The body was unmoving upon the table as Doctor Medea prepared the necessary fluids. She observed the man’s chest rising and falling as he breathed. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t have much longer to live either.
“This…isn’t easy for me,” she remarked. She never knew why she insisted on talking during these things. They never listened. How could they? “You must understand…doing what I do…it’s never easy. But it must be done.”
She talked for herself, she reasoned. It was like the spoonful of sugar that made the medicine go down. It made her feel better about herself, and blew off some steam in the bargain.
She injected the fluid into his veins, and he started struggling, his eyes bulging. He tried tearing his hands from the table, failing because they had been run through with screws drilled through them. His frenzied screams were muffled by the duct tape over his mouth.
“Die, you worthless bigot,” she snarled. The body fell limp. She lingered a moment to verify it, then quietly left.