Dragged into Darkness (14 page)

The creature didn’t seem to be old, but it was definitely an adult. Its greasy flesh had a resilience that came with youth.  But it was tired.  It chewed with listless energy and not all the scraps it ate made it down its gullet.  Leftovers dangled from its mouth and a trail ran down its body. 

Two waste pipes trailed from its genitalia.  The pipes, discolored from the inside with its filth, disappeared into the staff bathroom.  One of the pipes pulsed with activity.  

“Strip him,” the chef ordered. 

Marcus and Clark did as they were told.  Their waitress joined in.  Dave fought them off, but there were plenty of hands helping to restrain him and his clothes were peeled off like so much fast food packaging. 

It shouldn’t have mattered but it did.  He knew his life was on the line and survival should have been his only thought, but naked in the front of the diner’s staff and patrons, he felt reduced to nothing.   He was no longer Dave.  He was theirs.

“People will look for me,” Dave announced, hoping to strike a chord with someone.

But no one was listening.

The chef stood by the creature.  Wiping a hand on its slimy hair, he sneered at the disposal unit and dragged a hand across his apron.

“This is old. 
Its
barely capable of doing its job.”

“Am I too much meal for it?” Dave said putting on a brave front.  “Don’t you think
it’s
man enough for the job?”

The chef glanced at the disposal unit with an upturned lip and shook his head.  “No, I don’t.”  He paused.  “But, you are.”

Blood drained from Dave’s face as he realized what the chef meant.  “No.  No.  Not me.”

The chef jerked his head at a busboy.  The busboy knew what to do.  He yanked out the creature’s waste pipes and unchained the creature.  The chef kicked the old disposal unit out of the way.   Marcus and Clark dragged Dave to his new station and thrust him into his predecessor’s squatting position.  As Dave’s co-workers shackled him to the floor, the busboy inserted one waste pipe into Dave’s anus and jammed his penis into the other.  The creature’s waste acted as a lubricant.

“I think you’ll make a perfect replacement.”  The chef snapped Dave’s head back and a busboy scraped a plate into his mouth.  That plate was followed with the remains from another plate, then another.

Dave ate and ate and ate.

“Carole Bartholomew, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Janice.”  Troy rose to meet his patient.  “Doctor Gareth Troy, Ms. Bartholomew.”

The young woman tottered over to Troy like she was wearing spiked heels.  But she wasn’t.  She was wearing sensible flats.

Troy took her hand and shook it.  “Take a seat, Ms. Bartholomew.”

“Carole, please.”

He nodded.

Carole savored the chance to sit and breathed deeply while settling into a chair.

“You’re a referral from Dr.
Birnbaum
, aren’t you?”

Carole smiled and nodded.

“Okay, pop your shoes off for me, so I can take a peek.”

Poor cow, he thought.  Psychotherapy hadn’t worked.  He was her last resort.  But she wasn’t the first case like this to be referred to him.  His business ran on these referrals.  He would help her, but many would argue that the cure was worse than the disease.

Troy dropped to his knees to examine her feet.  All ten of her toes were gnarled roots, misshapen and twisted.  Several were bruised.  Some corrective action had taken place.  At least four toes, one recent, had been broken to straighten them, only to succeed in deforming them further.

He glanced up.  Carole kept her gaze averted.  Pregnant tears welled, waiting for birth.  Troy retook his seat opposite his patient.

“What do you think of your feet, Carole?”

She stared at the ceiling.  “They’re ugly.”

“How did this happen?  These aren’t natural deformities.”

The tears rolled and Carole sniffed.  “Being poor caused this.”

“How?”

“My family didn’t have the money for clothes and shoes.  We wore shoes until our feet burst through the soles,
then
we’d inherit our older sister’s hand-me-downs, which were always too big.  Growing up meant going from hammertoes to claw toes.  Our feet never knew what to do.” 

“Are you poor now?”

She managed a smile, wiping away the tears.  “No.  I’m a lawyer and I can afford life.  Money isn’t a problem anymore.  I’m not that little girl anymore.”

The smile slipped. 

“Go on,” Troy urged.

“Except…”

“Yes?”

“Except my feet
are a continual reminder
of who I was.  Every time I see them or I’m forced to limp up a set of stairs, I know it’s because I was poor.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“You know…”  Carole indicated with a shrug, reluctant to say.

“Carole, I need you to tell me.  I can’t proceed without your say so.  After this procedure, I can’t put things back.  If you can’t say it, I can’t do it.  Understand?”  He smiled sympathetically.

Carole reverted back to her pained smile and nodded.  “I want you to remove my toes.”

