-Surgery (Weekend Fire)-

“If you don’t like it, we can leave,” she says, in the sort of tone that is saying “you better not ruin this for me, you know how bad a grudge I will hold if I don’t get my way”

“No, really, I’m having the time of my life” I reply, holding back the urge to smash the glass I am holding into her pretty little face and then strangling her to death.

“Great” she says “you know how much this means to me” before spotting someone more important across the room and darting off.

It’s times like this I wonder how or why I ended up with a woman like Lucia not to mention why I am attending a party with people like this.

Looking around, it’s plain to see the room is filled with what most would call the “elite of society” sure, they know how to dress in there overpriced suits and dresses, and sip their overpriced champagne, but they are, each and every one of them, morons. You can tell.

Common sense seems to skip over these people, as if when god created them, he said, “we can make them stinking rich…better make them fucking stupid to compensate”

I’ve been standing in the same spot, next to some large piano that nobody is playing for nearly 2 hours, sipping on the same disgusting tasting drink.

In a loud room with a lot of people bits and pieces of conversations emerge and these further prove me claim to their stupidity and vanity and all around just lack of caring for anything outside of their little world, which is, at the moment, this little get-together.

Every time somebody gets remotely close to me or smiles, I quickly take a sip of my drink and swish it around in my mouth until they look away. This is strictly in order to avoid conversing with them, of course.

“Henry, Henry!” someone calls, I look over my left shoulder before spinning around to see Lucia, cigarette in hand with two other people at her side.
“This is Kim and Steven, from Emily’s last month, remember, she wore that gorgeous red dress?”
Switching her focus she says “And this is my fiancé, Henry, whom you may or may not remember” Fiancé.
The word rings in my head over and over. “Uh, yeah, hi, pleased to finally meet you guys” I say, not even really bothering to try and hide the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever seen these two people in my life.
“You too” they both say at the same time before looking me over from head to toe, a look of slight shock painted on their faces.
Lucia notices this instantly and gives the little piece she’s become used to saying. “Well, This is Henry’s unique sense of style, believe me, he can’t be held down by the likes of Armani” she says, slightly embarrassed. Again.
“I see,” replies Kim, her eyes glued to my dirty old sneakers.
It seems like the two of them are content to stand there and just stare at my choice of wardrobe all night. Finally Lucia steps in. “Oh!” she says excitedly. “Let me introduce you to Todd and Cid, they are helping me with this months’ lineup”

They all walk away.

To be honest I consider what I am wearing to be the most “Dressed up’ I’ve ever been. A plain white button up long sleeved shirt, completely un-tucked and a pair of black slacks, which I thought looked pretty spiffy with the sneakers.

I guess all these people would tell you otherwise, though.

With no one else to belittle my “fashion sense’ I walk over to the small bar and place whatever it is I am drinking on top of it. There is an overly made-up girl behind the bar and she notices me instantly, but looks as if she’s staring right through me. ‘Could I get a beer?” I ask before adding “in a bottle”
The girl sighs heavily and rolls her eyes.
“We don’t have beer here. You might want to check the dumpy nickel and dime bar across the street though” she replies, which a slight chuckle. As if to let the world know that she just might have an ounce of whit in her body.
I bite my tongue.

“Well I don’t like this” I say, pointing to the glass I set down.
“Figured so,” says the doll on the other side of the counter, while looking me over and then turning her back.

I grab a corkscrew and clutch it tightly in my hand, admiring its shine and in an instant I see myself leaping over the bar.

I grab her by her fake hair and pull he head back as hard as I can. It feels like I snapped her neck in half, but she starts screaming immediately. She doesn’t try and struggle, which I find very odd. I jerk he head back even further so she can look me in the eyes.

Without a word I plunge the corkscrew into her face. She’s screaming for all she’s worth now.

And I like it.

I pull it from her face and plunge it back in again, this time harder. And again, and again, each time increasing the intensity and speed. Streams of blood run down her face like tears while I continue to stab away relentlessly.

I finally stop and notice her face resembles a large piece of raw ground beef, bits and pieces of bone dot her face and blood is flowing freely onto the floor, dripping like a waterfall. She makes a strange gurgling sound, so I punch her in the face as hard as I can.


