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Holding a scalpel with sweaty fingers, Jacques watched the girl’s breasts rise and fall with her gentle breathing. His gaze moved to her beautiful face which neared perfection—but not quite.
He took a deep breath and brought the blade closer, savoring the shiver of anticipation that passed through him, then he sliced a graceful arc under her jaw. A line of blood welled up exposing fatty tissue. After two more quick cuts, he pulled at a flap of skin, rearranging it to highlight the curves and angles of her face.
Jacques took pride in being a sought after artist whose brushes were blades, his canvas, human flesh. Young, wealthy, wannabe starlets, celebutantes, and fading beauties clinging desperately to their diminishing youth all came to him, eager to submit to his blade. Every magical stroke of his scalpel changed destinies.
Jacques’ art allowed the facade of their outer beauty to hide the truth of their distorted inner lives which he resented, particularly their hypocrisy, but he reveled in their worship and the knowledge that the magic wand that was his scalpel brought them happiness.
Perfection. His gift to his devoted scalpel slaves. Could you take this bump out of my nose? Highlight my cheekbones? Get rid of those crow's feet around my eyes? I'd like my breasts firmer. I have a little sag here. Can you take it in?
He made more cuts, nipping and tucking until his patient’s face assumed prefect proportions, then he put in the last stitch, letting a nurse finish the dressing so he could rest.
The demands of those anxious for his gifts had grown rapidly, bringing him to the point where the exhilaration and letdown of each operation left him more drained than the one preceding it. Raising his fees had only increased the demand, forcing him to extend his hours.
Jacques rubbed at his burning eyes and stretched out on his office couch, thinking of how many, with their own versions of flawed anatomy demanded his time and energy, and for the first time in his career, he worried about keeping up the relentless pace that drove him. Letting his weariness settle over him, he dozed, until a knock on the door startled him awake.
"Your next patient is prepped and ready," one of his nurses said.
Jacques sighed. "Be right there." Gathering his dwindling energies, he struggled to his feet, feeling the rising anticipation of another scalpel stroke.
He finished his last rhinoplasty some time after eight that night. Feeling drained, he wanted only to eat and sleep. Stopping for a quiet dinner on the way home, he almost bumped into a tall, silver-haired man in a tuxedo on the way into the restaurant. “Dr. Forsythe,” Jacques blurted, extending his hand.
Forsythe shook it vigorously.
Jacques gestured toward the entrance. "Join me for a drink?"
Forsythe glanced at his watch. "I can spare a few minutes."
Jacques followed him in, waving to the hostess.
"Haven't seen you at the club in months,” Forsythe said after the hostess seated them. “You feeling okay?” He leaned toward Jacques, a concerned look on his face. “You look like hell."
Jacques sighed. "Too many patients."
"Why do you push yourself so hard? You don't need the money."
"They need me," Jacques said, lowering his voice, "but they're sucking the life out of me."
Forsythe's eyes darted from side to side, then he looked over his shoulder. His mannerisms made Jacques uneasy.
"For the short term," Forsythe said after checking over his shoulder again, "you can extend yourself." He held his arm out and looked at his watch. "Gotta go." He pulled a small bottle from his pocket, winked and pressed it into Jacques's hand.
Jacques turned it over in his palm to read the label.
DEXEDRINE
Not to exceed six in a twenty four hour period.
––––––––
The name on the label said "John Smith".
Forsythe disappeared before Jacques could respond, so he dropped the bottle into his jacket pocket and forgot about it.
––––––––
The buzz of his alarm crashed through Jacques’s skull the next morning, waking him in confused panic. After slapping the button, silence filled the room, leaving him with a throbbing headache.
Easing himself out of bed, he made his way to the bathroom, where he fumbled inside the medicine chest for some aspirin.
He felt better after showering, but the pounding in his head persisted. He wished he could take the day off, but he had twelve patients scheduled for surgery. Postponement would only jam his already overloaded schedule.
He slipped his hand into his pocket after shrugging into his jacket and felt the bottle. Forsythe's words came to mind. "For the short term, you can extend yourself."
He pushed the thought from his mind.
