alcala0001
10-26-2010, 11:20 AM
He walks across the dark street, grim determination in steps. Cat calls and whistles ring out from dark corners and doorways as he passes by - drug dealers and prostitutes soliciting his business. He's out of place here, wearing dirty blue hospital scrubs and carrying a large Armani briefcase. He steps up to a corner motel, it's flickering neon light proclaiming 'Hourly Room Rates Available' in pink. A skinny girl wrapped in a coat and not much else gives him a lewd smile, offering him the night of his life. He walks straight to the chipped green door of the motel, feeling the grime and wear on the door handle as he twists it and enters.
The air inside smells of stale cigarettes and sweat, and other scents, both familiar and strange. A grizzled old man with a cigar in his mouth reads a smut magazine as The Good Doctor leans forward, commanding attention through the iron bars and filthy, cracked glass of the checkout counter. "What do you want?" Asks the man, peering over his well-used magazine. "A room please. One with a sink. I need it for one week and I don't want to be disturbed". The Good Doctor replies. "Three hundred bucks". The man quips, noticing the gold watch on his wrist. The price was probably less, but The Good Doctor doesn't mind. He reaches into the inner chest pocket of his hospital scrubs and pulls out a his ostrich leather wallet and pulls out the last scraps of money. "Keep it." He says, passing crisp hundred dollar bills through the slot on the scarred, cigarette-burned counter. The old man holds them to the light, squinting, then gives him a winning smile, thanking him as he hands The Good Doctor a single key on a tattered orange nylon keychain, the number 8 barely visible in faded gold ink.
The Good Doctor's blood-stained Nikes squeak on the grimy yellowed linoleum floor as he walks down the narrow corridor. He hears muffled noises through the doors lining the dingy hall as he stops at number 8. He inserts the key in the deadbolt and opens the door. He flicks on the light and bolts the door behind him, the smell of cigarettes and sex lingers in the room like an old corpse. He sits down on the tiny bed and opens his briefcase, selecting items and lining them up on the dingy orange floral bed cover. A whole lot of medications are laid out in front of him. He takes out his leather planner book and opens it to some hastily-written notes as he unwraps a large syringe from it's sterile packaging. The Good Doctor begins filling the syringe with the appropriate doses from each bottle and glass ampule, according to his notes.
The Good Doctor stands naked in front of the stained porcelain sink, looking into the cracked mirror. His tools are laid out along the sink's edges. A soldering iron is plugged into the outlet and the smell of hot metal fills his nose. The medication is starting to take effect, with satisfactory results. He feels distant in his body, like a spectator watching through somebody else's eyes and there's a strange taste in his mouth. He picks up the soldering iron and drags it over his arm, hearing the skin crackle and hiss as the hot metal burns through all the layers, sizzling the sub-dermal fat beneath. He doesn't Feel a thing. Perfect.
The Good Doctor picks up one of the scalpels laid out before him and leans into the mirror. He grabs an eyelid and pulls it out tight as he reaches up and delicately slices it above the eyebrow, letting it drop into the sink. Not wanting to have his view clouded with blood, he picks up the soldering iron and burns the wound, sending puffs of smoke into the dim flourescent light overhead. He does the other eye and stares at the face he no longer recognizes. He has eye drops ready in case he needs to lubricate his now-exposed eyeballs.
The eyes were a success! Now he can't look away. He's forced to watch himself in his sadistic atonement. So many have died at his hand. The Good Doctor smiles, flexing his cheeks and opening his mouth, leaning in to plan his next cut. His ex-wife did say he needed to be happier, so why not improve that smile? He grabs his lower lip with blood-crusted fingers and brings up the scalpel, gently peeling it off like an orange rind, hearing a wet 'plop' as he drops it onto the sink, exposing his lower teeth and gums. Such nice teeth! Blood runs down his chin and again he burns the wound with the soldering iron, cauterizing the capillaries that were supplying the lip that is slowly sliding down the side of the sink on a smear of blood. That worked well. The good doctor grabs his top lip and turns his slick, bloody scalpel upside down, the blade pointing upward as he pulls while he slices, the top lip coming away from his face. Blood gushes into his mouth, he tastes the warm coppery flavor through the metallic tang of the medication. He reaches for his trusty soldering iron, and seals the bleeding wound with sizzles and pops.