I raise the corkscrew again and ram it into her throat. A small but steady spurt of warm blood emerges.

Her body goes completely limp within seconds and she suddenly feels very heavy. I release the handful of hair and she slumps to the ground.

“Excuse me” I hear suddenly, in a far away voice. I ignore it marvel at the body that lies at my feet.
“Excuse me” I hear again. The voice somehow closer and firmer.
“MOVE” it comes again.

I snap out of it.

I’m behind the bar again, corkscrew in hand.

“Are you mental or something?” says a middle-aged man while stepping around me and placing an order for a drink.

I shake my head, still in shock before placing the corkscrew back on the polished marble bar top and walking away slowly.

On our way home from the party the only sound to be heard is that of the heavy rain pelting the outside of the car. I’m pretending to be focusing hard on the road and driving, but my mind is wandering to incredible lengths. Finally, Lucia breaks the silence.

“What are you thinking?” she asks without looking at me.

Time and time again she asks this question and I know why. It’s only so that she might get to tell me what she is thinking. She cares very little about what is actually going on in my mind.

I have this thing about not giving people the answers they want to hear, just because they are so expected and because they often have motives.

I bite my tongue.

“Nothing” I reply in a mundane way.

This is the part where I’m supposed to ask her what she’s thinking.

I turn on the radio instead.

Before long we are in bed and I find it odd that I cannot remember the drive home, or much of the night for that matter.

Lucia is lying across from me reading some sort of celebrity gossip magazine. She’s the type who legitimately cares who is fucking who, who is getting fat, who has a drug habit, etc.

It’s enough to make me want to grab the lamp from the nightstand and thrust the entire thing right into her mouth and the watch her choke to death on her blood.

I stare at her for a moment acknowledging her beauty, but not admiring her in the least. I turn over and pull my knees close to my chest before closing my eyes.

I hear Lucia close her magazine, switch off the lamp and sigh heavily.

And then feel her staring a hole right through me.

It gets easier and easier to ignore and soon enough I am asleep.

I’m in a sterile looking white room. Bright lights shine down on me from what looks like an incredible height.

Before long several doctors surround me. Wearing blue and white surgical masks they put on rubber gloves and make idle chit chat about the weather and various sports news.

I notice one of them looking me in the eyes

I blink twice in rapid succession.

“Oh, Mr. Camden” he says “nice of you to join us”

Several other men are whispering to each other and speaking lines filled with various medical names and procedures. It sounds especially foreign to me.

I notice one man walk past with a large syringe in his hand. I feel a sharp pain in the back of my neck.

“Alright, let’s go. Start the clock,” says a disembodied voice.

I hear loud ticking like that of an old bomb.

Two men approach me on each side and one brandishes a large scalpel for an instant. The shine catches me in the eye and I blink momentarily. It is during this slight escape from reality that I feel the razor sharp knife being drawn down my chest, splitting me open with a sickening ease.

The man on the left reaches inside of me, a smaller knife in his hand. He begins cutting away at my insides. And then starts sawing through my flesh. Jerking back and forth violently I can feel my head and neck flapping around before I hear a sickening crunch and an amused Sigh from the doctor.

“Come on, we can move faster than this!” shouts another voice.

Instantly, two more men gather at my sides and plunge their hands into my chest cavity. It is at this time where I try to open my mouth and scream. I’m not certain my mouth is even open, but I am trying desperately to let a sound escape me.

I cannot feel a thing.

The men pull out my intestines with their hands, dripping with a very dark blood they thrown them over their shoulders. I can hear them, as well as other organs and chunks of flesh hitting the floor.

“Faster! Come on!” shouts the same voice, angrier this time.

Several masked doctors are now shoulder deep inside my body pulling and tearing at my insides.

I begin to taste blood in my mouth and try desperately to spit it out. To try and scream for all that I’m worth

Everything becomes a blur and fades to black. Silence fills the room. All except for the rain beating against the window of our bedroom.

I breathe heavily while running my hands over my chest.


Rolling over, I find Lucia facing me, her eyes closed; she is in a deep sleep. For an instant, the thought of dousing the bed in gasoline and watching her burn crosses my mind. I see her screaming in pain as flames engulf her body.

