The Surgeon
The Surgeon reached for the sponge in the bucket, squeezed as much water out of it, and wiped her thigh clean. He dropped the sponge in the bucket, squeezed water out of it, and wiped down her shin and ankle. He wiped over a dark mark, smudging it over the top of her foot. The lines between his eyes creased. He continued rubbing until the mark disappeared. He rinsed the sponge, squeezed the water out, and wiped over that same spot until he was content nothing spoiled her porcelain flesh.
He soaked the sponge, squeezed it dry, and wiped. After he finished cleaning every part of her, he emptied the bucket and added fresh water for another round of cleaning.
When he was satisfied she was clean, her skin snow white, the Surgeon reached for the scalpel and slashed the corners of her mouth until her smile reached her ears.
Her smile pleased him.
Then, for the finishing touches, he cut chunks of flesh from her thighs and breasts, placing them in a sterile tray for later.
He picked up the delicate flower and placed it carefully behind her ear, ensuring it stayed there.
The Surgeon stared at her in wonder; the way her hair framed her face, how her unseeing blue eyes met his, and at the shell her soul once inhabited. Her.
He smiled, appreciating his masterpiece, something he’d never replicate.
She was one of a kind.
A doll to admire.
His muse.
His Dahlia.
His.
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