Dr. Thorne descended into the hospital basement. He walked through the narrow hallways to the room with his locker. Like every other day, he wore his suit to work.
Paralyzed
VII: The Spinal Fusion
He sniffed the air—the smell of feet had been replaced by one of mildew and rotting egg. He snarled.
But he wasn’t ready to give up his routine of showing up to work in a suit. It would take worse than bad smells and dimly lit rooms to reduce his dignity.
He opened his locker and pulled out his scrubs. He put his right foot on the bench and started untying his tennis shoe.
Giggling came from outside the locker room and down the hall.
Dr. Thorne’s head shot up. He thought it sounded like a child’s playful laugh, but he guessed it could’ve been a woman’s. With his right shoe untied, he walked to the end of the locker row and turned the corner—he looked out the large window at the end of the room.
The hall was lit by one florescent light every hundred feet, and the one outside his locker room flickered.
He didn’t know why, but he felt fear creeping up his body. He shook himself and returned to his locker. Finishing taking off his shoes, he stripped to his boxer briefs and hung his suit on the hanger.
The giggling was quiet this time, but it got louder and louder—until the sound filled the locker room.
Dr. Thorne stood there with his light blue pants halfway up his shins. His head shot left and right, as he tried to find the source. Hurriedly he put on his scrubs.
The smell of rotting eggs became stronger. It was like an oppressive atmosphere, and he coughed.
Barely having time to tie his left shoe, he hopped to the end of the locker row as he tried to tie the other shoe. Whatever’s happening here, I’ve got to get out, he thought.
He imagined this could all be some elaborate prank put on by jealous nurses. He liked that idea. Turning the corner, he hopped toward the door, cursing himself for not tying his shoe on the bench.
That’s when he felt it and stopped.
The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck raised. He could feel a presence there in the locker room with him. It was evil. And with dread in his throat, he turned around.
He saw the tall man in the black suit at the other end of the room—the wide brim of a fedora concealed his face.
Dr. Thorne ran away—he didn’t care that one of his shoes weren’t tied.
“Hope you had a good night’s rest, Thorne,” the man hissed after him.
He tried to block out the sound, but as he left the locker room, he could hear that playful laughter coming from where the hat wearing man stood.
Dr. Thorne headed down the right hallway, passing broken hospital beds and old chairs that littered the walls. He felt like the walls were closing in around him, but he knew that was silly.
Looking back, he saw that hat man walking after him. One step at a time, he lumbered on like the long march of a demon sentinel. Sweat ran down his forehead and he brushed it off—he could see the elevators getting closer and closer.
Never before had the shadowy hat person followed him outside of his—dreams? He supposed this appearance confirmed they weren’t dreams. They weren’t figments of his imagination superimposed onto the real world because of his sleep paralysis.
That child-like laughter followed him all the way to the elevator—then he pressed the up button, and the noise stopped.
He looked back down the hall, all the while pressing the up button like a madman. Nothing was behind him.
Ding!
The elevator doors opened, and he turned to go in—
Standing in front of him was a tall man wearing a black suit. He trembled, and his head slowly lifted to see the man’s face.
A gray fedora topped his head, but his face was complete darkness, save for a pair of glowing yellow eyes and a toothy smile of white.
“Can’t wait for our next rendezvous, sweetoms,” Hat Man said, his breath smelling of rotting egg. And he blew into Dr. Thorne’s face.
He closed his eyes and winced at the foul breath touching him, and he shielded his face with his arms. The childish giggling sounded all around him. Over and over, he heard the laughter.
He heard the elevator doors closing, and he opened his eyes again, fearing he’d be stuck down in the hospital basement with Hat Man.
But Hat Man was gone. The smell lingered, but the laughter had stopped.
“Fuck,” Dr. Thorne said quietly. He looked at the floor, wondering why he was going through it. Then he slapped himself. You’ve got work to do, he thought. Get your shit together—none of this ever happened.
He worked himself up to the point he was angry with himself that he had ever imagined Hat Man was there. He convinced himself the thing never happened—and like a magic pill, he forgot about the whole incident and stepped into the elevator.
