If You’re Afraid Of Death, You’ll Never Want To Hear What Happens When It Doesn’t Quite Take

My patients’ families were usually there to see them through and take over the dark festivities as soon as I administered my juice, but Big Jim’s daughter was a no show. All I got was a note on his front door which said she got called into work and would be by after I left. Must be a hell of a place to work.

With my bag empty, I gathered my things, tipped my cap at the big man and headed to the door. Until I jumped at the sound of a phone ringing on the kitchen table. I looked over to the cell phone resting next to Big Jim and considered answering it for a second before turning away.

I was just about at the door when second sound paused me in my steps. A light meow followed up with a soft brush upon the leg of my trousers kept me inside. I looked down to see a creamy, orange tabby cat rubbing up against my calf.

For some reason the animals my patients left behind always seemed to hit me the hardest. I bent down to pet the cat. Checked the collar. His name was Steve. I gave Steve a few more pats before I stepped out the door with faint tears in my eyes. I’m not made of stone, I swear.

There was a time when I was controversial, but society swayed heavily in my favor the past two decades. There used to be debate about whether or not I should go to prison, whether or not I was a murderer, but now I had to turn down interviews because I no longer had the time or need for positive press as opposed to ducking reporters day in and day out. Never saw that coming.

The world was a different place and I was now allowed to help terminally ill people like Big Jim die comfortably in peace in their own homes and no longer had to fend off death threats and 20/20 hack jobs while doing it. Putting Big Jim to rest on a rainy Wednesday morning was just business as usual for me now.

Well, that’s what I thought.