I must admit that I have never done anything in my life perfectly well. It seems like my whole nature craves for imperfection, although my teachers often told me: “hey, boy, you are smart; your real problem is lack of self-esteem”. May be they had a reason but I know for sure one thing: whatever I do, I leave it unfinished, incomplete. I have never been brilliant at school or at medical college. I was always a way back behind my fellows. The situation did not change for the better after my graduation. I found a job in a god-forsaken hole – St. Andrew State Hospital – one of those state-run medical facilities that is supposed to serve for the good of the community and aid social outcasts who failed to break the vicious circle of poverty and buy medical insurance – a sheet of paper that allows its happy owners to benefit from achievements of contemporary medical science: efficient drugs, proper in-ward care, assistance and consultation of the best doctors, various types of diagnostics, pain control and what not. As the result they avail themselves of long and happy life.
Drunkards, drug addicts, the homeless and illegal immigrants are the most common habitués of St. Andrew’s. Every day they besiege the emergency room in stinking, noisy, meddlesome crowds. Lots of them are under influence. Every day, hour and even minute of work with them is a torture, mind-numbing crucifixion, moral rape.

The story started off a couple of years ago when chief physician announced that the government had embarked on a new cost containment program in the sphere of health care! In order to boost up efficiency of healthcare facilities and to keep costs down the Department of Healthcare mandated euthanasia and assisted suicide. According to new regulations any terminally ill patient or the one who has no financial possibility to pay for long-term or costly treatment has the right to claim lethal injection. If a person is mentally debilitated or unable to function (i.e. he or she is in an irreversible coma or dementia) the claim can be submitted by one of his family members. These new rules at last enabled me to wage war on all these losers that had been torturing me every day since I started to work in St. Andrew’s.
I remember my first injection perfectly well. My first patient (if I may say so) was a racked drug addict. A young male in his late twenties, it was an incontinent corps, ruined by toxins of modern, cheap, synthetic drugs. His restless contracted pupils stared at the prickle; dry, choppy lips articulated “no” and his body went limp. Next moment I understood that I was in the point of no return. I killed a person. This evil is irreparable… No one can bring him back to life. Still I tried to console myself. I tried to imagine how his family must have suffered. I told myself that this man was an addict and his life was not worth living. He was a sore for the society. He could do nothing but harm. And I was a doctor who helped to cure a social disease rather than a particular person.

When I came home his befuddled, lackluster eyes were haunting me all the time. I was thinking about what had happened over and over again. I knew I went down the slippery slope. Dull pain in the chest persisted; it was a reminder of my filthy treacherous murder. I breached the laws of ethics, I trampled on Decalogue. Like hundreds of my patients I found consolation on the bottom of the bottle. Good old Johnny Walker…
I lost the count of lethal injections that I had made since this first time. There were hundreds, may be thousands of them. My colleagues called me Dr. Death behind my back. At last I found a job I could do perfectly well. I did not make any effort to cure my patients any more. I urged them to sign the papers and sent them to heavens. I did not care about their diagnosis. I could provide with injection some Mexican or drunkard who had just a mere cold. My conscience became a rudimental organ; I didn’t adhere to it since it was suppressed by my ambitions and blind confidence in euthanasia as panacea that could help the society.

When you have the right to deprive somebody of his life you become overbearing and arrogant. All the rest are inferior. You think you are the law that rules over the foul of good-for-nothing people.
Administration of the hospital were all glad that a doctor, who could mercilessly kill even a child, was working with them, since they saved up thousands of dollars when patients accepted euthanasia instead of long term treatment. First time during many years St. Andrew’s accounts were in black. They raised wages and physicians started working with more “zeal” turning St. Andrew’s into a death factory. Application for euthanasia became a fairly simple procedure: a patient or his relatives submitted claim and in three hours the patient was on his way to morgue. There was no mercy and no regret, no one of tried to change patient’s mind. The machine was running smoothly without malfunctions until the day when I met her…

I saw her face in the crowded reception room. She had aristocratic features, slim figure and extreme dignity and self-confidence. She was an alien in this filthy world of unpleasant odors, swearing, obscenity and pain. As I was making my way through the mass of human bodies she smiled and kindly asked if I could help her. I led her to my surgery, we were followed by the shout like “hey why should she skip her turn?!!”
Her name was Alice she was of my age and she complained of pains in her chest. I observed her, made a couple of tests and diagnosed bronchitis. I prescribed her some pills and advised to stay in bed for a while. I could not but ask if it was possible to go out with her when she would recover. She agreed!
In a week we met again in a small cozy café in the down town. We were drinking cappuccino, smoking and talking about all kinds of things. Alice was an easy-going person, cheerful and gay like a spring morning.

I was head over the hill. I did not care about my brutal work at St. Andrew’s and did not think about my patients. Everything but Alice was immaterial to me. I started making plans about future about our mutual future, you know, family, children, a private house, holidays at the sea and all the other small things that usually make us happy.
But all these castles in Spain were ruined; they came to pieces when I found out that the person whom I loved so much was terminally ill.
Alice was again suffering from chest pains, she was terribly coughing. I thought to myself that it was again bronchitis but in order to be on the safe side I directed her to one of my college friends, he is a well-known pulmonologist. Numerous tests showed that she had lung cancer. I was shocked! I could not believe this. As a doctor a new quite well that if the illness had been diagnosed on the early stage Alice could have been successfully cured. But it was me who made a mistake.

For years I did nothing but these damn lethal injections. I was not a real professional, I was not a physician. I was a cruel executioner.
And now I have to watch my love dieing. I must look into her eyes, which already have a thin shadow of approaching death. I can not really help her. I spend nights and days beside her bad, trying to live down my mistake – medical malpractice – as they usually put it on TV or in press.
Yesterday we had a long difficult talk. Alice thinks it would be better for her and for us both if she dies before the disease will take her over. She does not want to suffer from unbearable pains. I understand her. If I were on her place, I would like to spend the rest of my life in agony and pains. As a medic I know that pain-killers are of no use in grief cases. They alleviate pain just for a while.
I made my decision. I will help her. I will do it, since I am Dr. Death and it’s the only thing that I do good.
This stupid disease won’t ruin our plans! We’ll be together! I’ll take two syringes with me tomorrow…