Sawbones
By @Za
Chapter One
5:30 AM. Daybreak. A new experience. A chance to be awoken from a night of restful sleep by chirping birds rather than a blaring alarm clock.
My name is Dr. Joseph Lane. I’m a veterinary surgeon at the Vibrant Valley Animal Hospital. I’m often called simple by my colleagues. I prefer to describe myself as plain, though I suppose we would all be happier if we could determine how others perceive us.
6:00 AM. By this time, I’ve had my breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast with tea.
Others perceive me in this way because of how I conduct myself. I’m what you might call particular. Each day, I follow the same strict schedule. I choose not to deviate because there’s simply no need to fix what isn’t broken.
6:15 AM. At this time I exit the shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and dress for the day ahead.
I do fix things, however. I fix problems. Problems with fluffies. I operate on fluffies of all sorts and do a spectacular job if I do say so myself. I do this because it’s what I enjoy.
6:30 AM. I leave for work at this time each day without fail. I’m always punctual to work. I tune my radio to a different station every day, eager to discover something new.
When I say that it’s what I enjoy, I don’t mean saving lives. I mean cutting fluffies open. I love to cut fluffies open and flip through their little organs as if they were files in a cabinet.
6:45 AM. I arrive at work. When I enter the building, I’m greeted by all who see me. My colleagues are all pleasures to work with. I regard Eliza, my assistant, as I stride towards my office.
I sit comfortably at my desk, swiping through the music I have on my phone. I’m looking for something purposeful. A song worthy of a grandiose entrance. I find it, and I am satisfied.
7:00 AM. I feel the minute roll over.
“Dr. Lane,” Eliza calls to me from down the corridor, “your 7 AM is here!”
Like clockwork.
“Prep him, thank you!” I reply quickly, diverting my attention to the patient’s file.
The fluffy I’ll be operating on is named Scooter. He’s a purple earth fluffy with bright eyes and a charcoal mane. The issue has been diagnosed as an intestinal blockage. I hypothesize that a low-fiber diet is to blame. Scooter’s likes and dislikes are listed in order for me to understand the best ways to calm him, as well as for me to avoid potential panic triggers. Scooter seems to only dislike loud noises. However, Scooter is a big fan of music and sleeping. We’ll see if his tune changes once I’m through with him.
7:15 AM. Showtime. A knock at my door.
“Dr. Lane, he’s ready for you,” Eliza informs me. I smile warmly.
“Eliza, what would I do without you?” I muse, exiting my office and strolling towards the soundproofed doors of the operating room. I stand outside them for a minute, navigating my phone. I have the timing of this song memorized. Each line will put the fear of God in this fluffy.
And by God, I do of course mean me.
I press play, humming along to the introductory instrumental as I waltz in. Scooter, who is restrained on the table in the center of the room, turns to face me. Rather, he tries.
“Hewwo nice doctah!” the fluffy cheered. “Scootah su cited fow make poopies again!”
Yes, I’m sure you are.
I lick my lips at the beautiful sight of my perfectly organized tools. The speakers in the two corners nearest to the door continue playing music. I grab a scalpel and syringe, whirling around to brandish the knife in time with the first spoken line.
“Cat’s foot, iron claw,”
A line to introduce my tools. Scooter would become intimately familiar with them very soon.
Scooter bears witness to my so-called iron claw. His pupils shrink to pinpoints as he struggles against the restraints.
“Uh, uh, n-nice doctah nu huwt Scootah!” the fluffy begged fruitlessly.
It won’t hurt… not yet.
I step over to him, administering the anesthesia with a quick injection. His eyes suddenly grow wider, and his struggles weaker. I stop the plunger with only 75% of the anesthetic in him. Enough to paralyze, but not enough to numb the pain.
“Neurosurgeons scream for more,”
A line to openly explain my desire for more and more fluffy carnage.
Scooter looks up at me with tears in his eyes. I grin a wide, sadistic grin and whisper to him as I waggle the scalpel a mere inch from his eyes.
“You’re never going to wake up from this,” I whisper curtly. The tears in his eyes seem to multiply now.
“At paranoia’s poison door,”
A line to point towards Scooter’s destination. Paranoia. Fear unfounded. I haven’t done anything to him yet. His paranoid fear of me isn’t incorrect, simply unfounded.
And now, the end of the song’s intro. One more line. A line to truly underscore the reality of Scooter’s situation as he fell dormant. A line to describe his captor. A line all about myself. I hold my scalpel mere centimeters from the flesh of Scooter’s stomach as the melodic voice of King Crimson’s Greg Lake rings through the room, announcing my arrival.
“21st century schizoid man.”
Next Chapter ==>
