Antidote

And the poisons we give ourselves.

It’s true what they say, anything will kill you at the right dose. But finding the right dose can be tricky. There are factors to consider: height, weight, age, pre-existing conditions, stomach contents, delivery system, the potency of the poison… I respect a skilled poisoner, it’s a craft that takes scientific precision, patience, subtlety, and a sadist’s eye for suffering. Not to mention an encyclopedic knowledge of toxins, where to find them, and what they do. Poisoning is truly an art.

All this because I was, coincidentally, out in my poison garden the day this particular client came by. The garden is behind the cabin and bounded by magic, only to keep the forest animals safe, humans can be my guest. I grow hemlock, castor bean, nightshade, aconite, delphinium, hellebore, strychnine, oleander, lily of the valley, the rosary pea, foxglove, wormwood, yew, rhododendron, and many more. It’s nearly as big as my vegetable garden. Most who wander in there, become fertilizer. And it is a tempting place, with bright flowers and graceful shrubs, there’s even an inviting little bench and a flagstone path. I made a cute sign, too.

I was shaping the yew as I don’t like unkempt shrubs, when the dogs, lolling in the dirt nearby, perked up. They smelled it before I did, the sweet scent of benzene. Not a poison I come across often, but it’s easy to come by and it will absolutely do the job. Underutilized, perhaps. I walked around to the front of the house to find a man laboring halfway up the stairs on the hill. He was sweating profusely, swaying, and wheezing, it looked like death was creeping into his skin.

“Hello there!” I called from the top of the hill, the man paused and looked up, nearly tumbling backward as he did. “Just sit. I’ll come down. Give me a minute.” He barely acknowledged me and collapsed where he stood. For a minute I thought he might have died, but then, with his cheek pressed against the step, he gave me a thumbs up. I went inside and returned a few minutes later with everything I’d need.

The man was pale and waxen, little red spots covered his skin. The overpowering scent of benzene was perplexing, considering if he’d consumed enough to smell so bad he would have died on the spot. I opened up a shade umbrella and stuck it into the soil next to the stairs, hot as the Devil’s dick this summer. Don’t believe what they tell you in all those witch trial confessions. It is definitely not cold.

But the client, I digress.