The Good Doctor stares at the wide-eyed, toothy face in the mirror and the calculates his next cut. I'ts a nice smile, but it could be happier. He pokes at his cheeks with a blood-slicked finger and then raises his knife again, slicing just below his ear and down and around. He can hear the knife slicing through the flesh as he draws it down the side of his face. The blade grabs as he hits bone and he pulls back a bit, letting it separate the flesh. Long, runny drops of blood stream down his face and neck. He uses both hands as he pulls the large flap that was his cheek, while he slices away the connecting tissue. After a few minutes of liberal cauterizing he turns his head to reveal a row of perfect white teeth and a long, blood-soaked tongue. A short while later and he's staring at a skeleton's open grin, plasma and blood ooze from burnt flesh. The Good Doctor tries to will his mouth open and closed, but the jaw muscles are no longer attached and his skeletal mouth just hangs open. He lets out a laugh but it only comes out as grunts. Never again will he have to worry about telling somebody how he killed their loved one with his careless hands.
He glances at his watch. Plenty of time before thousands of severed nerve connections scream their distress back to his brain. The doctor contemplates his next move. He would like to remove the lower jaw, but there's a risk of hitting an artery and he doesn't want this proceedure to end just yet. He would bleed out in a matter of minutes. He decides to make a few more facial improvements. He picks up his scalpel and puts it to the bridge of his nose, feeling it resist the tough cartilage of his nose. He throws the dulling scalpel over his shoulder and it bounces off the wall and clatters to the dirty tile floor. He picks up a fresh blade and continues the cut. The nose falls away into the sink and he holds it for inspection while he cauterizes. His eyes are a little blurry and he reaches for the eyedrops. Much better. Funny, the nose is a significant part of the face, yet it seems to tiny in his blood-soaked hand. He drops his nose to the floor and grabs an ear.
As pain sets in, he administers a partial dose of his numbing cocktail, with a bit of adrenaline for good measure. He stares at his face in the mirror. A horror-mask stares back at him, his face completely stripped away to the bone, his jaw hanging open in a silent scream. He doesn't need the mirror anymore. He scoops up his scalpels and re-plugs his soldering iron as he lays down on the bed, arranging his tools around him and putting the soldering iron on his briefcase so as to avoid a fire. He props pillows under his bed as he begins a Y-incision on his chest, feeling the sharp blade bite into his chest bone.
The Good Doctor's work is finally done. He is ready to atone for his wicked life, to give back some small part in pain and flesh of what he has taken from so many. His body is a mass of agony as he stuffs his wadded-up scrubs into his gaping mouth, wheezing through the breathing tube that's protruding between his exposed ribs. He Handcuffs himself to the sturdy headboard, careful not to rupture any of the intestines that are sprawled out on the bed. with a twist of his hand, the second cuff clicks shut against the headboard as he waits for the cleansing deluge of pain and death.
The air inside smells of stale cigarettes and sweat, and other scents, both familiar and strange. A grizzled old man with a cigar in his mouth reads a smut magazine as The Good Doctor leans forward, commanding attention through the iron bars and filthy, cracked glass of the checkout counter. "What do you want?" Asks the man, peering over his well-used magazine. "A room please. One with a sink. I need it for one week and I don't want to be disturbed". The Good Doctor replies. "Three hundred bucks". The man quips, noticing the gold watch on his wrist. The price was probably less, but The Good Doctor doesn't mind. He reaches into the inner chest pocket of his hospital scrubs and pulls out a his ostrich leather wallet and pulls out the last scraps of money. "Keep it." He says, passing crisp hundred dollar bills through the slot on the scarred, cigarette-burned counter. The old man holds them to the light, squinting, then gives him a winning smile, thanking him as he hands The Good Doctor a single key on a tattered orange nylon keychain, the number 8 barely visible in faded gold ink.
The Good Doctor's blood-stained Nikes squeak on the grimy yellowed linoleum floor as he walks down the narrow corridor. He hears muffled noises through the doors lining the dingy hall as he stops at number 8. He inserts the key in the deadbolt and opens the door. He flicks on the light and bolts the door behind him, the smell of cigarettes and sex lingers in the room like an old corpse. He sits down on the tiny bed and opens his briefcase, selecting items and lining them up on the dingy orange floral bed cover. A whole lot of medications are laid out in front of him. He takes out his leather planner book and opens it to some hastily-written notes as he unwraps a large syringe from it's sterile packaging. The Good Doctor begins filling the syringe with the appropriate doses from each bottle and glass ampule, according to his notes.
The Good Doctor stands naked in front of the stained porcelain sink, looking into the cracked mirror. His tools are laid out along the sink's edges. A soldering iron is plugged into the outlet and the smell of hot metal fills his nose. The medication is starting to take effect, with satisfactory results. He feels distant in his body, like a spectator watching through somebody else's eyes and there's a strange taste in his mouth. He picks up the soldering iron and drags it over his arm, hearing the skin crackle and hiss as the hot metal burns through all the layers, sizzling the sub-dermal fat beneath. He doesn't Feel a thing. Perfect.
