about while envisioning them on an African coast beach. Perhaps it was her brain tumor that soured her mood and made her food taste so terrible. Twisting her thoughts and turning her disposition to poisonous, not willing to go out alone, if she was going to die, she thought of all the people who she'd like to take with her for all the things they've done to her. Finding much satisfaction in crossing out names that appeared on her death list, she thought of her ex-boyfriend being crushed by the subway train. Obviously she would have had more satisfaction if it was her hand that pushed him instead of someone else's shoulder.

"In the way that he could read so very many books in such a short period of time, sometimes I feel like John Travolta in the movie Phenomenon," she said voicing her thoughts and not remembering if she voiced it before or just thought it now. "Could the brain tumor be the reason why I've been writing so very many erotic stories?"

She looked to give her the answers to all the questions that she had.

"John Travolta? The actor?"

"Yes."

"Sorry, I don't watch movies. Brain tumors affect the brains in ways that we don't even yet know. We know so little about the brain," he said preoccupied with seemingly something else after he gave her disinterested shrug. "You write erotica?"

"Yes," she said and depending upon his reaction unsure if she should be embarrassed or proud.

"Interesting," he said giving her no reaction at all. "A bit farfetched but yes, erotic writing could be one of the side effects of you having a brain tumor. We still know so very little about the complexities of the brain."

'Some doctor he is,' thought Susan. 'Bad enough that he doesn't know all that he should know about the human brain and about brain tumors, he doesn't even care that I'm dying. Dead woman walking, I'm going to die,' she said to herself. 'I'm dying. I can't believe I'm going to die all because of the lack of medical care from this incompetent asshole. I told him that I had terrible headaches more than two years ago and because I didn't have medical insurance, he did nothing, absolutely nothing, about them. He could have saved me then instead of verbalizing my death sentence now.'

"Just so that I fully understand, it wasn't migraines as you diagnosed when I first complained to you about headaches," she said. "Is that correct?"

"Migraines? Is that what I told you?" He looked at her chart. "Oh, yes, of course, migraines. That's right. I remember you now," he said. "The pain of brain tumors sometimes mimics and resemble the pain from a migraine. It's difficult to tell one from the other without a CT scan and, without you having health insurance until now," he said with a shrug and an arrogant, little laugh, "we were unable to run such tests to determine what was happening in your head."

Not even giving her the satisfaction of an apology, he showed more interest in his die cast car than he did in her.

"I see. Please stop playing with that fucking toy car," she said pausing as if having a hard time to think. "And you told me that I was hysterical," she said wanting to be hysterical now on his incompetent ass.

As if she was making it all up, he looked at her with surprised shock.

"Hysterical? I did? Did I really say that to you? I don't think that I'd call you hysterical for having a bad headache," he said backpedaling and moving his toy car backwards and to the side as if parking it.

"You did," she said.

"I'm sorry if I said that. Really I am but I don't recall saying that," he said finally giving her somewhat of an apology. "In hindsight, if I indeed did say that, that was insensitive of me," he said. "Your complaints were genuine and your concerns were valid," he said. "Sometimes the patient knows as much if not more than the doctor does," he said with a plastic smile and an arrogant, little laugh. "You're the one living in your head and not me."

With her brain in a tizzy and the questions that she needed to ask not coming to her, she asked the important one that came to her mind but one that he had already answered.

"Is there no way that you operate to remove the tumor? Are there no medical advances on the horizon that--"

"Operate? No, I'm afraid not. You have an inoperable brain tumor," he said. "Fully formed, it's the size of a small grapefruit. It's as if you have a tarantula squeezing your brain to death."

He moved his hand to mimic a tarantula squeezing her brain to death.

"I see," she said, even though she didn't and couldn't believe his diagnosis and her dim prognosis.

He leaned over his desk to address her as if he was talking to a child or someone who was mentally challenged.

"Allow me to illustrate. Think of your brain as my hand and your brain tumor as if a giant octopus that has embraced your brain with all of its tentacles," he said holding his hand up and encapsulating his hand with his other hand. He nodded his sad expression of understanding while, no doubt, wishing that he was the Hell out of there so that he could drive his superfast Ferrari superfast. "Had we discovered the growth of the tumor earlier—"

With her face turning a beat red, she stared at him wide eyed.

"Earlier? Had we discovered the growth of the tumor earlier," she said emphasizing the word 'we'. "How much earlier? Do you mean two years earlier when I first complained to you about the headaches but didn't have any health insurance. Is that what you mean by 'we' discovering the brain tumor earlier doctor?" She emphasized the word 'we' again. "Would that had been sufficient time and soon enough to save my life doctor?"

Playing again with his die cast car as if he was imagining driving his Ferrari, he didn't even look up at her to acknowledge her question?

"Yes," he said in a low voice as if his mind was miles away. "But—"

Not letting him off the hook, she needed to say all that she needed to say.

"But what Doctor? You had your nurse practitioner tell me to take two aspirin. Doing more to exacerbate my bleeding stomach, a lot of good taking two aspirin did for my brain tumor," she said. "You told me to take Aleve, Tylenol 650, and prescribed Tramadol. Between all of the Naproxen and Acetaminophen that I took, is it any wonder that I nearly died and ended up in a hospital bed."

