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  Her other choice was to keep breathing, eating, bathing, dressing; living like everyone else did. She could get out of this hospital, in time. She could take medication for depression; work diligently to forget Vincent. Tell herself over and over that she was crazy, until she believed it. Grow up, find a man, have a family.

  Dulcee pondered these ideas for only a second, maybe less, before her soul screamed within her. She knew the scream had come from her soul, and was contrite that her mind had betrayed her spirit. These thoughts were cut from the same cloth as the lack of faith that landed her in this cage.

  "Never!" she whispered in rage. "Vincent, only Vincent."

  Lyle arrived at work early, as did Perry. A fifty-dollar bill was exchanged without a word in the staff lounge with the silent understanding that the case of beer was to come later. Not only would it look suspicious, but also alcohol on the hospital grounds was a big No-No, unless you wanted to lose your job on the spot.

  Perry hefted his fat body up to his post, relieving the day shifter of his last five minutes of work. Lyle went about his patrolling as he usually did, waiting for lights out and the halls to clear. Anytime he passed someone on the staff, he felt his heart begin to thrash around in his chest.

  Dulcee turned out her light and got into bed fully clothed, with the exception of her shoes. She lay in bed listening to the dying sounds of the insane drifting into their disturbed sleep, and waited for Lyle.

  As the night wore on, Dulcee wondered if he had lost his nerve. Lyle, however, did not lose his nerve, but decided to err on the side of caution. He paced the halls until one thirty. By the time Lyle came to Dulcee’s room she was trying hard not to fall asleep. He opened the door and shut it behind him quietly.

  Dulcee sat up. "Did you get the things I asked for?" she whispered.

  Lyle nodded and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Dulcee flicked on the reading lamp and examined the things he had placed on the table, a razor blade, a syringe, and a small glass bottle of prescription insulin. The prescription was Lyle’s mothers.

  "Are you sure there's enough?" Dulcee asked, still whispering.

  "Yeah, I’m sure. Are you sure you want to do this? There are other ways, you know. It won’t kill you."

  "I know what I’m doing," Dulcee argued. "I’m not trying to commit suicide. I made that clear in my note."

  "I just don’t get it," Lyle admitted.

  "It’s not important that you do," Dulcee stated. "I just need you to help me. I don’t think I can inject myself."

  Lyle’s eyes flew open, "Whoa! I never said that I would help you shoot up. Do you realize what that would mean for me if we get caught? The world will think this was some angel of mercy, assisted suicide attempt."

  Dulcee snorted. "Lyle, don’t you realize you’ve already crossed that line? You’ve brought me the goods, it doesn’t matter now if you help me or not."

  Lyle took a step back from her, looking like she had just smacked him in the face. "You really aren’t crazy."

  "So?"

  "Well, why don’t you just get out of here then? The doctors will realize that you’re not crazy and they’ll release you." He was almost pleading with her.

  Dulcee squinted up at him in confusion "This is what has to happen. If you would like to leave now, I won’t stop you. But you aren’t stopping me."

  Lyle gnawed at his bottom lip for a moment, looking at her. She was so beautiful. He hadn’t come this far to not receive his reward.

  "Alright," he conceded, coming forward and picking up the bottle and syringe getting ready to inject her. "The coma will be irreversible. You know that?" he asked, drawing the liquid into the syringe.

  "Yes. I know," she whispered slowly, smiling.

  Lyle shook his head, tapping the needle, squirting a small amount into the air.

  "And what is that for?" he asked, inclining his head toward the razor blade on the table.

  "That’s for after," she said.

  "After what?"

  "After you’re done with me."

  Lyle nodded, not really wanting to know what she wanted it for, and thrust the needle into her arm. When he removed it, he set the syringe on the table and turned his full attention to her body. Dulcee cringed away from his touch and began to cry. Lyle tried to ignore her reaction but it jangled his nerves. He was used to women being more than willing, and he had never forced himself on anyone. He thought maybe once he warmed her up, she would respond like his other women.

  Lyle leaned down and pressed his lips to Dulcee’s mouth. Her lips pulled taut over her teeth and she began to shake so violently, Lyle pulled away.

  "I can’t do this! Please!" she whimpered.

  "We had a deal."

  "I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!" she wailed.

  "What?!"

  Lyle looked at her closely and realized she wasn’t even talking to him. Her eyes were glazed and she was looking right through him, as though she saw someone standing behind him. She reached her hand out to the invisible person, tragedy in her eyes.

