“Doctor Thorne, is she ready?” the surgeon said, his assistants running back and forth across the operation room in preparation.
Paralyzed
V: The Cesarean Section
“Give her about five more minutes.” He looked down into the dark eyes of the patient on the operating table. Her Black skin contrasted with the white of the hospital gown. “We’ll just crank up the chemicals, how about that?” He typed on the number pad for the anesthesia machine, looking at the monitor to ensure he inputted the proper increase, and he heard the hiss of his chemicals leaving their tanks and running through the tubes and into her back.
He smiled behind his surgical mask. “After all, chemicals are our friends.”
Dr. Thorne looked at the vitals monitor. A steady beep, beep followed the spiking, green line’s rise and fall; the patient was responding well to his chemicals.
Adjusting his square glasses, he sat down on the woman’s left. Alone. The thought made him elated. She’s here all alone. He scribbled nonsense on a notepad in mock observation. Makes my job that much easier. It didn’t matter how much time the surgeon waited, the outcome would be the same.
Only a few hours ago, Dr. Thorne had spoken to the woman, one Malory Greene, about the risks of regional anesthesia. And ever since he met his Red Angel, he mentioned to his patients the possibility they might feel discomfort during their operation, but he would be there to up their medication if they so desired. She had signed the consent form, even after he told her of the potential risk of temporary paralyzation.
Then I was home free, Dr. Thorne thought. He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of sticking the needle into Malory’s spine. That was her first moment of discomfort. Before, these brief scenes were his only outlet to feed his desperate hunger. So few chances to inflict pain.
The surgeon, Dr. Thomas Sparring, adjusted the overhead light, shining it down on the woman’s rounded stomach. He then pulled the dividing curtain into place, which obstructed the woman from seeing the actual operation.
Dr. Thorne was staring at the cross around Malory’s neck, and he remembered gently suggesting she take it off for the operation, but she had insisted on wearing it. He found the silver trinket unnerving; his mask concealed his scowl. He hoped she died from shock; he didn’t know why, but he did.
He leaned in to whisper into the woman’s ear. “Are my chemicals working?” He pinched her shoulder. “Can you feel this?”
The woman’s eyes were wide and knowing, but she didn’t speak, and she didn’t move her head.
The succinylcholine had set in, paralyzing her. He had caught her on his web, and she was hopeless to escape. The pain was about to begin.
“She’s ready, doctor,” Dr. Thorne said. Behind his mask, he wore a wide, toothy smile.
“Very good,” Dr. Sparring said. “Let’s begin.”
Dr. Thorne couldn’t see the operation take place, though he heard the normal chatter between surgeons and nurses. He wished he could’ve seen the initial incision, seen the slicing of the uteri, seen Humpty Dumpty being stitched back together again. He was stuck behind the curtain, looking at his computer screens.
But what surprised him was the woman’s heart rate had stayed the same throughout the operation. The beep, beep was steady. Dr. Sparring had already cut into Malory, and it wouldn’t be long before he stapled her back up. He expected to use ephedrine to keep her from passing out, but she showed no signs of needing the adrenergic. Something isn’t right.
Panic flittered up and down his body. Why isn’t she reacting? He looked into her dark eyes and saw serenity.
Then he heard the frail screams of a baby taking his first look at his new world.
One of the nurses came into view, carrying the newborn, and she held him out for the mother to see. “Here he is,” she said. She seemed unnerved when the mother didn’t even look at the child.
“It’s the chemicals,” Dr. Thorne said. “She’ll be fine once they’re out of her system.”
The nurse nodded and hurried the baby away.
“Congratulations, mom,” the surgeon said from the other side of the curtain. “Now, let’s sew her uterus up.”
Dr. Thorne looked at his computer screens again: beep, beep. Stable heart rate and breathing. Fuck! He couldn’t imagine what went wrong… Unless she felt the pain and her body reacted unusually.
He smirked. That must be it, he thought. She’s an absolute mess right now—I just can’t see it.
Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to thoughts of the discomfort his patient was in. His breathing became meditative. He imagined what she must be feeling at that moment, as the doctor sewed her uterus and stapled her abdomen together. And it surprised him to feel his penis had become erect.
He was in heaven. Then he felt a finger tapping his shoulder, and he fell back down to Earth.
“We’re finished now, doctor,” the nurse said.
“Of course. Thank you.” He quickly pressed the button on his anesthesia machine that administered drugs to counter the paralyzation.
He and two nurses carted the new mother out of the OR. They took her down the hallways of St. Gressil‘s Hospital and into her recovery room.
Then he waited for the nurses to leave.
Dr. Thorne waited while sitting on the chair beside the hospital bed.
And there she was, lying there and unable to move or speak.
The paralyzing drugs hadn’t worn off just yet.
He stared at her, his heart beating fast and his breathing heavy. In his head a war waged: did she feel what he wanted her to feel or not? He needed her to come off the chemicals.
He stood up then and looked into her eyes. She seemed calm, and he screamed. He had his answer, no verbal confirmation needed.
She won’t get away with it! He thought. But what can I do to her now? Then it came to him—while he stared at her, it came to him. He would choke that pretty little neck of hers. He would take hold of that silver trinket she wore, rip it off, throw it in the trash can, and wring her neck.
What if a nurse comes in? With that thought came a host of others, warning him he wouldn’t get away with murder.
He paced up and down the room, his mind reeling. He wanted her to feel pain, and it was unfair that she had mysteriously felt nothing. He did everything according to his twisted plans!
But if he couldn’t make her feel physical pain, perhaps he could make her feel psychic pain.
He put on a smile, thinking of how he would cause her heartbreak. And immediately he knew how he would do it: I’ll kill her baby. His smile grew wider, and he adjusted his large square glasses.
Gasp! Malory Greene let in a gulp of air. “Oh, doctor, I’m glad you’re here! Was this normal?”
Dr. Thorne’s smile disappeared. He turned to her. “Is what normal?”
“Well,” she said, looking confused. “I couldn’t move a muscle. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t move.” She looked up at him. “It was just like you had warned.”
“There are risks associated with using any drug.” He put on a polite smile as he nodded his head. “You should thank your lucky stars you snapped out of it.”
“That’d be my guardian angel,” she said. “But I was so worried I’d never move again.” She smiled. “You were there next to me, just as you promised.”
“Of course I was.” He fought against his increasing desire to lunge at her and beat her to a bloody pulp. He thought his Red Angel had liberated from social norms. Instead, he let more teeth shine from behind his smile. “Tell me: were there any other abnormal side effects during the operation?”
She looked at him blankly, her dark eyes having a glossy sheen. “I don’t know—like what?”
He felt his smile slipping into a frown and quickly righted it. “Did you feel any pain or discomfort?”
Malory was the picture of serenity then. She chuckled. “No, I can’t say that I did.” Then she looked anxious. “I was so concerned that I couldn’t move… maybe I would’ve felt something if not for that.”
“That’s… great to hear.” He said it through his teeth.
“Is my baby alright?”
His thoughts vanished, and he looked back at her—that silver trinket almost jeered at him. He imagined it was mocking him, telling him he was a failure. Failure, failure, failure! It was a voice screaming in his head. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he said. “Just getting poked and jabbed, I suspect.”
Confusion came over Malory’s face then. “Ok, good. When will I be able to see my Henry?”
“I can check with the nurses,” Dr. Thorne said. “But I’m sure it won’t be long now. You need that skin to skin bonding time.”
Only, his skin might be cold by the time you touch it. His smile became warm at the thought. And the voice of failure calmed down.
Malory returned the smile.
“I’ll go find a nurse now, and we’ll see if you can see your son.” He walked toward the brown door.
“Oh, doctor,” she said.
Dr. Thorne turned around. “Yes?”
She was all smiles then. “Thank you for everything. You’ve been a Godsend.”
“Mhmm,” he said, and he turned back around before she could see the hatred manifesting in his face.
