The Three Part Story: The Boss

The poison in the cup would give the aging man stomach pains so severe that, coupled with his crippling arthritis, he would almost certainly pass out from so much agony.

Mr. Fraser was the kind of man who found pleasure in causing other people suffering, particularly psychological torture, even if he couldn’t see it. He perceived it as entertainment of the highest order that was restricted to those of high social standing and immense wealth. When the occasional victim accused him of being a sadist, he corrected them, saying he wasn’t sexually aroused by seeing people miserable, he was passionately in love with it.

The thought fuelled the long strides and quick pace of Mr. Fraser, who carried a cup consisting of ground coffee, two teaspoons of sugar, some water, some antifreeze and some milk. Signs of childish excitement infected each of his facial features the more he pictured the old man in pain, and his day was made better by the ghostly faces of miserable commuters. His eyes glassed over as he reached the corner of the street, and he felt a shove that sent a shock through from his elbow to each of his fingers, which instinctively spread out, dropping the cup which fell and spilled over the Armani leather toecap shoes he bought to go with his Armani black and grey pinstriped suit.

Fucking slum rat.

The Indian man apologised sincerely to Mr. Fraser and offered him some money for his coffee. Mr. Fraser held his shoulder amiably and politely declined the money, (“It was a mere accident my friend, your money is no good here,”) and finished with a hearty laugh. His hand dropped down the man’s arm and reached swiftly into his pocket to remove the man’s mobile phone. They exchanged false wishes for good days to one another and parted.

Mr. Fraser pocketed the phone, swore under his breath and reached for his own phone. His fingers trembled with outrage as he slid through his contacts to find the number of one of the offices he owned, the number available to customers. A nervous woman answered the phone and he, pretending to be a customer, shouted at her until he could detect a submissive quiver in her voice. He then hung up, angrier than he initially was. He scrolled through his contacts again and caught the number of the subordinate who was running the phones he had just called. He told the man to sack the woman he had just called. He had had eleven other people fired earlier that month.

He replaced the phone in his hand with the phone of the man who had ruined his day. He rifled through the messages for a while to find out that he was a plastic surgeon. He opened the “Gallery” folder and Mr. Fraser’s hands began leaking with sweat. A grin split his lips like a long, thin scar as he browsed.

One corpse. Another corpse. And another. The faces all carved up.

He felt a rush of vigour and hope as his sweaty fingers sloppily tapped the contact name of the hospital he assumed the man was working at. The doctor was busy. Five more calls in the next three hours. Busy. Two hours later, his secretary answered the phone and he was put through. He told the doctor that he wanted him to perform his art on a living subject that Mr. Fraser would send to his hospital with the doctor’s phone. Yamraj swore angrily, but of course he complied once he realised the threat of his livelihood was at stake.

Evening had come and Mr. Fraser was on his way to the old man, the phone tucked away in his blazer. Tonight, he was eager the old man suffer. After meeting him over a week before, he had unknowingly evaded Mr. Frasers influence and malevolent perversion.

He spotted a woman sleeping in the parking lot of the same office he had called earlier that day, the anticipation of his night stimulated his desire for immediate pleasure and he knocked on the window on which the woman’s head rested. As she shuffled a bit, he racked his brain for something to do to her. She fell asleep again, the bitch, he knocked again and then moved his face closer to the woman’s through the window. He saw vague movement and in another moment, he felt the tip of his nose slam against his face and the loud crack seemed to deafen him, then make him unconscious.

Fifteen minutes passed before an ambulance was summoned and Mr. Fraser was hurried through to A&E, with the phone still tucked away in his blazer.

A Three Part Story: The Employee

The second part that all seven of you have been waiting for! Stay tuned folks!

The Employee

Amelia Smith wrecked her mind with nonsensical problems, lying tortuously between reality and unconsciousness before the shrill cackling of her alarm pulled her into her life. Her mornings began with her gaze dropping lazily to her left, scanning the bed for her husband. Her heart wretched because unfortunately, the only time his miserable face wasn’t staring back through closed eyelids was when he was facing away.

Her eyes stayed fixed despondently on the paper-white front door as she descended the stairs. The distant voice of a boy saying, “Pass the…erm…butter” punched a hole in her stomach that filled with a familiar severe reluctance and her sight blurred with acquiescent tears which she blinked into suppression. She continued statically towards the kitchen and the sound of four thumb tips tapping two Blackberry Bold 9900s.

The door closed behind her. At this point, she always imagined that she’d just escaped her cell, but was now stuck in the prison complex, on her way to another cell.

Even my thoughts are fucking bland and automated.

She drove to work. Traffic. Lots of people in their cars looking as depressed and tired as she did.

That’s good I guess.

She got to work at 8:34am. 26 minutes early.

Now what?

She sat at her desk and began working. Typing. Answered the phone. The man shouted at her and hung up. She breathed the tears in sharply. Typing. Spreadsheets. Fifteen minute lunch break outside.

This should be nice.

She tried to smile at a male doctor who passed her, but the muscles around her lips seemed to twitch nervously and she felt like it was too difficult. It didn’t matter. The man didn’t give her a side glance.

Asshole.

She sat in her chair. Stared at her computer monitor.

Her boss fired her. Something different.

On the drive home, her calm outer appearance harmoniously contained the quietly violent beatings of her heart. Tears built in her eyes until they uniformly crawled down the bottom of her chin, and then dropped off and out of existence. Amelia became submerged in panic and felt suddenly as if she was drowning in insanity when she realised that she was crying because what she was trying to figure out was which rabbits to sell to each town. Confusing reality with my imagination while trying to sleep is one thing, but it can’t be normal to be doing this while driving. Can it? She followed this thought by the realisation that she didn’t know any town names and was making them up. She parked the car.

