Dr. Noah Hudson glanced at his home whilst he opened the boot of his blue Aston Martin and flung his coat and briefcase inside, delighting in the momentary catch of the closing mechanism as he swung it closed. The house’s many frontal windows glinted in the rise of the mid-autumn sun and, assured that no one had seen his routine locking of the alarm system, dropped himself into the driver’s seat, making circular motions around the leather of the steering wheel as he turned on the engine. Reaching the end of his shared driveway and pulling onto the road, Noah switched on the radio as he autopiloted his way to the hospital for his day to begin; the structure of his day now filling the emptiness of thought process.
As Dr. Rachel Honey crashed through the hospital door, cold handcuffs digging into her wrists and flanked by prisoner personnel, she noticed her pulse seemed to be rising as she sensed their destination becoming ever closer. The cold, clinical setting of the wards reminded her of the hospital where she had completed her GP training, along with the typical stark fluorescent lights that hummed above her. She concentrated on the number of lights she passed as she marched along the laminate flooring; 1 2…4…27. The parade had stopped, and she heard the mechanical clanking as the bolt was drawn back and the door was brought open; Dr. Honey marched inside.
She seemed to be in a darkened room, her eyes trying to fixate on the objects within in the haze of the morning light, shielded by the floor to ceiling drapes that covered the windows. These were dragged open by one of the officers and she was ushered into one of the chairs that faced a grand wooden desk, decorated with pens, notepads, and various stationary that any psychiatrist needed. She guessed that is who used the office. She remembered working alongside many psychiatrists during her four years of training, watching silently, and as they terminated the life of another suffering patient, the final blow being the threat of being sectioned. How the patients had groveled at the doctors for prescriptions, their lives plagued by endless suffering, only to remedied by an unfeeling man who sat in a cold leather chair opposite them. Pen to paper as he delivered the prisoners’ sentence; much like that of a roman emperor overseeing prisoners inside the coliseum.
Except it was now that she was sat in the seat of the patients, anxiously awaiting the arrival of her executioner.
Dr. Noah Hudson pushed through in a stance that commanded respect and power, for he was the kind of man who demanded a room as soon as he entered it.
“Good morning Dr. Hudson,” chorused a choir of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff as he made his way to the back of the hospital.
“Morning,” he remarked with each passing, his eyes connecting with those of the passer-by, almost extracting the soul of each, drinking in the emotions of others, ready to display to his elite clientele. Sadness, happiness, empathy. He was almost brimming with these second-hand emotions that he himself couldn’t understand. As he made the routine walk to his office, he pondered the problems of his patients of today. What would he be presented with? Or, as more customary, who?
Reaching the door of his office, he could hear the hushed voices scurrying to make his patient feel comfortable within the room. And the familiar metallic chinking of handcuffs against the metal armrests of his patient’s leather chair reminded him of some of his most dangerous patients, not that these had fazed him. In their world they were the predator at the top of the food chain, but in his world, they were but cattle, waiting to be herded into the correct shed, whether voluntarily or forcibly. He breathed in a deep breath, the smell of cleaning products filling his nose, and pushed down on the handle, his face flickering through his catalogue of emotions.
Upon his entrance to the room, the drapes that covered the large windows on the left side of the room were flung open, dousing the room in the golden lights of the morning sun. And he saw the face that would sit before him for the next couple of hours. He studied her face, trying to draw in any information he could deduce from the creases that were painted on her face. Alas, he could not. The very remarkable nature of her face was the fact that she herself isn’t remarkable, all for the exception of a small brown on the lower left side of her face. Her brown eyes almost stared back at him to do the same, whilst her muscular frame pulled at the restraints at her wrists.
“You’re no longer needed,” he said to the armed guards who stood sentinel around the chair.
“Are you sure, Dr. Hudson? Prisoner Honey is considered high risk.”
“I’m sure officer, I think that Dr. Honey and I would be best left alone. Don’t you agree Dr. Honey?” he asked. Dr. Honey replied with a small nod of her head, her eyes sinking to the ground. And with a small click, as the door closed, Dr. Hudson and Dr. Honey were alone.
Soon words began to pour from Dr Honey’s mouth. It was like all the pent-up frustration and anxiety had just taken hold of her mouth and was now releasing all her secrets, even the details that she’d neglected to tell the officers upon her arrival after her capture. She described all the years prior to her arrest, all the patients that she had exacted her mercy upon. Angel of Mercy, that’s what she called herself. She’d only selected her kills based on those who were suffering, people she could help. Just like in the Hippocratic Oath. She must alleviate suffering.
And as she finished, Dr Hudson reached into his bag. There was a click.