Mid-September
Dear Diary,
He lies prostrate on the operating table, his skin still warm and pink. Even the intricate tattoo on his shoulder with the letters P and M interwoven around a cherub looks plump and firm. The respirator is doing its job.
His chest has been cut open to reveal the treasure trove within. I am more than certain he’s had a heart attack, so that organ must remain intact, but everything else can go.
His family said he wasn’t a donor, were adamant he didn’t want to be one, but I can’t listen. Surely, such a man would approve this final gesture. I cannot bear to see his healthy organs go to waste. So many people will benefit from his kind and generous gift. And he’s dead, really. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have changed his mind at the last minute and been generous, if he’d lived?
I block my mind to what I know were his wishes and once again pick up my scalpel. Quickly and efficiently, I do what I do best. With each slice, I’m saving lives and furthering the cause, one lucky person at a time. It’s a shame I am forced to work in secrecy and that my work is outside the laws here. How I would love for people to know who I am and what I do for so many others—and not the least among them, my family…