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Horror Fiction
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 12
Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
Chapter 1 Page 12
Before he could become too agitated, she soothed him by saying, "Relax, if you can, Mr. Bass. You had a narrow escape, and you're not safe, yet. We must operate on your internal injuries and your broken bones, in order to save your life. Do you consent to this treatment?"
Christen found the strength to tip his chin so slightly that he doubted she had noticed. Whether she had or not, she shut off the light and raised her head to announce, "Alright, he's ready. Let's go."
For the next three hours, Christen listened to an indecipherable and interminable string of professional jargon that rendered him confused and lost, while a team of surgeons and nurses worked to remove his spleen, stitch his guts and straighten his shattered limbs. He thought it strange that they should slice him open and saw on his bones while he remained perfectly aware of every sensation. He thought it stranger still that he felt little pain through it all.
More than once, he lost consciousness, only to be revived by the same plucky doctor, much to the apparent consternation of her co-workers. He wondered why she would torture him so. Eventually, he secretly determined that she was Satan, come to curse him for his awful crimes. Her touch that would salvage was not intended to save. Her work that would heal him was not intended to make him whole.
He saw it in her eyes, whenever she leaned close to inject her drugs into his brain and then check his pupils with her light. She smiled down at him, a smile most incongruous in such a frightening room. This was her fun, he realized, and that was not a compassionate, hopeful smile. No, hers was the malicious grin of a devil that delights in the agony of others. A mad Frankenstein, she would fashion him into her monster, Christen guessed, and set him loose upon the world with all the vengeful spite of an unrequited lust long ago rejected by humankind.
Christen found the strength to tip his chin so slightly that he doubted she had noticed. Whether she had or not, she shut off the light and raised her head to announce, "Alright, he's ready. Let's go."
For the next three hours, Christen listened to an indecipherable and interminable string of professional jargon that rendered him confused and lost, while a team of surgeons and nurses worked to remove his spleen, stitch his guts and straighten his shattered limbs. He thought it strange that they should slice him open and saw on his bones while he remained perfectly aware of every sensation. He thought it stranger still that he felt little pain through it all.
More than once, he lost consciousness, only to be revived by the same plucky doctor, much to the apparent consternation of her co-workers. He wondered why she would torture him so. Eventually, he secretly determined that she was Satan, come to curse him for his awful crimes. Her touch that would salvage was not intended to save. Her work that would heal him was not intended to make him whole.
He saw it in her eyes, whenever she leaned close to inject her drugs into his brain and then check his pupils with her light. She smiled down at him, a smile most incongruous in such a frightening room. This was her fun, he realized, and that was not a compassionate, hopeful smile. No, hers was the malicious grin of a devil that delights in the agony of others. A mad Frankenstein, she would fashion him into her monster, Christen guessed, and set him loose upon the world with all the vengeful spite of an unrequited lust long ago rejected by humankind.
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