The Good Doctor picks up one of the scalpels laid out before him and leans into the mirror. He grabs an eyelid and pulls it out tight as he reaches up and delicately slices it above the eyebrow, letting it drop into the sink. Not wanting to have his view clouded with blood, he picks up the soldering iron and burns the wound, sending puffs of smoke into the dim flourescent light overhead. He does the other eye and stares at the face he no longer recognizes. He has eye drops ready in case he needs to lubricate his now-exposed eyeballs.
The eyes were a success! Now he can't look away. He's forced to watch himself in his sadistic atonement. So many have died at his hand. The Good Doctor smiles, flexing his cheeks and opening his mouth, leaning in to plan his next cut. His ex-wife did say he needed to be happier, so why not improve that smile? He grabs his lower lip with blood-crusted fingers and brings up the scalpel, gently peeling it off like an orange rind, hearing a wet 'plop' as he drops it onto the sink, exposing his lower teeth and gums. Such nice teeth! Blood runs down his chin and again he burns the wound with the soldering iron, cauterizing the capillaries that were supplying the lip that is slowly sliding down the side of the sink on a smear of blood. That worked well. The good doctor grabs his top lip and turns his slick, bloody scalpel upside down, the blade pointing upward as he pulls while he slices, the top lip coming away from his face. Blood gushes into his mouth, he tastes the warm coppery flavor through the metallic tang of the medication. He reaches for his trusty soldering iron, and seals the bleeding wound with sizzles and pops.
The Good Doctor stares at the wide-eyed, toothy face in the mirror and the calculates his next cut. I'ts a nice smile, but it could be happier. He pokes at his cheeks with a blood-slicked finger and then raises his knife again, slicing just below his ear and down and around. He can hear the knife slicing through the flesh as he draws it down the side of his face. The blade grabs as he hits bone and he pulls back a bit, letting it separate the flesh. Long, runny drops of blood stream down his face and neck. He uses both hands as he pulls the large flap that was his cheek, while he slices away the connecting tissue. After a few minutes of liberal cauterizing he turns his head to reveal a row of perfect white teeth and a long, blood-soaked tongue. A short while later and he's staring at a skeleton's open grin, plasma and blood ooze from burnt flesh. The Good Doctor tries to will his mouth open and closed, but the jaw muscles are no longer attached and his skeletal mouth just hangs open. He lets out a laugh but it only comes out as grunts. Never again will he have to worry about telling somebody how he killed their loved one with his careless hands.
He glances at his watch. Plenty of time before thousands of severed nerve connections scream their distress back to his brain. The doctor contemplates his next move. He would like to remove the lower jaw, but there's a risk of hitting an artery and he doesn't want this proceedure to end just yet. He would bleed out in a matter of minutes. He decides to make a few more facial improvements. He picks up his scalpel and puts it to the bridge of his nose, feeling it resist the tough cartilage of his nose. He throws the dulling scalpel over his shoulder and it bounces off the wall and clatters to the dirty tile floor. He picks up a fresh blade and continues the cut. The nose falls away into the sink and he holds it for inspection while he cauterizes. His eyes are a little blurry and he reaches for the eyedrops. Much better. Funny, the nose is a significant part of the face, yet it seems to tiny in his blood-soaked hand. He drops his nose to the floor and grabs an ear.
As pain sets in, he administers a partial dose of his numbing cocktail, with a bit of adrenaline for good measure. He stares at his face in the mirror. A horror-mask stares back at him, his face completely stripped away to the bone, his jaw hanging open in a silent scream. He doesn't need the mirror anymore. He scoops up his scalpels and re-plugs his soldering iron as he lays down on the bed, arranging his tools around him and putting the soldering iron on his briefcase so as to avoid a fire. He props pillows under his bed as he begins a Y-incision on his chest, feeling the sharp blade bite into his chest bone.
The Good Doctor's work is finally done. He is ready to atone for his wicked life, to give back some small part in pain and flesh of what he has taken from so many. His body is a mass of agony as he stuffs his wadded-up scrubs into his gaping mouth, wheezing through the breathing tube that's protruding between his exposed ribs. He Handcuffs himself to the sturdy headboard, careful not to rupture any of the intestines that are sprawled out on the bed. with a twist of his hand, the second cuff clicks shut against the headboard as he waits for the cleansing deluge of pain and death.