  "Vincent, forgive me…"

  "Who is Vincent?" Lyle demanded.

  "I couldn’t see any other way. I’m trying to get back to you. Forgive me. I belong to you, only you."

  Lyle grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Dulcee’s eyes rolled sickeningly. "What is wrong with you?!" he shouted.

  She batted his hands away and turned toward her bed. She pulled the snow globe from under her pillow and held it up to her face. Dulcee pressed her lips to the glass.

  "Good bye," she whispered to it.

  Lyle backed away from her and watched, dumbfounded. Dulcee held the snow globe over her head with both hands and refocused her gaze back on Lyle.

  "I won’t live under the glass anymore!" Dulcee yelled, and threw it to the floor. It shattered at her feet. "You were right. You were the door."

  Lyle was about to run for it when Dulcee slumped, sitting down on her bed. For the rest of his life, he wished he had run at that moment, because nothing could ever erase the image of her from his mind, when he finally did go.

  Dulcee lay in her bed face up, her eyes closed. The insulin coursing through her veins was sending her into a sleep no one could ever wake her from, and blood was saturating the front of her shirt. Lyle had watched in horror when Dulcee had picked up the razor blade. Without even flinching, smiling in fact, she had slowly pressed the blade into her flesh, pulling deeply up and down on her breastbone, rending the initial V over her heart.

  The few things Lyle had brought, he took with him when he left, the syringe, the bottle and the bloodied razor blade. Lyle fled, confused and afraid, certain he would fry for this.

  On his way out, he passed Perry sitting at the monitors. Lyle averted his gaze and hurried past. Perry, flabbergasted by what he had witnessed, alerted Dr. Phelps once Lyle was gone. By the time the cops arrived, Perry was more than prepared to squeal.

  The phone rang early, jerking Dr. Verell out of sleep, and into an instant hangover. Her head hammered as she fell off the couch onto her hands and knees. She intended not to pick up the phone until she heard the hysterical shouting of Jean on her answering machine.

  "Pick up the phone! NOW! Pat! Something’s happened! Pick it up!"

  She staggered to her feet and tottered her way over to the phone. The tone of Jean’s voice brought her instantly to sobriety.

  "What? I’m here. What’s wrong?"

  "Dulcee," Jean wheezed. "You better get here as fast as you can, Pat! I mean fast!"

  Jean hung up and Dr. Verell dropped the receiver. She headed out of the door instantly, still fully clothed from the previous day. Her head was whirling as she sped to the hospital. What had Dulcee done to herself? She knew yesterday, she knew something was going to happen, but she was too self-centered to have done anything about it.

  Dr. Verell screeched her car to a halt in the hospital parking lot and ran inside. Every one of her colleagues was waiting for her to arrive. They were all st
anding around in little groups, like onlookers of a train wreck. And there was a patient in hysterics, being wrestled to the floor by three large orderlies.

  "Blood! Blood! Blood!" the crazed woman hollered. "She bleeds in her sleep! She can’t wake up! She can’t wake up!"

  The nearest doctor injected her and she fell limp within ten seconds. The police were there, huddled in the hall, blocking Dr. Verell from Dulcee’s room. The sight of the police made her grow cold with dread. She passed Jean and grabbed her by the arm.

  "Is she dead?" Dr. Verell demanded.

  Jean jerked her arm angrily from Dr. Verell’s grasp. "No. She’s in a coma."

  "A coma! How the–"

  "Dr. Verell?" a police officer had come up beside her.

  "Yes?"

  "Come with me please."

  The officer took a hold of her arm and led her through the group into Dulcee’s room. The horrible sight burned itself into her brain.

  After a long, grueling questioning by the police, in which lots of lying was done, Dr. Verell was notified by the hospital director that she was going to be suspended. For the rest of the day, the hospital seemed to have a muffle over it. People moved through the halls in silence, even the crazy ones. Dulcee was moved from her room by noontime to the infirmary. The large initial carved into her chest was stitched up and an IV was now giving her nutrients. Dulcee’s uncle had been notified of the incident by the police.

  Dr. Verell shut herself in her office. She had been reduced to a stray kitten, no home, no marriage, and no career. She had been suspended for a full year. Limply she wandered around her office, placing things into a box. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were puffy. The whole thing was her fault.

  When she had finished packing her office, she plopped down into her chair and gazed out of her window. The afternoon sun was warm and orange on the front path to the hospital. She looked and looked at it, her eyes sliding out of focus. Then something happened that brought her back to herself. A long shadow was coming slowly up the walkway.

