This time, I knock on Tracy’s door forcefully. Today is day three—the day Tracy Wilbourne is supposed to begin her disease-ridden journey toward death, a death by my hands.
I don’t care if I’m supposed to diagnose her today; I don’t care if I’m supposed to touch her; I don’t care that it’s not 12am or 12pm. To hell with the rules. To hell with Franco and Joseph and whoever else wants to play Joseph’s little game. What good is following the rules when they make you a target?
As I’m knocking, I think I hear a voice other than Tracy’s, but I can’t make out the sound clearly enough to see whose voice it is.
I keep knocking—now lightly—not wanting the person on the other side of the door to stop talking. I listen closely to the voice again. It is distinctly male. Joseph. He’s in the apartment sitting next to her. Close to her, talking almost directly into her ear. She looks like she’s been woken up from her sleep, but every flyaway hair is in just the right place. Her oversized t-shirt is hiked up on her smooth thighs since she is sitting. She’s staring down at her coffee table while Joseph speaks, so I can’t quite read her expression.
Why had she let him in? Joseph can tell by the sound of my knocks that it’s me at the door. He’s purposely trying to keep her from answering. When my knocks become more frantic, she gets up from the couch to answer the door. Joseph puts out his arm to stop her from going toward it. He nearly touches her.
I lose it.