The Surgery

WARNING!!! The following story contains intense scenes and descriptions of acts of torture. I am in no way advocating torture, but the story itself is meant to be uncomfortable and disturbing to the reader. Viewer discretion is advised.

Story
My eyes open as I awaken from sleep. I had been resting because I have a long day ahead of me. Not that my patient knows that it’s daytime. I slept while he did as well. I’d better get started. He’ll be waiting for me now that the sedative I gave him has likely worn off. It’s time, and we have much to discuss.

I open the basement door, walk down the stairs, and greet him with a smile. “Hello there. Let’s not waste any time with pointless introductions. We have a lot of things to get done today.” He sits before me bound to a chair and gagged with a solitary light bulb hanging above him. To my left is a table of supplies I’ll need for this operation ranging from a surgical scalpel and saw to a homemade blowtorch and iron. To the right, on the floor, is a lockbox that I’m saving for later.

“I’m sure you’re wondering who I am and why you’re here. For the moment, you can think of me as the surgeon. As for the latter, we’ll get to that. Let’s begin your operation.” He convulses left and right, struggling to free himself from his restraints. “I understand your desire to escape, but your efforts are futile. You’ll notice your wrists are restrained with steel locks built into the chair. The rest of your body is held down by an intricate system of individual ropes, all tied just as tightly as they need to be.”

“The rope on your forehead, if you’re wondering, is to prevent you from trying to choke yourself with the one around your neck. You’ll probably want to during the procedure.” With that said, I take the scalpel and quickly sever his Achilles tendon. This way, if he manages to escape his restraints by some miracle, he will find it very difficult to climb the stairs. In addition, I make incisions in each of his knees and cut the patellar tendons, preventing the bending of the knees. Each time, I cauterized his wounds with the iron. “We wouldn’t want you to bleed out now, would we?”

“Now that you’re not going anywhere, let’s get this show on the road.” I grab the pinky of his right hand and snap it back towards him, breaking it. I do the same for each of his fingers one-by-one when suddenly a song inexplicably pops into my head and I begin singing. “The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out…” The patient’s heart monitor beeps rapidly. It’s time to take a break until it settles down a bit.

With each finger broken, he’ll find it quite impossible to grip anything. Regardless, I decide to systematically sever each one with the saw and cauterize the resulting wounds. He begins to go into shock and I rush to retrieve a syringe of adrenaline. After being injected, he jolts back to consciousness. “Welcome back. I don’t suppose you thought we were done already. We’re just getting started.”

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll need to start you on a saline drip while I go scrub up. We’ve made a considerable mess already.” By now, I’ve grown quite used to the muffled screams of the patient, and for a moment I wonder what the silence will be like when I’m done. Upon returning with a fresh pair of gloves and a clean face mask, I notice he’s still wriggling back and forth. I very nearly pity him, but there is much more work to be done.

Next, I crouch down to work on his toes. Perhaps in keeping with my song from earlier, with each break I recite what happened to each “little piggy”. Upon the last one, I decided to remove his gag as to imply that the final pig had unleashed an unbridled scream all the way home. I put it back on and proceeded to the removal portion. He nearly went into shock again, but I was able to stabilize him.

“Well, it looks like we’re about halfway through the procedure. The next part is the most delicate, so I’m going to have to ask you to remain as motionless as possible. Just trust me, I’m a doctor.” I start by carefully removing the eyelids of his left eye. I imagine he’s beginning to wish I had been working with an anesthesiologist. I retrieve a long, thin tool to reach in and sever the optic nerve. Once that is done, I can safely remove the eye.

“Don’t worry. You’ll only need the one for what I have planned for later. A small comfort, I know, but surgery is never pleasant.” Next, I liberate the small piece of cartilage from the middle of his face. I seal off the wound with the iron and take a deep breath. “Now, it’s time for the most important part. Once I’m done with this, we’ll talk about what you’ve probably been wondering this whole time.”

His remaining eye flashes terror as I unzip his pants. Using the saw, I remove his manhood as his muffled screams grow even louder than before. He must be starting to lose his voice at this point, the resilient little bastard. Tears begin pouring out of his eye like a waterfall, and I stop the bleeding, but with the blowtorch this time. Once again, he went into shock. Only this time, I had to use an electric defibrillator to bring him back to consciousness.

“Now why would you want to check out before the main event?” I pose as I reach for the lockbox. “You’re finally going to find out why you’re here. I imagine you’re feeling pretty helpless right now and, as it happens, that’s your first clue. Another is the fact that we are in a dark basement, and yet another is the very fact that you’re restrained with rope and that there’s duct tape over your mouth. By now, you may have figured it out, but your biggest clue was the last thing I took from you.”

I open the lockbox and show him the picture of my daughter. “How helpless did you make her feel when she was bound and gagged in your basement? What tortures did you put her through before you ended her suffering? How did it feel when the courts let you off on a technicality? Did it feel good?” His eye looked down at the floor, either feeling some semblance of guilt or, more likely, resigned to his fate.

“Tonight, justice is served as the court of law can never serve it, as a cold dish of well-deserved revenge.” I shove the picture down his throat and plunge a knife into his gut. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Justice is done.” Then, I turn around and head up the stairs, leaving him to bleed to death.