Humming as he worked, the doctor dropped the bloodstained cotton into the bin at his feet and plugged the wound. It was just as well the young woman was dead for this part. He had been patient as the fatal overdose had taken hold, listening steadily with his stethoscope as the sluggish lub-dub, lub-dub of her heartbeat faded away. He could have saved her, changed his mind and administered a drug that would have reversed the effect. He had glanced at the syringe containing the antidote as he bent over her body – feeling God-like as he held the power of life and death. It was an experiment to see if he could invoke some last-minute compassion, and bring her back from the brink of death. But to him, she was there for his pleasure alone. It made it easy for him to carry out his work. Devoid of a heartbeat, the incision produced a gentle flow of blood instead of the sudden violent spurt that would taint his good work.
It was not as if he were angry with the woman, or harboured any hatred towards her. His was an addiction not easily cured. His fascination with the human body had developed significantly since his youth. Given his background, it had been easy to depersonalise those he treated. He knew it was wrong. Society taught him this was so. But there were so many people in the world. Would anyone mourn the loss of those living in the gutter? Everybody died, and these girls were the scourge of society, the most easily forgotten of them all. He was merely accelerating the inevitable, and she would leave this world immortalised as art. He was doing her a favour. He smiled. This would be his finest work yet.
Beneath him the rats were squeaking, the scent of blood tantalising their senses. ‘Later,’ he said, irritated by the interruption. A cool breeze broke through the crack in the window, chilling the sweat on his brow. He was so close to completion, and his back ached from carrying out his work. Allowing her to surface from the temporary coma had been a necessary evil. How else was he going to get her to walk on the shards of glass? He had observed from the shadows, trying to predict her next move in his game of cat and mouse. It had been foolish to leave the scalpel where she could find it, but he was not accustomed to his subjects fighting back. She should have been too drugged and dazed to think about grasping an implement of any kind. Just a few steps, that was all she had to take to make her feel like she was walking on knives. In the end, she had been grateful to fall into his arms and for him to make it all go away.
He returned his attention to the wound. Satisfied he had stemmed the flow of blood, he rinsed his hands in the small basin on the table and patted them dry. He had barely noticed that the record had stopped. As he set it back in motion, the sound of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 filled the room. The dramatic contrast in instrumentation invoked an intense rhythmic energy, and he inhaled a deep breath, allowing the stress of the day to ebb away. Colours rose, splashes of reds, blues and purples as the music came to a crescendo. . . then calmed as the melody ebbed and flowed. It was said that Beethoven felt he had been sent by God: ‘Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy,’ he once said. Such was the doctor’s sentiment when it came to his art. His focus returned to the body: she was almost ready. Trailing down the back of the surgeon’s chair, her red-blonde hair was kinked into a natural wave. Shaved and bleached, April was unrecognisable from the girl who had come to his door. How long would it take the press to figure out which fairy tale she had stepped from? His fingers traced over her corpse as he imagined the headlines. With great beauty comes great sacrifice. His work here almost done, his mind wandered to his next work of art.