Instead, I get up and make my way to the couch in the living room where I spend the rest of the night watching television

Somehow, It’s morning and Lucia is in the kitchen reading a magazine. I’m still on the couch wondering if I want to go to work or not.

Out of nowhere her dog, some small rat-ish looking breed begins barking at me from across the room. I try my best to ignore it and turn the volume up louder. It’s futile, as the little beast keeps yapping a mile a minute.

I walk over to it slowly and pick it up. It continues barking, growling and trying to bite at my fingers.

To my left I see a large mirror on the wall, the one I had to pay almost $600 for. Without a second thought I throw the dog as hard as I can toward the mirror. I hear a sickening thud and the dog is on the ground yelping in pain. The mirror is only slightly cracked. I walk over and pick the injured dog up and slam it repeatedly into the mirror seeing the anger in my eyes right before the entire thing falls from the wall and crashes into thousands of pieces at my feet.

I can hear Lucia screaming behind me, with the blood covered fur ball in my hand, I turn to face her.
“What happened!?” she screams repeatedly.
Looking down, I notice the blood covering my hands. The dog remains nestled in my arms, yapping away.
I walk away quietly, handing the dog off to her and kicking shards of glass out of my way.

I disregard the thought of work and instead find myself in my psychiatrist’s office.

John Elm has known me for almost a year. I tell him the truth about my feelings and thoughts often.

I’m waiting for him to get back from lunch and find myself admiring all the fancy certificates and documents he has on his wall. His entire life is more or less right in front of me.

I laugh at the thought.

“Henry, what can I do for you today?” asks the man himself as he walks through the door.
“You tell me, doc,” I say quietly, showing him my hands
“Jesus Christ, what is that from” he asks, pretending to be concerned.
“I don’t know.” I reply quickly
“The thoughts, the urges, the hallucinations. They are becoming a whole lot closer to being real” I continue
“And this” he asks confused, “was one of them” he finishes, gesturing toward the blood dripping onto his expensive rug.
“Bingo” I say angered, while making my fingers into a gun and aiming for his head.

I begin grinding my teeth as hard as I can. I close my eyes and wait for him to say something. It seems like an hour before he says anything.

“Well you know what has to be done,” he says excitedly. The voice is not his.
“Spare the egghead bullshit and just spit it out, doc” I fire back, still grinding my teeth.
“Embrace these thoughts, make them real. They are you. This is your life. Who you are is not something you can hide from any longer”
I’m completely puzzled as to why any highly educated man might be saying this, but I feel an incredible tinge of excitement in my belly.

I open my eyes and see John Elm smiling at me wildly, as if he has cracked. As if he has the entire world figured out.

This cannot be him.

“Start with me!” he yells and then begins laughing a horrid laugh.
“Listen, doc, this is…” I stop short. His laugh penetrates my thoughts and fuels me with rage.

I walk over to his desk and pick up an antique letter opener sitting amongst some sealed files.

He continues laughing.

I grip it tightly in my hands and run my finger over its dull edge.

My overpaid psychiatrist is still laughing, red in the face, veins bulging from his forehead.

I raise the letter opener above my head and plunge it directly into the top of his head. It goes in roughly and my hand slips from the handle. He’s still laughing so I pull it out and do it again, begging him to stop. To shut the hell up. To just fucking die already.

I push him back hard and his chair topples over. I hold his head back and jab the dull blade, as hard as possible, into his flabby neck. His laughing ceases and blood pours not only from the gaping wound, but also his mouth. The red in his face turns to white in a matter of seconds.

I study myself in his mirror quickly, wiping some blood from my face before kicking the heavy doors of his office open.

The secretary sitting at the desk drops the phone and stares at me, wide mouthed.

“Mr. Elm is going to want you to hold his calls” I say, right before I beat her into an unconscious state with the phone and then strangle her to death with the cord.

On my way out of the office I kill another three or four people, including a young security guard who was, until this time, earning minimum wage. I tuck his pistol into the back of my jeans and find my car.

Seconds later I find myself screaming down the busy street, blowing through red lights and stop signs. I feel possessed. It’s as if something else is controlling me. As I lean out my window and fire off some shots at a group of children playing in front of a school I realize I’ve never felt so alive.