He walked out of the room in search of Malory Greene’s newborn son.
Dr. Thorne stalked the white hallways of St. Gressil‘s Hospital. He was in the wing of the second floor where infant care took place. He was single-minded, and this was where he needed to be.
How would he do it? He didn’t know, but this was how he would inflict pain. His vehicle of choice was dastardly, but he was left with no other options. He was furious that the mother didn’t feel herself being sliced open.
Malory was on pain meds now, and he couldn’t do anything about that. Not like it would matter if I could, he thought. She’s immune to pain. The time for his chemicals has ended. Now is the time for heartache.
The clip clop of his tennis shoes against the tile echoed down the hall as he walked to where the newborns were kept.
He walked past a gaggle of nurses on his right, and he heard some of their hushed voices as he went by.
“I know. It’s so sad,” one nurse said.
“I didn’t like her much, but no one deserves that,” another said.
“I heard she won’t have a funeral,” the third said. “Too much damage to her body.”
“Poor Wanda,” the first said.
Nurses, he thought. Their lips are the first to spread when gossip comes around.
He didn’t have the slightest clue who the nurses were chatting about, and he didn’t care. He was a man ready to do what he was meant to do. His righteous mission from his Red Angel.
Babies die all the time, he thought. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is unexpected, and… Well, it’s sudden.
He could almost picture Malory’s face when the nurses show her the dead baby. That face was so warm and full of joy, but it wouldn’t be when her child’s Black naked body lay still in her arms. He hoped he could lurk around and watch the scene.
Nearing the center for newborns, he considered how he would end the boy’s life. His chemicals were out of the question: an autopsy would reveal too much for his liking. Perhaps strangulation, he thought. Anyone could strangle a baby.
He thought that was exactly how he would do it.
And he looked at the babies through the large windows. It didn’t take long for him to find the Greene baby, his Black face poking out of the swaddling cloth. The child was sleeping. What a shame, he thought. I’ll wake him before it begins. He wanted to see the boy’s eyes bug out as he pressed down on his mouth and pinched his nose.
The intercom buzzed. “Nurse Volkov, call the attendant station.” The voice repeated the request.
Nurse Volkov picked up the phone inside the newborn center and dialed.
Dr. Thorne nearly jumped at the appearance of the nurse. He hadn’t noticed her before, and he suspected he had been too focused on his task. I can’t make any mistakes. Not now.
Nurse Volkov put the phone down and walked to the cradle he had been watching.
No, he thought. This can’t be happening.
The nurse picked up the Greene boy and carried him out of the room. She then walked by him.
Dr. Thorne put a hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me, miss.” Please. Oh, please be another child.
Nurse Volkov turned to look at him with irritation on her face. “Yes?”
She was a pretty girl—likely not much older than the new mother. She had tied her blonde hair into a bun. And she held the child on the shoulder away from the doctor.
“Is that the Greene baby?” he said. “I was just with her, and she asked me to check on the baby.”
She looked him up and down.
She’s acting strange.
“This is the Greene boy,” she said. “I’m taking him to the mother now.”
Shit!
He reached out. “I can take him to her. She asked me to bring him back to her, so I’ll take him.”
Nurse Volkov held the baby away from the doctor, indignation replacing irritation. “You certainly will not!” And she walked down the hall.
Dr. Thorne hurried after her. I’ll beat her brains in. I’ll knock her out and take the child. She won’t walk away from me. And she’ll regret this once I’m through with her.
Catching up to her, he said, “Really, it’s fine. Take a break—you deserve it. I’ll take the boy to Ms. Greene.”
She shrieked, almost running away from him now.
He quickly reached out and grabbed hold of her blue scrubs. “I’ll take the child now.” His voice was unrecognizable to him.
Nurse Volkov screamed, holding the baby close to her chest.
Two nurses poked their heads from around the next corner.
He let go of her at the sight of the witnesses, his hand going to scratch his head.
“Are you alright, Anna?” One of the two said.
