The Alcoholics Read Online Free Page A

cap upon her brown brushed bright hair.
    Last night was just a beginning. It was just a sample of what she would give him. It was his fault, and…
    And why wait until tonight?
    In the long hospital day, there is no firm conjunction of one shift with another. Their edges come together raggedly, notably with the ending of the night and the beginning of the day. Feet drag; there is much thoughtful drinking of coffee. Departures are prompt, arrivals late or present only in the flesh. Six o'clock, for all practical purposes, means six-fifteen or six-thirty.
    No harm comes of this circumstance. Patients who have not rested well are now fatigued and asleep. Those who have rested are well able to wait upon the satisfaction of their needs and wants. And, naturally, where a real emergency exists, it will be promptly-if sleepily- provided for.
    Patient is in convulsions? Oh, God, another one? Well, give him paraldehyde-two ounces. Paraldehyde orally, ACTH intravenously.
    Patient is in a coma? Caffeine, benzedrine, oxygen.
    Patient's heart has stopped? Nicotinic acid. Jab your finger up his butt.
    Patient is violent? Hyocsin, restraints.
    Then…?
    Nothing then. That is all, brother. We can only sprinkle talcum over the cancer. Convulse if you must. Remain in your coma. Let your heart stutter and stop. You won't die, not permanently; only for a few hours, days, a week. The great crazy-colored snakes will coil around you, crawl lazily from your eyes, your ears, and mouth and nose. And you will slide around the wall of your room, clawing, and striking and screaming, and your heart will fail and your eyes glaze and your limbs will stiffen. And you will be dead-but not dead. Only dying. And for such a short time, brother. Think! You need only die this death for a maximum of a week. And then it will all be over… until the next time… But, to return to Lucretia Baker, R.N., the sanitarium was still silent as she crept out of her room. The halls were still empty. She breathed quietly, listening, and heard only the faint, faraway clatter of Josephine and her kitchen utensils. She closed her door without a sound. There were only three rooms in this wing of the house; her own, the diathermy and X-ray chamber, and Room Four. Moving swiftly down the hall, her footsteps silent on the ribbed rubber matting, she paused briefly in front of a heavy oak door with a single nickeled numeral. Then, she pulled the bolt-there was no lock on the inside-and thrust all her weight against it.
    She opened it just enough to allow her to enter; and once inside, she blocked it open with a small wooden door-stop she had brought from her own room. That would allow her to leave quickly-to hear anyone coming up the stairs. And she didn't need to worry about him . He couldn't call for anyone.
    The room was windowless. The walls and floor were of underpadded canvas. The one item of furniture was a low, formicatopped table, its legs bolted to the floor .
    He lay on the table, an oval oblong of damp white sheets, held in place by the straps which also held him motionless. Miss Baker inspected the wrappings and was momentarily frightened. Someone had re-done them. That Judson! Would he…? But they wouldn't think that. Why would anyone think that about her?
    She looked down at the white-bandaged head, held level with the cocoon of sheets by a stack of pillows. Van Twyne's eyes were open. They looked unblinkingly into hers in a blank uncomprehending stare. Then, they blinked, and something crept up through the blankness.
    He recognized her. He knew what she'd done. But he would not remember long; and, at any rate, he was virtually as powerless to speak as a newborn baby.
    He was a baby, in fact. A big, old mean helpless baby. Couldn't even talk, the nasty, lazy thing!
    Terror was crowding into his eyes, stretching the lids, making the whites greater and greater. They rolled in his head, wildly. And his lips moved, his mouth opened and closed-in silence.
    Miss Baker laughed