The blade touched his beating heart

That was it! It was from the Marlowe play, Doctor Faustus.

He hurried to his bookshelf and threw books aside. He found his copy of the collected plays of Marlowe and went thumbing through it desperately. There! Act Five. Right at the end. As Faustus is about to go to hell. It came when the Bad Angel is tormenting him.

Wow. Decuir … or at least Decuir’s Id . . . had read Faustus.

He carefully put his notes in a folder. This, he knew, might well be the answer to all his prayers. He could go to Morris and say, here, look, I’ve found something important. For that, they might even let him stay in the program.

Delighted, he poured himself a half-inch of wine in a juice glass and toasted the long dead Decuir. Murderer and a bastard you may have been, but you may have saved my bacon.

He went to bed and, for the first time in months, went to sleep easily.

Until…

Three a.m. He woke with a start. He’d had some kind of horrible dream. He couldn’t remember the details. It was something about being torn to pieces. And his whole committee had been there—Forrester, Morris, Putridrine, all transformed and somehow horrible.

He switched on the light beside his bed. He knew what the dream meant. It didn’t matter what he gave them. They wouldn’t let him stay in the program no matter what he did. He was doomed.

Well…

He got up, put on his robe, and went into the front room. Maybe he’d make warm milk. It might help him sleep. He put some in a cup, heated it in the microwave, then sipped it meditatively.

Well, best face facts. They were going to kick him out of the program…or at least make him rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite until he left in frustration. Okay. Fine. He’d get a job somewhere. Maybe he’d teach at a private school. He’d save money and then, in a couple of years, he’d try again at another university. This time, he’d be careful about who he’d have on his committee.

The milk was good, but didn’t seem to make him any sleepier. He put the empty mug in the sink. It was good, he decided, to have a plan. At last he was facing reality and ready to move forward. And further …

…what was in the pocket of his robe? He put his hand in and…ouch! … something bit him. What the fuck? It was the paring knife! How on earth had that gotten in there?

He decided it must have somehow fallen in when he had put away his cup. He put the knife back on the counter and held paper towel to his finger until the bleeding stopped.

He still wasn’t sleepy. A shower, he decided, might help. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower in the tub. He let the water run while it heated up. He loved the peaceful sound it made.

Yes, it was good to have a plan. He didn’t feel great, but at least he knew what he had to do. He had to take charge. He needed to move forward.

He took off his robe and hung it on the hook on the inside of the door. Something went “clunk.” What? More cautious than he had been before, he checked the pocket. Damn! It was the knife again.

He must—he thought—have caught it with the sleeve of his robe when he put the mug away. It must have fallen back into the pocket. Weird. Oh, well, he decided, he’d just put it back when he came out of the shower. He left it on the back of the toilet tank so he wouldn’t forget it.

Nude, he stepped into the water. Yesss. That was the ticket. The hot water caressed his neck and his back.

Everything would be all right, he decided. It wouldn’t be great. It wouldn’t be easy. But, he would get things done. In the end, it would all work out. Just a matter of time.

And thinking thus, he reached out from behind the shower curtain, took the knife from where it rested on the back of the toilet, stabbed himself in the stomach just above the groin, and then in a single ruthless motion, slit himself open from gut to lung. The blade touched his beating heart.

Yes, he thought, as he collapsed into the tub, everything will be just fine.