Nurse Volkov glared back at Dr. Thorne as she hurried down the hall. “Just fine, thanks,” she said. And her stare seemed to say, “Don’t you even try it, buster.”
He had lost. And in his defeat, he walked toward the elevators at the opposite other end of the hospital. He slumped his shoulders, his mind trying to piece together the why of it all. What had he done wrong?
He had planned everything perfectly, but it was all falling apart. He had placed his chemicals in the anesthesia machine; he had given Ms. Greene the right dosages of the right drugs… He had paralyzed her, but she felt nothing during the surgery.
Reaching the elevators, Dr. Thorne pressed the up button. He would go to his office, do some paperwork, and finally head home after a long and loathsome day.
The elevator opened, and he got in. He pressed the button for the fourth floor, and the elevator closed its doors—ascension. He hung his head, thinking it ironic that he was lifted up amid his crushing defeat.
At least I won’t have to worry about Coordinator Jakobs breathing down my neck. The thought infuriated him. He knew he had put in the time at St. Gressil‘s Hospital! Both he and Jakobs knew. Can it really take a few complaints to bring me down?
The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out, walking toward his office. He still lowered his head, but not because of his failure—he was thinking now. His mind spun, and he considered the frail position he was in.
Reaching his office, he let himself in and closed the door behind him. He sat behind his desk and turned his computer on. Logging in, he racked his brain on how he would deal with Daniel. He decided then he’d look up the Nerve Plant on the off chance it was deadly.
Turned out the Nerve Plant was toxic… not deadly. If I wanted Daniel to have a stomachache, that’d be the plant to do it, he thought, chuckling.
“You look like a man in need of direction.”
The voice was deep, and it came from behind him. Dr. Thorne shot his head to the door: closed. He then looked behind him: nothing.
Deep laughter filled the room.
He looked left and right, up and down. The sound of malevolent joy surrounded him, and his mind made the connection. “My Red Angel, is that you?” His hands clung to the armrests of his chair.
The laughter stopped immediately.
“Turn around, you fool.”
Dr. Thorne looked to his right and saw a very tall man sitting in the chair across from his desk—he must reach nine feet standing. The sudden appearance startled him. “Who are you?”
“Not your Red Angel, I presume.” He smiled, his teeth whiter than white. He wore a black suit, and he sat with his legs crossed.
“No you’re not him,” Dr. Thorne said. The sight of the man opposite him gave him a sickening feeling in his gut. The man was both unnerving and intriguing.
“Tell me about your Red Angel.” He rested his hands on his knee, his fingers impossibly thin.
Dr. Thorne gave a nervous chuckle. “There’s nothing to tell.” He gestured in the air to assure the man of his sincerity.
“You’ve been making waves in this hospital,” the man said with a grin, looking around the office as if he were surveying the whole building. “I’ve… felt the pain you’ve sown.” He leaned forward. “But what’s curious about you is you’ve never exhibited interest in the kind of… sins you’re entwined with.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Dr. Thorne said. He wondered what position this man held—have I seen him before? The man felt familiar to him, but he didn’t know why.
“Swapping out propofol for succinylcholine—and they call me cruel.” He chucked, as he leaned back. “Tell me though, just me. Who put you up to it?” He tilted his head.
“No one!” Dr. Thorne said without realizing his admission. His eyes went wide. “Because I don’t know—”
“What I’m talking about. I know.” He looked away for a moment. “But I also know everything there is to know about you, James Thorne.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m done with this conversation. You can let yourself out,” Dr. Thorne said, gesturing to the door.
“You don’t get to order me around in my hospital,” the man said, and he put on an especially wide smile.
“Your hospital? I’ve met Daniel Helberg, and you aren’t him. I don’t know who you are.”
“Oh I think you know me. My name is on the building after all.”
“Saint Gressil?” Dr. Thorne had never thought who the name belonged to.
“Well I’m not much of a saint, but yes, Gressil is my name.” Gressil‘s teeth doubled in length, his jaw growing to accommodate their size.
Dr. Thorne’s eyes went wide.
