"My plan worked. A liquid injected into the veins of children-yes, children, unwilling, screaming, crying children-to prevent them from contracting communicable diseases. Hate me if you want to. I never asked for your forgiveness. When I was just a boy, I watched my parents die before my eyes. Polio. I vowed to get my revenge. And I didn't care who I helped or how many lives I saved along the way."
"Where is my conscience, you ask? Never had one. I've been too busy dressing wounds. Conscience is for cape-wearing amateurs who haven't yet recognized that they are, at their core, just like me. Broken. Weary. Numb. Band-Aid toting. Come and get me, so-called heroes. Because I'm about to strap you to a gurney and apply an ice pack to your throbbing head. And the whole time I'm going to laugh while asking what your kid has been up to."
I injected a liquid into children's veins without consent to prevent communicable diseases, prioritizing revenge over moral qualms. I watched my parents die of polio and vowed revenge, and saving lives became secondary. I wear a surgical mask and scrubs to disguise myself and to shield from covid, proclaiming I have no face or conscience. I view conscience as useless and describe myself as broken, weary, and numb. I threaten so-called heroes and officials, asserting control with nurses and detailed medical records, documenting patients' histories and preparing to intimidate and restrain those who oppose me.
Read at The New Yorker
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