I use the back of my forearm to swipe at strands of dark hair that have come loose from the tight bun at the back of my head. The attempt fails and the escaped locks fall back into my field of vision just as my glasses slide down the bridge of my nose. This is getting annoying—I wish I could use my hands to clear my vision. Unfortunately, my hands are clad in two pairs of latex gloves that are covered in preserved bits of Agatha’s insides. Agatha is dead. “Or maybe a figure skater…” I try to tune out the ramblings of my lab partner, Wendy Adams. It seems like Wendy’s irritatingly bubbly voice has been a soundtrack to every dissection I have ever done. It might have been more tolerable if Wendy offered to help. Instead, she sits perched on a stool, intently watching my handiwork. I’m tempted to rub my dirty gloves in Wendy’s face. “Anything but a doctor,” Wendy concludes. You’re not a doctor yet, I nearly point out, but I hold my tongue. I need to focus right now and the last thing I want to do is to get drawn into an argument.
What do You think about The Psyching: A Short Thriller?