Dr. Thorne had an operation to assist with, and whatever had not happened in the hospital basement wouldn’t impede him from being Mr. Kutsuki’s anesthesiologist.
Dr. Thorne entered the room where Mr. Kutsuki sat. He held the clipboard with the patient’s information, pretending to read it as he walked up to the older man.
Looking the man in the eyes, he said: “Good morning, Mr.”—he looked down at the sheet again—”Kut–su–ki.” He said it slowly, as if he hadn’t practiced saying the name the night before.
He looked up at his patient. “I’m Dr. Thorne, and I’ll be your anesthesiologist today.”
“Oh,” Mr. Kutsuki said, sounding surprised. He smiled. “I thought my surgeon was coming in. Don’t worry though, I’m sure he’ll be here soon to talk about the important stuff.”
The comment pricked Dr. Thorne’s ego. He tilted his head ever so slightly. He corrected himself as quickly as he could, and he hoped the man hadn’t noticed. Putting on his most polite smile, he said: “Mr. Katsuki,”—he intentionally said the wrong name—”I’m here to get your consent to give you happy drugs so you don’t feel the devil’s fingers digging into your spine.”
Mr. Kutsuki flinched, clearly taken aback.
Dr. Thorne adjusted his thick glasses. He let a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. “Does that sound unimportant to you?”
Mr. Kutsuki stood up, his right hand supporting his back as he grimaced. He looked up at Dr. Thorne and said: “I’d like to talk to my actual anesthesiologist.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Be a good chap and fetch him for me.” He smiled through graying teeth.
Dr. Thorne was confused. Is he senile? “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “I am your anesthesiologist.”
Mr. Kutsuki turned his back to Dr. Thorne and slowly walked back to the bed. “Not anymore. I don’t want you anywhere near me.”
Dr. Thorne was dumbfounded. “Mr. Kutsuki, you don’t have the authority to dismiss me from your surgery.”
Mr. Kutsuki sat on the bed and smiled. “Oh I think you’ll find I have that authority.” He flicked his hand to dismiss Dr. Thorne. “Go find me a doctor with respect in his bones.”
To Dr. Thorne, the man’s eyes seemed to twinkle. My experiment. His eyes went wide. All the pain. It took everything within him to coax his next words from his mouth.
“I was… out of line, Mr. Kutsuki,” he said, dipping his head in a bow. “It won’t happen again—you don’t need another anesthesiologist for your surgery. You’ll be in good hands.”
Mr. Kutsuki’s smile broadened. “That’s better. Now what did you come here to say?”
It took Dr. Thorne a moment to remember what he was there for. “Oh yes,” he said, flipping through the pages on his clipboard.
“So we’ll be performing a spinal fusion to reinforce your spine against its instability,” Dr. Thorne said. “The procedure will take about four to six hours once it’s underway. My job is to be with you every step of the way and to make sure you’re… well, I’ll be there to make you comfortable.”
Mr. Kutsuki slowly nodded.
“I’ll be giving you a variety of drugs to keep you asleep and without pain,” he said. “I just need you to sign a consent form before I can administer the drugs.”
“I’ll sign,” Mr. Kutsuki said.
You’d better, he thought, but he made certain his face didn’t betray him. He pulled out a page from his clipboard and gave it to Mr. Kutsuki, along with a pen.
“I should warn you there can be complications with these drugs,” he said as the man signed.
Mr. Kutsuki stopped mid-stroke. He looked up. “What complications?”
“Well the consent form has a full list of them,” he said. “But among others, you could wake up during the operation; you could feel… discomfort. Basically there‘s a very small chance the drugs can have the opposite intended effect.” He desperately shoved down his desire to smirk.
“I see,” Mr. Kutsuki said. “And what’s the likelihood of these outcomes?”
Dr. Thorne put up his hand, his forefinger and thumb almost touching. “Very slim.”
Mr. Kutsuki nodded and went back to signing the page. “Let’s get this over with, doc.”
