A wish

The white-haired doctor with the blood-stained coat and pants smiled maliciously as he brought the razor to his waiting patient's face. 'Now please answer me honestly this time, Mr. Beckett,' he said. 'I have been in this profession for over thirteen years, and I take pleasure in receiving input from clients. It helps me to know what hurts and what does not. Kind of keeps me ahead of the competition, I guess you could …

…do this to me, you can't effing do this! You're my patient, goddammit, do you hear me? You can't die! I haven't given you permission to!' He slammed his fist down hard on Jack's chest, hoping that somehow, someway, God would start his heart pumping once again so that the torture could go on indefinitely . . . so that the good feelings would never end. . . . But despite the doctor's best efforts, Jack Beckett got his wish.