As soon as the words were out, Carole exploded into wracking waves of sobs.  She slipped from her chair, but Troy was there to catch her.  Dr. Troy, savior to the hideous, would rescue her.

“Carole, I’ll do what you ask.  You’ll never have to fear your toes again.  They won’t be there to remind you.”

***

Weeks after Carole’s toes were consigned to medical
waste,
Troy drove home to Beverly Hills, his Porsche eating up the road.  He thought of all the poor
Caroles
out there, skulking in the shadows, too afraid to come out.  And who could blame them in this place?  These demented fools poured into the world’s most densely packed city of beautiful people.  Drawn like moths to a flame, each one would get burned.  What did they expect?  That beauty would rub off on them?

He noticed the balance changing weekly.  The middle ground was fading.  The ordinary, even the attractive, were disappearing.  People were either perfection or horror shows.

He didn’t deal with perfection.  He stuck with the horror shows.  Any surgeon could help tweak the near flawless to become the flawless.  And in
Hollyweird
, there were plenty to perform the work.  But not many wanted his kind of work.  He had been first to see the niche, but over the years, he had come to realize he wasn’t just making a hunk of change.  He was performing a public service.  He was helping the people who couldn’t help themselves. 

As his practice grew, so did his understanding.  His eyes focused on their horrors.  Their deformities were his deformities.  He desired their resolution as much as they did.

His cell chirped.

“Dr. Gareth Troy.”

“Dr. Troy,
it’s
Janice.”

“Yes, Janice.”

“I just wanted to let you know that Todd Arthur’s psychological evaluation has just arrived.”

“Good.”

“It authorizes amputation as the only solution.”

Troy stared at a woman walking a French poodle in his neighborhood.  Involuntarily, his foot eased off the gas.  The Porsche wheezed in de-acceleration.  He didn’t recognize the woman, but he should have.  The port wine birthmark splashed across her face was distinctive, to say the least.

Her gesture was subtle.  She’d spotted him staring.  He wasn’t sure if he’d actually seen her do it or just thought she had done it.  She managed to turn her head to look at the houses in such a way that she shielded her face from him.  And when he craned his neck, she continued to turn to hide her deformity.

“Dr. Troy?”

“Sorry, Janice.
  You were saying?”  His foot returned to the gas pedal.

“I’ve tentatively said Friday, but Mr. Arthur wants a definite.”

“How’s my schedule for Friday?”

“Clear at the moment. 
A couple of consultations.”

“Then tell Mr. Arthur, Friday will see the end of his problems.”

“Okay, Dr. Troy.”

“Have a good evening, Janice.” 

Troy hung up.  Immediately, he checked his rearview then his blind spot, but the woman with the poodle was gone.

***

Todd Arthur was anesthetized and prepped for surgery.  Troy studied his patient’s leg.  Black lines and notations had been scribbled on the thigh.  Surgical cloths covered the right leg.  He uncovered it and studied both legs.

“Dr. Troy?” Nurse
Kuo
prompted.  “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he answered after a pause.  “I’m just thinking.”

Arthur claimed he had suffered with Body
Dysmorphic
Disorder since he was eight.  He always felt his legs weren’t a part of him, just clunky optional extras bolted on for appearances.  Psychiatric counseling had been a regular part of Arthur’s life for over twenty years.  But a biking accident two years ago had got him what he wanted—almost.  The accident was minor but it left his left leg scarred, scars that Arthur saw as abhorrent disfigurement upon abhorrent disfigurement.  Threats of suicide were ignored until a botched attempt.  His therapist caved and approved amputation above the knee.

Except, it wasn’t what Arthur wanted.
  He hated the sight of both legs.  Just because one was uglier than the other didn’t matter.  To him, both legs were an abomination. 

Troy knew exactly what Arthur meant.  He recalled their first consultation.  Aesthetically, the man should have ended at mid-thigh.  He didn’t look the way Troy did.  Troy’s body flowed effortlessly from limb to torso.  Arthur’s didn’t.  He looked mechanical, artificial—wrong. 

Less is more, he thought.

“Nurse, prep Mr. Arthur’s right leg too.
  Both are coming off.”

“Doctor?”

“You heard me, nurse.”

“Gareth,”
Ensmann
blurted.  “Are you serious?”

Troy locked stares with his assisting physician.  “I’m deadly serious.  This man wants both his legs removed and we’re going to give him what he wants.”

“But we’re only authorized to remove the left leg.”

“It’s not what the man wants.”

“What do you want me to do?” Nurse
Kuo
interrupted.