I look in my rear view mirror and see two of the kids slumped against the pavement, and the rest running for help.

A smile crosses my face.

I put the pedal to the floor and zone out completely. I don’t even take notice of the several foreign tourists I just ran down at a crosswalk.

Eventually I find myself in the fancy upscale neighborhood I’ve always hated and grown so accustomed to. Zooming by million dollar houses owned by greedy thieves and criminals I finally find Lucia’s. Her dad paid for it, as well as countless other things she owns.

I slide the car fiercely into the driveway and smash, with some force into the fountain on the front lawn.

Calmer now, I open the door. The dog immediately begins barking at me, so I stomp it to death on the “home sweet home” rug.

Leaving bloody footprints, I go to the fridge and drink some milk from the carton. It tastes like shit so I throw it in the garbage.

The TV has been left on, so I sit on the couch and try my best to become engrossed on what is on. It’s something about Hollywood and how everyone is getting cosmetic surgery these days.

Surgery, I think, is supposed to be reserved for people dying of illnesses, not for rich people to become fake. I think back to my dream. I wonder if surgery could have saved me.

Eventually Lucia comes out into the den and sees me staring at the blank TV screen with a smile pasted on my face.

“Hi” she says, a bit confused.
I look over at her. She’s wrapped in a towel and is brushing her wet hair. She notices my bloody wardrobe and the gun in my hand. “What…have you done? Oh my god!” she screams.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god” she keeps repeating, frozen in fear.

I want nothing more for her to just shut the hell up, but like everyone else she seems to enjoy the sound of her own voice. I get up from the couch slowly and walk toward her. She backs into the wall and stares at me.
Once I get close enough, I reach out and pull her toward me. I put my arms around her. She smells so good. She’s so warm.
I notice her shaking uncontrollably and contemplate asking her what is wrong, but she begins yelling and trying to get away from me.
I tighten my hand on her wrist as her bare feet slip and squeak on the hardwood floor. She begins kicking at me so I shove her as hard as I can and watch as she tumbles backward hitting her head hard against the wall.

I pick up her completely naked body and walk down the hall to our room. I place her on the large bed and admire her for a few minutes. She’s never looked better, I decide.

I tie her down by running thick rope over her and under the bed several times. I also tie her wrists to the headboard.

Eventually she wakes up. I’m lying next to her, staring her in the eyes. She feels the restraints over her body and begins thrashing wildly, before giving up and sobbing uncontrollably.
I go around to the foot of the bed and look her over. Tears are streaming steadily down her cheeks.

I ask her if she’d like me to remove the gag from her mouth. She does nothing but continue crying.
I ask her if she’s ready to die or not. This, understandably, upsets her as she begins thrashing about again, trying desperately to get loose, trying as hard as she can to scream. I wait a few minutes for her to relent. She doesn’t.

I grab her by the neck and tell her to stop. Lucia, being the little spitfire she is, decides not to comply and continues her fish out of water impression the best she can. Flashing an amused smile, I punch her in the mouth.

She’s conscious but unable to move like before. A small stream of blood is running out of her mouth.

Without a word I grab the gas can sitting in the doorway and begin dumping it on her. She feels it and smells it but her eyes continue to roll around in the back of her head.

I stand back and see that her naked body is completely soaked, so I throw the can out into the hall.

Months and months of thoughts, memories and fantasies flood my mind. The times I’ve loved her, the times I’ve hated her and most of all, the times I’ve wanted to see her like she is today.

There are countless things I want to tell her. So many things I wish I could speak so that she might hear and understand. I say nothing.

I kiss her gasoline soaked lips before standing back, sparking a match and flicking it onto her body. Instantly, she is engulfed in flames. I can hear her muffled voice trying to scream a death scream.

I sit in a chair at the edge of the bed and watch a moment. I soon close my eyes. I hear a voice.

“Congratulations. We’re done.” I open my eyes to see several blood splattered doctors staring back at me.
“Mr. Camden, you’ll be happy to know we also set a new record,” says one of the doctors excitedly.

I look down to see my body stitched up nicely. I can hear rain hitting a window somewhere in the room.

I wonder where I am. I wonder who I am. I wonder if they’ve saved me.

Written and owned by Dan Chubaty 2005