Dr. Thorne snatched up the consent form. “Yes, let’s,” he said. “I’ll send in the nurse to prepare you for surgery, and I’ll be back with you shortly.”
“You do that,” Mr. Kutsuki said.
Dr. Thorne left the room with his ticket to experimental freedom. He was giddy, and he couldn’t wait to get started.
Dr. Thorne caught himself in a daydream and snapped back to reality. He was helping push Mr. Kutsuki’s bed down the white halls and to the operation room.
He had let his thoughts wander off into a place where he played puppeteer to unsuspecting dancers. His puppets were the patients he had recently visited horrors on. And he had made them dance to such a tune of melancholy.
But he was in the real world now. The world where real people couldn’t become puppets.
He looked down and saw Mr. Kutsuki had closed his eyes. He wondered if the older man was feeling fearful of the operation—who wouldn’t? It was a complicated surgery, and he couldn’t suspect the magnitude of pain he’d be in once the blade touched flesh.
They reached the OR, and Dr. Thorne got to work right away. He prepared Mr. Kutsuki’s intravenous line and injected the needle into his vein.
Mr. Kutsuki winced as the needle broke skin.
Dr. Thorne taped the IV in place. “You won’t be feeling anything soon.”
Mr. Kutsuki nodded.
Dr. Thorne sat next to the anesthesia machine. He opened the chemical compartment and replaced the propofol with his vial of succinylcholine chloride from his coat pocket. He closed the plastic door and typed into the keyboard.
His drugs flowed up the tube and into the IV.
Mr. Kutsuki was lying on his stomach now—his face in a U-shaped headrest.
Dr. Thorne knelt next to Mr. Kutsuki. He looked around to be sure the surgical team was still preparing—he saw Dr. Young drawing on the old man’s back with a marker. Then he whispered into his ear: “You’ll be asleep soon.” He found his lie to be humorous, but he kept his composure. “Our best surgeons are here to cut you open. But fear not: chemicals are your friends.” He patted the U-shaped headrest and returned to his seat.
“He’s ready, doc,” Dr. Thorne said.
Dr. Young looked up from his scribbling and nodded. “You heard him, ladies and gents,” he said, looking left and right. “It’s showtime.”
Dr. Thorne smirked. Oh doc, if only you knew what kind of show this really was.
“Scalpel,” Dr. Young said, holding out his hand.
The surgical assistant handed Dr. Young the scalpel.
“Here we go,” Dr. Young said.
Dr. Thorne watched Dr. Young press the razor-sharp blade into Mr. Kutsuki’s back along the marker lines, making a seven-inch initial incision. He then made two horizontal incisions, making it look like Mr. Kutsuki’s back had two bloody crosses on it.
“Let’s get some retractors in there,” Dr. Young said.
The surgical assistant placed two retractors in the cavity and adjusted them to keep the wound open.
Dr. Thorne watched Mr. Kutsuki’s vitals and typed into the anesthesia machine to give him ephedrine. His vitals returned to normal. Can’t have you passing out—couldn’t blame you if you did.
He shuddered, thinking of what Mr. Kutsuki was feeling at that moment. Blades cutting into him, his flesh being rent open. Dr. Young had nearly exposed his spine.
“Let’s get that soft tissue clear of the spine,” Dr. Young said.
His muscles are being cut away from his spine, Dr. Thorne thought. He fell head over heels for the feeling he now had. It was euphoric. But he also felt a sickening dread, and he didn’t know why.
As Dr. Young cut away the degenerated bone from multiple vertebrae of Mr. Kutsuki’s spine, Dr. Thorne maintained his vitals.
“Oh the plans I have for you,” Dr. Thorne thought, quoting his Red Angel.
“Get the bone graft ready,” Dr. Young said.
The surgical assistant twisted the lid off a glass jar. Small chunks of a red substance were within. He handed Dr. Young the jar.
Dr. Thorne gave Mr. Kutsuki another dose of ephedrine, while Dr. Young packed the moldable bone graft solution between three sets of vertebrae.