Losing himself in the morning’s parade of facelifts and nose jobs, he concentrated on his art, but by the third patient his hands shook. He finished without incident, but what little energy he had mustered that morning had already dwindled.
Turning from the operating table, he held his hands in front of himself to stop the trembling, but his body wouldn't obey. He couldn't face another operation. Today his patients seemed to drain him faster than he could recharge.
He went into his office and pulled the Dexedrine from his pocket. Maybe just this once. For the short term. The weekend was coming and he could rest up then. He shook two pills from the bottle, washed them down with a cup of water and laid back on his couch.
His headache cleared as if strong winds had blown back thunderheads. His heartbeat came to life, thumping in his chest. His mind felt razor sharp, his energy boundless. His perceptions had a clarity he hadn't thought possible, and his hands felt firm.
Working through his patients, his fingers moved quickly, his every cut a stroke of excellence that brought each trusting face closer to perfection. A giddy sense of power rushed through him as he accented lines, angles, and highlights. His edge had returned.
Jacques left the office feeling euphoric, but by the time he reached home, his nerves felt like overstretched rubber bands. His mind still raced. He treated himself to Mozart and cognac.
He went to bed after two, drifting off into a troubled sleep. The next morning his limbs felt heavy, his thoughts disjointed. He pulled out the Dexedrine.
After two pills, his energy returned and his cuts stayed perfect. He worked his patients with flair and precision. That night he unwound with Beethoven and more cognac, priming himself the next morning once again with Dexedrine. By Friday he managed to reduce his stream of clients to a reasonable flow by persuading some to reschedule.
He knew where this would inevitably lead him so on Saturday morning he flushed the last of the Dexedrine down the toilet, but by Saturday afternoon he broke into a cold sweat and his body shook. Cravings gnawed at him. He tried escaping into sleep, but his discomfort kept him from anything more than an uneasy doze.
When he could bear his suffering no longer, he rummaged through his briefcase for a prescription pad. He didn't like the thought of drug dependence, but he was a doctor and felt confident that he could beat any addictive tendencies by counteracting one drug with another. He scribbled out two prescriptions; one for Dexedrine, one for Valium.
During the next few weeks, he performed his usual precision work with the aid of Dexedrine during the day and Valium at night to help him sleep. He kept his edge the first week, but it dulled some by Wednesday of the second, forcing him to increase the dosage.
By the third week his patient's features looked different, both before and after he made his cuts. He feared he was losing his touch.
By the fourth week his energy fluctuated, confirming his growing suspicion that his patients robbed him of his life substance, and as more time passed he found himself puzzling over his work. No matter what he did, nothing looked right to him, but no one complained.
Determined to clear his thoughts, Jacques took much needed time off and locked himself in the house with a supply of food and a variety of drugs, but his body had other ideas.
Chills, vomiting, and diarrhea wracked him soon after he decreased the dosage and in his state of extreme withdrawal, the radio played satanic music nonstop – even with the cord unplugged, then a gibbering woman with an ugly distorted face crawled through the screen of his television, ordering him to make her perfect.
Her ranting angered him. He couldn’t let patients treat him this way. He was the one who controlled destinies, not them. He knew what he had to do if he wanted to regain his edge, so he applied his will and after a bitter struggle, he reclaimed his clarity and his edge returned.
Anxious to reassert his mastery, Jacques arrived at the clinic early the following morning as scheduled. His nurses prepped his first patient as he donned his gown and checked his operating schedule.
"Scalpel," he said a few minutes after the anesthesiologist put his first patient under. He stared at the blade, admiring the precision of its edge, then he glanced down at his unconscious patient's face. Her eyes opened and the woman who had crawled out of his television shouted, “Make me perfect!”
He looked at his nurse and anesthesiologist. Neither of them seemed to notice. He brought the blade closer and stopped when he saw another face. This one stayed quiet and kept her eyes closed. Her beauty looked nearly perfect until her features shifted again.
No matter.
Savoring the anticipation of his first stroke a moment longer, Jacques cut deep, exposing the fatty tissue underneath. The television lady smiled and winked at him. He smiled back. This one would be his greatest work of art.
