Page 33 of Rage

Peterson stands there.Wild eyes bloodshot.Clothes rumpled, dark stains spattered across his shirt.My stomach lurches.Blood?

In his hand, a scalpel.The blade shines against the harsh fluorescent light, glinting with deadly promise.

“Hello, Dr.Beckham.”His voice is eerily calm.A shark’s smile.“Time we had a little chat, don’t you think?”

My throat closes.Panic claws at my chest.I force it down, squaring my shoulders.“Dr.Peterson.You shouldn’t be here.”

He laughs.The sound grates like broken glass.“Oh, but I should.You see, we have unfinished business, you and I.”

He takes a step closer.I hold my ground, even as every instinct screams to run.“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.“It’s over, David.You need to leave.Now.”

His eyes narrow.The scalpel twitches in his grip.“Over?”he snarls.“You think you can ruin my life, my career, and just walk away?”

“You did that yourself,” I snap back.Anger overrides fear, fueling my words.“You’re the one who harassed women.Who abused your power.Who beats your wife.”

Peterson’s face contorts with rage.He lunges forward, grabbing my arm.The scalpel presses against my throat, cold and sharp.

“Shut up!”he hisses.His breath is hot on my face, reeking of alcohol.“You don’t know anything.You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?Little Miss Perfect, with your fancy degree and your biker boyfriend.”

The blade digs in, a pinprick of pain.I swallow hard, feeling it slice deeper.“David,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm.“Think about what you’re doing.This won’t fix anything.”

He laughs again, a bitter, broken sound.“Fix?Oh, it’s far too late for that.But I can make sure you never forget me.That none of you do.”

His grip tightens, bruising.The monitors behind us beep frantically, Mrs.Peterson stirring on the bed.Peterson’s eyes dart to her, then back to me.

“Now,” his voice is whiny, his voice coming out in pants, “we’re going for a little walk.And if you make a sound, if you try anything… well, let’s just say there are a lot of vulnerable patients in this hospital.It would be a shame if something happened to them.”

My blood runs cold.I nod, once.Peterson smiles, all teeth and madness.

“Good girl,” he purrs.“Let’s go.”

He drags me toward the door, the scalpel never leaving my throat.I swallow hard, my mind racing for a way out of this.But Peterson blocks the only exit, and Mrs.Peterson lies helpless behind me.I’m trapped.

“David,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me.“You don’t want to do this.Think about what you’re risking.”

He laughs, a harsh, brittle sound.“Risking?I’ve already lost everything.My job, my reputation, my wife.”His eyes narrow, hatred blazing in their depths.“And it’s all because of you.”

“That’s not true,” I counter, taking a small step back.“You did this to yourself, David.Your actions, your choices.”

“Shut up!”he snarls, advancing toward me.The scalpel trembles in his grip.“You turned everyone against me.You ruined my life!”

I raise my hands placatingly, my back now pressed against Mrs.Peterson’s bed.“David, please.This isn’t going to solve anything.Just put down the scalpel, and we can talk about this.”

For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him.His hand wavers, the scalpel lowering slightly.

Then his face contorts with rage.“No more talking,” he snarls.“It’s time you learned your lesson.”

Peterson lunges forward, trying to push me ahead of him, but I dig my feet into the floor, throwing my arm up to push his hand that’s holding the scalpel away from my neck.

I throw myself to the side.The blade misses my throat by inches, slicing the sleeve of my scrubs instead.The fabric tears, and I feel a sharp sting as it grazes my arm.

I stumble backward, knocking over a tray of instruments.The crash echoes through the room as metal clatters against the floor.Peterson’s eyes are wild, filled with a manic rage I’ve never seen before.He advances again, his movements jerky and unpredictable.

“You ruined everything!”he screams, spittle flying from his mouth.“My career, my life!”

I dodge another swipe of the scalpel, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.The room seems to spin around me as adrenaline floods my system.I’m acutely aware of every sound—the steady beep of Mrs.Peterson’s monitors, the ragged breathing of her crazed husband, my own pulse roaring in my ears.

“David, please,” I plead, my voice shaking.“This isn’t you.Think about what you’re doing!”

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