As if he wasn't listening to her or didn't care what she said if he did hear her, he looked at her with a face without emotion.

"I'm sorry," he said with insincerity.

She looked at him with a face full of anger and rage.

"Sorry? You told me to rest," she said raising her voice.

She wanted to reach across his desk and choke him. She wanted to grab his die cast car and impale it in his eye. She wanted to damage his brain by beating his head with his telephone in the way that he ruined her health. Maybe at the very least, she give him ringing in his ears.

"I know and I'm—"

Not allowing him to get a word in, she was determined to have her say.

"You told me to exercise. You told me to meditate," she said yelling loud enough to give him a splitting headache. "You told me to take up fucking Yoga to relax!"

As if looking right through her, the doctor looked at her as if she wasn't even there.

"I'm sorry Sarah. Really, there's nothing that I can do," he said looking uncomfortable by the confrontation.

"It's Susan. My fucking name is Susan! At least you could get my name right," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Say it! Say my fucking name," she said.

"I'm sorry Susan," he said.

Instead of continuing to upset herself by getting angry, she gave him a sardonic smile.

"Maybe there's nothing that you can do but there's something that I can do to you. I can sue you," she said.

He returned her smile with his arrogant smile.

"Sue me? For a missed diagnosis at a time when you didn't have health insurance for me to order the tests that you needed to make my proper diagnosis?" He laughed. "Good luck with that. That's your prerogative but, I'm sorry to say, long before you lawsuit made it to court, you'd be dead," he said with arrogant smugness. He was such a prick.

They remained in an uncomfortable silence with him looking at his watch as if he was about to ask her to leave. Susan sat silent and motionless while picking her question to ask.

"Tell me straight," said Susan. "How long do I have?"

Hoping to have a long enough time until they discovered a new cure or operation for inoperable brain tumors, she looked at him with hope and he looked at her with boredom.

"How long do you have? That's impossibly difficult to say. It could be next year, next month, next week, or tomorrow," he said with an insensitive shrug. "It depends."

"Thank you doctor. Then there's no need for me to keep my next appointment," she said standing to leave.

Abandoning his toy car, he stood from his desk.

"I can make you comfortable," he said.

Now it was her turn to give him the arrogant laugh.

"Drugs? You want to give me drugs? You want to blur the last few days of my life. Oh, no. I don't want your drugs. I don't want to be comfortable. I want to remain angry. I have things to do doctor," she said removing her death list to hold it high in the air. "I have people to see and places to go and the last thing that I want is some drug making me a moron like you."

She looked at him still hoping that he'd come up with a better alternative.

"There are other prescriptions that I can prescribe for the pain that are—"

She looked away from him to gather her things in readiness to leave his office.

"No thank you doctor, you've helped me quite enough already. You've given me the motivation that I now need to carry out my plans," she said leaving his office.

* * * * *

"Famed neurosurgeon Dr. Paul Martin was killed instantly today when the Ferrari he was driving left the mountain road, crashed into rocks below, burst into flames, and exploded. Investigators are collecting pieces of the car to see if it was a mechanical failure, excessive speed, or a combination of both that cause the doctor to leave the road," said the nightly news reporting reading the news.

As part of their investigation, the police analyzed the security tapes of the hospital garage where the doctor's Ferrari was parked. They found some brake fluid but with so many cars using the parking garage and with that specific parking space not reserved for Dr. Martin's car but for other doctor's cars as well, they were unable to tell if the brake fluid came from Dr. Martin's car or from someone else's car. Seemingly just an unfortunate accident attributed to high speed, it was a sad shame to prematurely lose such an accomplished man.

Nothing overtly suspicious, perhaps she was standing there smoking a cigarette, albeit even though she didn't smoke, but there was a tall, blonde woman standing by the back of his car. Unable to get a good enough picture of her, the garage was dark, the video was black and white, and the picture was too grainy to enlarge. Besides, whoever she was, she was mostly concealed by a pole.

Case closed.

* * * * *

Doctor Johnson had his nurse contact Susan for an appointment. This time after receiving bad news, the worst medical news that anyone could get, he gave her some good news.

"With the sudden, unfortunate, and untimely demise of Doctor Martin, I've been assigned his patients and when going over your chart, I've made a horrifying but happy discovery," he said giving her a smile.

"Yes, what is it doctor? What did you find?"

"Your chart was accidentally switched with another patient, an older woman, Sarah Parker who has since died of her illness. The results of your tests belong to someone else," he said.

"I don't understand. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you don't now have a brain tumor. You never had a brain tumor. I'm saying you only have a bad headache that's caused by a nasty sinus infection and inflammation. My nurse will give you the medicine that you need to feel better," he said.

Susan sat in her chair stunned. She murdered two men because she thought she was going to die. Not wanting to go alone, she was ready to take whoever else was responsible for her miserable life to Hell with her. Now that she didn't have a brain tumor and wasn't going to die, she was happy, especially after raiding her ex-boyfriend's apartment and making off with enough cash, jewelry, and other personal items to allow her to live a comfortable life.

THE END