The doctor gave a satisfied nod as he lifted the stethoscope from the woman’s bare chest. ‘Ah, the heart of a lion. We’ll soon have you cleaned up. But now. . . a little music to ease the passage.’ He did not expect a response because he was talking to himself. It had been that way ever since people could no longer bear to be in his presence. He turned, raising the needle of the old-fashioned record player as he set the music in place. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata breathed life into the crumbling room. The haunting tune aided his movements, making them smooth and effortless. Classical music was something he’d fallen back on during the darkest of times when the pain of his disfigurement became too much. But now, in the privacy of his surgery, the turmoil of the last year floated away. The bones in his neck cracked as he craned his head towards the paint-flaked ceiling. He gazed in admiration as a union of colour and sound floated above. His ability to see colours in music was both a torment and a gift. But then he always saw the world differently to others.
Pushing a lever, he eased back the surgeon’s chair. Earrings, necklace, bracelet… each piece of jewellery chimed as it hit the stainless steel bowl. Once used for harbouring freshly harvested organs, it made a suitable container for his exterior work. Jewellery removed, his eyes roamed over the woman’s naked body. To him, it was a canvas, and there was so much work to be done. But then bringing beauty to a dark and unforgiving world was never going to be an effortless task. Unfolding the razor, he laid it on the side, admiring the glint of the freshly sharpened blade. It was called a cut throat for a reason. There was an art to using this implement, unlike the disposable razors used today. Too much pressure would initiate the onset of tiny beads of blood. Not enough, and you were merely scraping skin. It was why he had placed her in a comatose state, as still as the death which was yet to claim her.
The music played on, enveloping his senses in green, blue and purple as he prepared the soapy lather. The process was a meditative exercise, which acquainted him with every curve of the young woman’s flesh. Goose pimples rose as an icy breeze snuck through the thin chipboard that boarded the window. He paused; he would have to purchase a heater. Such an appliance would make little demands on the generator, which purred in the corner of the room. Dipping the brush into the dish, he applied the frothy soap to the top of her thighs, working his way down in a slow, circular motion.
By the time she was lathered and shaved, her skin was mottled from the cold. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, stepping back to admire his handiwork. A warm throb of satisfaction pulsed inside him, and the left side of his mouth jerked upwards as he exposed his teeth in a ghoulish half-smile.
Up until now, he had kept his silence, but the time had come to make a statement to the world. Each work of art would be delivered publicly for all to admire and take pause. ‘That’s better,’ he said, voicing his thoughts out loud. ‘There’s no better feeling than swiping your thumb over the grime of urban living to reveal something quite exquisite underneath.’ Placing a blanket up to the girl’s chest, he checked the leather straps were firmly in place. Her origins were no longer significant. Soon she would look like a fairy tale princess – but one without censor, fitting for the modern world. Art was reflected in life, and beauty could be found in dirty little things.