  Dr. Verell got up and went to the window. The sun was behind the figure, creating a black silhouette. Something lurched inside her stomach. She turned away from the window her heart thumping in her ears.

  "It’s not possible," she said aloud to herself.

  She looked down at the notebook that was setting on the top of her desk, shaking her head.

  "It’s not possible!" she insisted.

  She sat down again, and before she realized what she was doing, she had pulled a mirror from her purse and was fixing her hair and applying lipstick. The beep of her intercom sent a chill through her and her hand was shaking almost too violently to push the button to respond.

  "Yes?"

  "Yeah, Dr. Verell, there is a Mr. Vincent Sands here to see you."

  "Send him in," she rasped.

  Dr. Verell pinched herself really hard, stood up, forcing herself to not faint. He opened the door without knocking and shut it behind him. She couldn’t breathe. It was really him. It was Vincent. His presence filled the whole room. Here was the most exquisitely alluring human that had ever walked the earth. He was exactly the same as he had been in her dream, to the last finite detail. There was no way she could've guessed his age; he seemed to have no age. Not old, not young, but an eternity of experience lived inside him. He was perfectly at ease while she stood rigid as a post.

  He looked around the office for a moment until his eyes fell on Dulcee’s notebook. A sad smile broke across his perfect face.

  "I need to see her, Doctor," he said.

  His voice was deep and soft and the very sound of it made Dr. Verell want to swoon. She didn’t think she could answer so she just nodded and walked toward the door where Vincent was standing. He opened it for her and as she passed him, her shoulder brushed his chest. A burning electrical surge went down her arm. She walked swiftly down the halls with Vincent at her heels, leading him to Dulcee. She was sure she was going to vomit.

  When they entered the infirmary, Vincent stepped past her and rushed to Dulcee’s side. Dr. Verell stood off giving him a little privacy, though she was carefully watching and straining her ears in case he spoke.

  Vincent didn’t look sad, he looked severe as though in deep concentration. He held her left hand in both of his and kissed the scar on her ring finger. He went through a series of very strange actions. He rubbed and kissed both of her palms; he touched both of her closed eyelids with his index finger, and held her hand to his chest. He whispered something in her ear, and finally leaned over and kissed her mouth.

  He stood a long time at the foot of her bed, having one last look, and then turned to face Dr. Verell, who was watching intently. She was thinking that she would have been willing to trade places with Dulcee, to have Vincent kiss her mouth like that.

  He strode past her again and held the door open for her. She walked through it and led him back to her office. He held the door for her again and after he closed it behind himself, he locked it.

  Dr. Verell stood next to her desk, leaning against it for support, and Vincent sat down in the chair. She was a stiff ball of nerves. She waited for him to get mad, erupt into a fit of tears, and shout that it was her fault, but he just sat there looking at her.

  "So?" he asked her lazily.

  Dr. Verell swallowed hard, finding it difficult to speak to him. "So, what?"

  "You want to ask me something, are you going to or not?"

  "Oh, I uh. Yeah, I…Well," she sputtered stupidly.

  Vincent sighed impatiently, "Just get it over with."

  She snatched Dulcee’s notebook from the desk and clasp it to her chest.

  "I want to know about this," she said.

  Vincent gazed at the notebook, "What about it?"

  "How much of it is true?" She was lightheaded.

  "True? What are you really asking me?"

  "How much of it actually happened?"

  "All of it," he answered defiantly.

  "Oh, no," she whispered.

  Vincent surveyed her as she went through emotions. Her mind was flitting through recent memories of Dulcee, dreams, therapy sessions, and her own wrongdoings.

  "Don’t be sad for Dulcee. I’ve given her dreams more beautiful than anything that can be found on this earth. It’s what she wanted. It was her choice, and I’m there with her. But now, let’s talk about you."

  "Me? What are you going to do to me?"

  He stood up, advancing on her slowly. Predator. She dropped the notebook, trembling with fear and adrenaline. Yes! She thought. This is what I want. Destroy me.

  "I’m knocking on your coffin, Trisha. The coffin you live your life in."

  He opened his arms to her and she fell into them without a second of hesitation. The whole world vanished as he ran his fingers through her hair.

  "Who are you?" she asked breathlessly. "What are you?"

  His eyes flashed blue fire.

  "I’m the Sandman."

  The End