“Get me the screws and drill,” Dr. Young said.
The surgical assistant handed him six screws and the impact drill.
The drill buzzed as the screws bore into Mr. Kutsuki’s spine.
Dr. Thorne kept a close eye on Mr. Kutsuki’s vitals, as this would be the most intense pain he would feel during the surgery.
Buzz–buzz–buzz.
One by one, Dr. Young drilled the screws in.
Buzz–buzz.
The drill came to a stop.
“Let’s get those rods in,” Dr. Young said.
The surgical assistant handed Dr. Young three metal rods.
Dr. Young fixed the rods to the screws. “Alright,” he said, holding up his gloved hands. “Get me the bone drill.”
The surgical assistant handed Dr. Young an orthopedic bone drill.
Dr. Young then drilled tiny holes into Mr. Kutsuki’s spine for the reattachment of his muscles.
“Time to close him up. Sutures,” Dr. Young said.
Dr. Thorne watched Dr. Young’s hands moving up and down from Mr. Kutsuki’s body. He knew the patient’s muscles were being sutured back to his spine. A process he felt sick imagining. He didn’t know how surgeons could watch all the gore.
Dr. Young then took the retractors out of Mr. Kutsuki, letting the slabs of his back return to their normal position. He picked up his needle again and began suturing up the wound.
Dr. Thorne kept his eyes on Mr. Kutsuki’s vitals. Suturing the cavity would be the least painful procedure during the operation, but with no chemicals for the pain, he would be feeling an accumulation of gut-wrenching agony. The miseries of hell couldn’t compare to what he now feels.
Dr. Young cut the sutures and looked around the OR. “That’s a job well done.” He sounded happy, though his mask obscured his mouth.
Dr. Thorne smiled behind his mask, though for his own success, as the surrounding doctors celebrated. He knew this was his crowning achievement—he could only hope future experiments could top this one.
Dr. Thorne entered the room where Mr. Kutsuki was recovering. He squinted as the fluorescents hit his eyes. The room was blindingly bright, and he snarled as he walked in. He didn’t want to be there, but he needed to be with Mr. Kutsuki when the paralysis wore off.
He walked over to the bed, his tennis shoes clip–clapping on the dull tiles as he went. Seeing Mr. Kutsuki there on the bed filled him with joyful anticipation.
Then he saw a stirring under the white sheets.
He quickly prepared himself for his chat with his patient—he tried to suppress his emotions.
Mr. Kutsuki’s eyes darted to him, and he wore a weak smile. “Hell”—he coughed—”hello, doctor.” His voice was scratchy and low.
Dr. Thorne put on a smile of his own. “Greetings, Mr. Kutsuki. I trust all went well?” He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat.
Mr. Kutsuki slowly closed his eyes. “I’m in… terrible pain.” He opened them again, and his lips quivered. He reached out his right hand, though he couldn’t stretch it far enough to touch the doctor.
Dr. Thorne fought back a sneer. “I’ll bump up your fentanyl.” He went to the machine his IV was hooked up to and increased the fentanyl dosage. “There. That should kick in soon.” He gave a polite smile.
Mr. Kutsuki nodded. He swallowed, and he looked Dr. Thorne in the eyes. “I know what you did.”
Adrenaline shot through Dr. Thorne’s body, and his first instinct was to run. He couldn’t know, he thought. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.” He said it as calmly as he could.
“Please,” Mr. Kutsuki said. “Don’t play dumb. Not after you’ve played a winning hand. It’s childish.”
Dr. Thorne hated the part within him that didn’t want the man before him to think he was childish. He tried to murder that part of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He smirked. “Tell me everything.” His eyes were wild with desire, and he leaned forward.
“Is that what you get from it? A story?”
“You’re the first I’ve asked.”
“The first you’ve asked or the first who’s caught on?”
Dr. Thorne smiled. “Both.” His heart was racing. Would he get all the juicy details at last?