A large fist emerged from the dark night and rapped the window of the car, sending vibrations rippling through Amelia’s skull. Her head slowly gravitated away from the window, fell back against the headrest, and then lopped to the left. Ecstasy formed a vacuum in her lungs when she opened her eyes to the vacant seat. Her eyes happily closed for a second before the glass between her startled ear and the intrusive knuckle shook irritatingly again. She turned her gaze to the suited form whose faceless head stared parallel to her face through the window on the right side of the car. Her hand trembled on the door handle, which she unlocked quietly without pushing the door outwards. Then in one motion, she slid round on the seat so the heels of her feet faced the crack of the door and her legs extended violently outward from a 45 degree angle, snapping the heels on her shoes and splitting the unidentified mound in the middle of the featureless face, creating a splash of red against the white. Amelia fell on the figure and threw her fists against the face. Splatters of crimson blood painted the blank face and deep purple bruises bled under the skin. She stopped only when she could no longer see white. She collectedly got into the car and drove out of the car park.

A Three Part Story: The Surgeon

It’s been six days since I’ve posted anything on here, which is pretty horrific. Have I no respect for my readers? That questions best goes unanswered. I can explain my absence by saying that I was very busy and very lazy respectively. And now I’m back, copying and pasting a story I wrote at the start of the year for my English course.

Look, there’s not a lot of fucking TV show news.

If you didn’t understand from the title, this is a story of three parts, meaning that this will take up three days. This one is about a plastic surgeon with an inappropriate obsession. It will make more sense as the next two stories are posted.

Read it and tell me how beautiful it is or isn’t. It’s graphic.

The Surgeon 

There are two ways of inserting silicone implants into a person’s cheek: through an incision near the eye or an incision under the upper lip. The former can leave a very visible but harmless scar while the latter has a higher risk of infection. Guess which one is more popular.

Dr. Saraswati’s scalpel split the pink flesh above his patient’s gum, breathing steadily into his surgical mask. He was performing a cheek augmentation on a vain woman who’d found undeserved wealth through modelling. If she was a model designed to be looked at, then he was a sculptor, whose job comprised of carving out beauty and perfection. Yet Dr. Saraswati never made the common link between beauty and perfection, he found them contradictory in every aspect. Humanity’s media-fuelled view of perfection was a tiny nose, high cheekbones, inflated lips and a creaseless face. It was unnecessary to perform surgery when the masses could be handed a manufactured mask with fat, smiling lips, dead eyes, and a glossy, untainted porcelain shell that was cold to the touch. Picasso had the right idea though, why paint identical tedious faces when you could create something as twisted and unique as the Weeping Woman?  With this in mind, he rushed through the orthodox motions of the surgery in under an hour and left as soon as he could.

The morgue exploded in a morose blue hue emanating from the 5×5 panel lights laid flatly across the ceiling. Two steel autopsy tables lay parallel to one another, dried blood painted the surface in a dark maroon drizzle. Dr. Saraswati had unquestionable authority in the hospital thanks to the old man who funded his art. He opened the storage and put one of the bodies, donated to science, on the table. The corpse looked like a bland figurine, a pale canvas or an uncut block of ivory marble that needed to be embellished and made attractive. He unpacked his utensils and stood over the cadaver.

When the artist had finished, his camera flashed twenty-five times in the direction of his finished work. He then bandaged the face with a heavy sense that the art he was carving was being oppressed and underappreciated. The body would now be taken by his benefactor’s men to be shipped off so that all he had left of his art were the lifeless pictures he had taken.

In his office, he was forwarded a call, and after thirty minutes, he hung up. He felt sick to the stomach at the thought of carving the face of a living subject when all his art had been mercifully done on the deceased, which is all the old man had asked for. Yet this stranger, having discovered the doctor’s work, was now blackmailing him into torture.

A man arrived at 10:45am with a messily rearranged face and the phone, barely scathed, in his blazer pocket as was arranged. Dr. Saraswati got his equipment and took the unfortunate subject, donated against his will by a vindictive psychopath, to the deserted morgue. But soon, the disgust and concern Dr. Saraswati had for the unconscious man diluted among his enthusiasm for something new, and the man became just another canvas for him.

He anaesthetised the subject and started by sewing patches of thick, discoloured skin onto the twitching face.

A thin line of faded crimson shadowed Dr. Saraswati’s tempered steel scalpel on the inside of the subject’s columella, which was caked in dark, congealed blood.

The most famous of Picasso’s work had his subject’s obscured by his brilliantly colourful surrealism.

He pinched the tip of the nose and pulled it up to reveal a palette of hidden candy cane red flesh and cartilage white.

There’s nothing nearly as interesting as the uncanny. Picasso showed how shades and shapes, abstract to human anatomy, create prettiness unrivalled by sterile reality.

Dr. Saraswati had decided to start with the repositioning of the nose, probably the most challenging aspect of the work and the potentially prominent feature in his masterpiece. The cartilage sat like minuscule scaffolding beside the head. Next, he would try to drop the right cheekbone as low as he could. Then he would slit small crosses in the centre of the pupils, being careful not to let the eyeball drip too much. His mind raced from there and his creativity began to dictate, distorting the man’s face into something unrecognisable, a puzzle forcefully fitted.