“Trust me when I say I know you,” Gressil said. “I’m even a fan of your recent work. So why don’t you start opening up to your biggest fan?”
“Biggest fan?” Dr. Thorne couldn’t imagine anyone in higher administration approving of his experiments, let alone the man they named the institution after. His heart was racing, and he felt as if he were dancing with a devil. “You couldn’t possibly like what I’ve been up to.”
Gressil’s eyes sunk into his skull, leaving holes as dark as an abyss. “Let’s say I work on the darker sides of life.” He stuck out a long, pointed tongue and let it hang in the space between them.
Dr. Thorne wanted to run away from the horrific thing manifesting before him. But this thing was between him and the door. “What the hell are you?” He then saw the man’s gums bleed.
Gressil licked up some of the blood. “The million dollar question.” His smile was wider than ever, and his lips manifested their sores—sores within sores broke out on the red flesh of his lips. “But I’m not here to talk about me. I want to hear from you. Seeing as I run things around here, I think I’m owed an explanation.”
Dr. Thorne thought he could puke from the smells coming from the creature before him. “Look all I know is I’ve had these urges for as long as I can remember.”
“You’ve had urges to hurt people? Humanity.” His smile grew wider.
“Yes.” It was all coming out. “But then my Red Angel came to me and released me from the chains that held me back.” Dr. Thorne looked up at the ceiling tiles, as if he saw his Red Angel just beyond. He wished his angel would come and save him from the monster in his office.
Gressil briefly looked where the man was staring at. He shook his head. “And who is this Red Angel?”
Dr. Thorne peered into those dark holes. “He’s my saviour. My rescuer. He has plans for me.”
“Does your angel go by other names or monickers?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Thorne said. He thought about that night, and he couldn’t remember a name coming up in conversation. “No he never gave me a name—Red Angel just felt right to me.”
Gressil leaned forward. “What are his plans for you?”
“Plans to ruin and destroy me,” Dr. Thorne said, remembering the words his Red Angel spoke to him. “Plans of despair and total depravity. I think the chaos I spread is a part of his plans.”
“Poetic.” Gressil sneered. “You seem willing enough to follow your angel’s plans. Will you follow them when they lead to your destruction?”
“I’ve been freed,” he said. “Whatever plans he has for me must be for my benefit.”
Gressil chuckled. “You’ve got a lot to learn about skeevy entities. But I won’t interfere with your work.” He stood up, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He looked down at Dr. Thorne. “If I were you, I’d contact HR about wrongful termination—seems unfair for a worker of your tenure to be released. Especially since the complaints against you are for drug side effects manifesting in a few patients.”
Dr. Thorne’s mind spun. He felt foolish for not thinking about it himself. “HR. Of course.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again,” Gressil said.
He was relieved to hear those words.
“But know that your operations are under my watchful eyes. And on the day our interests are ever misaligned, you’ll not see the morning of the next.”
And Gressil was no longer in the office.
Dr. Thorne’s eyes darted left and right. “Gone like he came.” He gagged, wanting to puke from the lingering odor. He held his hand over his mouth and forced himself to keep his food down.
Once he gained his composure, he took the advice of his visitor and called HR. He spoke with a representative and explained his situation. He included the choice language Coordinator Jakobs used in their meeting. The lady on the other end told him she would look into it, and he hung the phone up.
I might take Jakobs down after all. Dr. Thorne felt good about himself for the first time since the botched experiment. Of course thinking about his failure plunged him into a tailspin of emotions.
But that was ok. He would be ok. He had a patient scheduled for a spinal fusion tomorrow, and he would feel the pain. Dr. Thorne swore on his Red Angel that his next patient would live through hell.
What happened today will not take place again, he thought.
And Dr. Throne grabbed his briefcase and took the hanger with his suit off the door, exited his office, and headed for the basement. He would change from his scrubs in the locker room and go home.
Stewing in his defeat would make his victory all the sweeter. So he let his failure boil within. He could almost taste the fear and pain that would come from tomorrow’s victim. Oh, how good it was to serve his Red Angel.