Mr. Kutsuki’s eyes seemed to drift into the distance. His countenance became stricken. “I knew something was wrong when I could still see the floor tiles. I heard the surgeon requesting tools, and I felt a cool substance being applied to my back—all the way down my spine.” He closed his eyes. “I tried to speak, but I couldn’t, and then the blade sliced my back open.” He paused.
“Spare no details, friend,” Dr. Thorne said. He was rubbing his hands together.
Mr. Kutsuki opened his eyes—they were as dark as midnight. “What you did to me was punishment for my crimes,” he said. “But know that you will be punished just as I was.”
“Punishment?” Dr. Thorne said. “No, no. I did this to serve my angel.” His mind reeled at the thought of being punished for his actions. My Red Angel will protect me.
Mr. Kutsuki grabbed Dr. Thorne’s arm. “In my youth, I was the chief Tormenting Soul for Yakushi. I know pain. And what you accomplished was masterful.” He let the statement stand.
Yakushi? Dr. Thorne thought. The Japanese gang? Questions flooded through his mind. The most pressing question. Is he planning to retaliate against me? It then seemed to him that his body was far away from that moment. He could imagine what the job of a chief Tormenting Soul entailed, and he didn’t like the implications for his future welfare.
“I met the oni of disease and the power of air,” Mr. Kutsuki said. “He was my lord, and he sent you to punish me.”
Dr. Thorne shook his head. “You’re not making sense.” But he felt the gooseflesh running down his arms.
“My lord will punish you, too.”
Dr. Thorne stood up, shaking the old man’s hand off of him. “I won’t be punished! I’ll get away with it! All of it! My Red Angel will stand in my defense.”
“Ah,” Mr. Kutsuki said. “So you have a patron too. No matter.” He chuckled. “You’ll not escape me yet. Sure you’ll get away with your crimes for a time. But just as my season has yielded its fruit, your season will come upon you with swords and guns to take you away.” He smiled.
“You’re delirious,” Dr. Thorne said. He back away from him, walking toward the door. “I’m done here.”
Mr. Kutsuki laughed. “My pain will bloom into my gain, doctor.” His pitch increased. “Your services have been noticed.” His laughter intensified. “And you’ll drown in an ocean of pain.”
Dr. Thorne couldn’t get out of the room fast enough. He was running down the hospital halls, ignoring the looks of nurses and doctors alike. He couldn’t get the man’s words out of his mind.
An oni of disease. The fruit of his crimes returning to haunt him. Drowning in an ocean of pain. Guns and swords.
He shook his head as he reached the elevators—he knew he looked crazed, and he needed to calm down in his office.
He placed his hand on the elevator’s frame, and he leaned against it. He pushed the down button with his other hand. And he leaned there waiting for the machine to come to him.
Sweat was dripping from his brow to the floor, and he wiped it away with his free hand. He was breathing too hard.
Flooded with anxiety, he slammed his finger on the button again and again. His head felt like it was collapsing in on itself.
And the elevator doors opened.
Relieved, he stepped in.
As he descended to his floor, he calmed himself down. And by the time he reached his office, he had stopped spiraling into mental hell.
Sitting down behind his desk, he suddenly became aware that he might not be alone. After all, that Gressil creature had appeared to him from nowhere—and had disappeared in the same way. The thought made him nauseous.
But no creatures appeared to him that afternoon. He spent the time in quiet contemplation, and he didn’t realize how much time was passing him by.
He noticed someone had left him a message on his phone, and he inputted his PIN to access his messages. He played the most recent one.
“Hi, Dr. Thorne. This is Emily Rosen with HR. You had left me a message about wrongful termination. I think I’ve found something you’ll want to hear—give me a call when—”
Dr. Thorne picked up the phone and dialed the number for HR. It rang and rang.
“Hello? You’ve reached Human Resources. This is Mindy speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Mindy,” he said, adjusting his square glasses. “I’m trying to reach Emily Rosen.”
“Ok,” Mindy said. “Can I have your name and what you’re calling about?”
“Of course. Dr. James Thorne. I’m calling regarding information on wrongful termination.”
He put on a toothy smile as Mindy sent his call to Emily.