Finished

Finished

October 11, 2024

I told them the lies they wanted to hear. It mattered not their validity as truth. I was going through the motions. They were going through the motions. My fate was preordained.

I await my punishment.

The state assigned a doctor in name only to my case. He arrived, unrolled the tools of his trade, and avoided the instrument sterilization process because I was not to live long enough to suffer from an infection.

By the looks of the crusted blood and rust, I doubt any of his previous patients suffered from an infection either.

My doctor began with a filet knife to the skin stretched across my scapulas. He did not administer a sedative, only a thick piece of leather. I was to bite down hard and weather the procedure. If I moved, he said he would only have to begin again.

In this, he was most proficient. In only twenty minutes, he had removed my epidermis, leaving the dermis and hypodermis intact. I must have passed out numerous times to notice his skill. He offered a few mirrors so I could look, but I politely declined.

Next, he produced a brace and bit to bore a few pilot holes for the screws he desired to attach to six of my ribs. He asked, once again, for me not to move for this would take a great deal of time. Once again, I was not in a position to decline his request.

When I awoke (how long was I out?), I suffered from dehydration and difficulty breathing. The doctor gave me a sip of water for the former. The latter remained from being suspended from the hooks and cables attached to my ribs. While only a mere eight inches above the lab table, I might have been eight feet, for all I cared. He told me he would return after his dinner. I offered no response.

All I could do was nothing. I could barely breathe. I was dying slowly and that was part of the plan. The doctor did not have the where-with-all to be the last person I would see. Somebody wanted me for something, otherwise, why go through all of the trouble?

I waited until morning to confirm my hypothesis.

In walked the prosecutor, carrying a few documents and a pen. The pages were blank. He asked me for a signature and he would fill out the rest later. I asked him to depart before I had to take action against him. He laughed. I should have laughed, but couldn’t. He tapped one of the steel cables attached to one of my ribs with his pen. The audible emission was lost, covered by my scream, covered by my subsequent agonal gasps. He continued this two more times until I begged for death.

“Too soon for that.” He kept his words brief.

Carefully, he wiped the blank paper on one of the drill bits used last night. “A blood sample will suffice.” One more tap on a steel cable. One more small chuckle. He departed with enough. Perhaps he did not even require that.

I didn’t care.

But, I did.

He left his pen. The one with the top already clicked. The one with the ball point already extended. It was in reach. It could be a weapon. I could kill the doctor. I could kill the prosecutor. I could force them to let me down and let me go.

Or,

I could kill myself.

After looking at me through the window, the doctor reached into his pocket to give the prosecutor a single dollar. In today’s economy, it was worthless. But, as an ante in an honor bet, it was invaluable.

I would soon be dead, but (at least) they had their honor.