Building 8 “The Final Treatment”

“It took all of what I had left to finish cleaning up the blood. I was skittering on the edge for hours at that point, my mind sharp as a razor for what felt like an eternity. By the time I got to the cleanup my body was wracked with tremors and my pulse was in my ears.

I knew that if I was going to make it out of the night alive that I would need to watch, to remember all of it. If I didn't, if I flinched and looked away, she would know.

And that is something she wouldn't tolerate.

She said that she had warned him, and that he had ignored her, that she had told him that he was to always remember what he took from her, and that he was to be alone.

She had me look up a song, one meant specifically for her and her alone. It was Adagio in G Minor by Albinoni. I have never liked classical music, but as she worked on him I could see the fire in her eyes. There was something...beautiful about it, about her,

as she prepared for surgery.

There was a tray she laid out with all the tools she thought she would need and a few she thought she wouldn't.

She laid them out all the same.

“Sometimes you need to improvise,” she instructed. “The flesh can fight you in unexpected ways, even with a material you have worked on before.”

I started screaming, as I realized what she was.

I think he wanted to scream, but she took that from him.

She started her work...started to cut...and I just couldn't...

look away...”

Michael died in the hospital last night. I didn't even know he had been there until the police came to my work to talk to me. They said that I was one of the last people who he had talked to besides his nurse.

From what I could gather, the doctors did all that they could, but it was remarkably little. What was left of Michael was held together in ways that should had killed him or put him in into shock.

They say that he was awake for the entire 17 hours he spent in the hospital, and that since they weren't able to get the toxicology results quick enough, there wasn't enough they could do for his pain.

But even if they had I doubt it would have helped. There simply wasn't enough tissue there to really give a real estimate of how much of whatever cocktail they would give him would be applied. According to his nurse, his last listed weight on the day of the attack was around 160.

At the hospital he was weighed again.

He weighed 100 pounds exactly.

His nurse didn't tell me what Margaret had done to him, but had said that Margaret had made clear that I needed to know why she did what she did.

The poor nurse...I think she didn't know or fully understand what he had done.

He was always a manipulative man.

I won't/can't condone what was done...I just don't understand why she felt she had to explain it to me.

I understood completely.

Maybe in the past that knowing would have bothered me, but it doesn't anymore.

I am exposed to darkness all the time through the displays, and I find it easier as the months pass to empathize with these stories. It's what I am supposed to do, to get the human element so I can share that with visitors, but it just seems to come naturally to me.

I considered taking another personal day to try and process all of it, but I realized that it wouldn't be fair to everyone if I ducked out. There are a lot of new displays being put up at the museum, and they just told me that I was having a change in my responsibilities. A promotion with a decent raise, but it is a weird title.

Curator.

I know what a curator is, but we already have someone who oversees all the work that is being done here. I would understand if the person was getting on in years and they needed to train someone up, but she is only 46. She is nice enough, and seemed confident in my abilities.

I suppose I do know what I am doing since I do spend most of my time here.

Maybe my misgivings sound stupid or even a little silly. I mean, a promotion is a promotion, and I would be foolish to turn down such a position when offered.

Eric told me when I was first taken on that the reason he hired me was because I was overqualified. I mean, how many people choose to work at a museum full time at my age, let alone have a bachelors in cultural anthropology. When I really think on it, I can see why they think I am a good fit.

My dad was really excited when he heard, and I can't say that he didn't convince me for a little bit that it is the right thing for me. This is after all what I have been working for for all these years. All my schooling and stuff was done with the intent to work here. I won't deny that I maybe hoped that I would get to get a bit higher on the ladder with time but it has only been (checks notes) a little over five months.

I haven't even had my six month review?!

It's whatever. If they find out they are rushing things a little, they just unpromote me or something. I know that isn't how that works but it is either that or I get to feel blind panic for the next couple of months lol.

Eric says that the rest of the employees were thinking to have a little get together to celebrate, with of course social distancing considered.

I can't remember the last time, if ever, that I have had so much support in what I am doing. It is nice. There really is a closeness with the people here that makes it feel like a home away from home.

I have been wishing for rain, and thankfully it finally got cloudy and broke the heat. It should be raining by the time I get home.

I should arrive just in time to share in a rainwater cocktail.

P.S- I took a look at those pictures sent me. You are right! There is definitely something under the water by the docks. The water is too murky to make out any details. I does look like a face, but that could be a trick of the light.