“Just count backwards from ten, alright?” The surgeon nods at the anesthesiologist who takes the cue to start her job. He trains his eyes back to the operating table and to the person upon it. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
The boy on the silver table squints in the aggressive light of the operating room. He looks a little pale and for a second the surgeon wonders if he’s having second thoughts, but then he starts his count. “…four, five…”
He’s asleep in seconds, peaceful in the way most unconscious people are.
The surgeon’s gloved hands rub together in preparation and he glances at the clock. This operation usually takes a while. He doesn’t look forward to standing for at least five straight hours but he’s a professional. Some things have to be done.
He reaches for the scalpel.
Digging into the cavity of someone’s chest is something the surgeon has gotten used to in his career. Blue gloves are stained and slick with blood as the most difficult part of the surgery arrives. It’s not that he isn’t skilled enough, at least physically. It’s that judgement is a tricky thing to master, even with years of practice. He purses his lips, a show of emotion he would usually hide if not for his mask. There is no place for doubt in an operating room.
In his right hand lies the silvery string of Hope. Hope liked to curl around his fingers and sway to invisible music. The first time he did this surgery he had been surprised at how strong it was. It had been bright, as if moonlight had been spun into thread and blindingly beautiful. The surgeon admires it for a moment.
He squeezes the scissors in his left hand a little tighter. It’s always quite difficult deciding how much to cut—too little left and the patient was guaranteed to die. Not on the table of course, but there was a strong tie to Hope and the Will to Live. When digging around in the innards of a person it was very important not to disturb the Will to Live, for reasons that are self-explanatory.
The surgeon decides on something like two inches. It doesn’t seem like a lot but a little goes a long way. The scissors strain against the almost rubbery cord. It’s rarely a clean cut. He pushes the blades until they finally snip into the glowing Hope. His hands don’t shake like the first time he performed the surgery. Satisfied, the surgeon picks the darkening strand of Hope up. It’s strange how dead it looks already. The color bleeds from it like it’s been drained, which isn’t that far off. He plops it into a cold metal bowl to his left.
It makes a small splash in the ice water and joins the other unneeded things. It was more than he had expected for such a regular boy. There was an ounce or two of Compassion that needed to be shaved off, about six Dreams that needed to be purged, and finally removal of the Rebellion patch that grew around his heart. Admittedly it was risky to remove everything at once since it could kickstart failure into the Sense of Self once he woke up but it was just too dangerous to let everything linger.
Sometimes it’s good to know when to make the hard decisions. The surgeon nods his head unconsciously in approval. At least he’s a professional. And soon, the boy will be too. Or at least he’ll be a proper person. Without nonsense to crowd his body, he’ll be able to make room for what’s really important.
For a second the surgeon thinks it’s almost exciting. Almost—because Excitement was cut out of him years ago.
The heart monitor beeps sluggishly as a boy on a hospital bed starts to wake up. He blinks his eyes open like he’s in a dream, except dreams don’t normally feel this heavy. His weak hands make their way up to his chest as he feels odd. Cold fingers splay against the hospital gown and even through the fabric he can feel new raised scars. He feels wrong.
There’s a raw emptiness that wants to make itself known. The feeling of loss takes up almost as much space as whatever was taken. It pulses like a second heartbeat but too soon it dissipates. In the next moment, he feels a steam rise to swallow him, soaking him in apathy. What did I lose? He vaguely wonders. He blinks, coming to his senses.
Nothing important.