The Gift was first published in Darker Times Collection: Volume One in May 2013, after being named the runner-up in Darker Times Fiction's March 2013 Flash Fiction competition.
The Gift
The renowned Doctor Gordon Lindenbaum. He had never saved a life, in the classical sense, but he had saved people from the spectre of suicide – by rectifying their appearance to a standard they were content with.
That life was cruelly stripped from him at forty-five. Young onset Parkinson’s, rare but not unheard of. He recognised it as soon as it had begun to show: an almost imperceptible tremor destined to shake the very foundations of his life.
His last bastion of happiness was his wife. In recent years she had been his only support, but her sanctuary from the ensuing stress had been sought out in snack foods.
One evening, before bed, she sat in front of her vanity – gazing listlessly at herself. “I’ve gotten fat…” The words were practically mouthed, but somehow Gordon still heard them and it was like his world had collapsed for a second time. She got up and moved over to the bed, forcing a smile and kissing him lightly on the lips. “Goodnight, darling, the weather’s supposed to be good tomorrow.”
Gordon smiled softly and watched as his wife sunk into bed.
It was to be her birthday soon and he wanted to give her the ultimate gift – that which he had already presented to hundreds of his patients – the restoration of beauty.
He still had his surgical supplies from when he was a practitioner – they were only a few years old – and then there was the operating table stored in the loft, the one they once used at a Halloween party to dissect a pig – just to disgust the neighbours. It was a risk, he knew that, but he could bring it all down into this room and have it done before she’d even wake up. He had confidence in himself, it was the board who said he was unfit for practice – not him. If he concentrated hard enough he could force his hands to remain steady, and if it was for her, he could keep them still for hours.
***
The operation was progressing beautifully, and there was little left to do – only a couple more nips and tucks. He was staying away from doing anything major, instead performing minimal procedures that would give her enough confidence to let him perform something more substantial at a later date – in better conditions.
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing the glazed expression of someone having just entered the world of the waking. Gordon glanced over at the anaesthetic; he had made the measurement based on the only weight ingrained in his mind, the one he never gave a second thought to – her mass when they were first married.
“Gordon… What’s…happening?” Her words were slurred and Gordon immediately threw himself towards the anaesthesia.
It was too late, his wife was screaming and crying, begging for help – for some form of explanation.
On impulse Gordon spun around to calm her down – his scalpel still in hand.
A perfect line of crimson was left behind – the most precise incision he had ever made – right across his doting wife’s throat…
That life was cruelly stripped from him at forty-five. Young onset Parkinson’s, rare but not unheard of. He recognised it as soon as it had begun to show: an almost imperceptible tremor destined to shake the very foundations of his life.
His last bastion of happiness was his wife. In recent years she had been his only support, but her sanctuary from the ensuing stress had been sought out in snack foods.
One evening, before bed, she sat in front of her vanity – gazing listlessly at herself. “I’ve gotten fat…” The words were practically mouthed, but somehow Gordon still heard them and it was like his world had collapsed for a second time. She got up and moved over to the bed, forcing a smile and kissing him lightly on the lips. “Goodnight, darling, the weather’s supposed to be good tomorrow.”
Gordon smiled softly and watched as his wife sunk into bed.
It was to be her birthday soon and he wanted to give her the ultimate gift – that which he had already presented to hundreds of his patients – the restoration of beauty.
He still had his surgical supplies from when he was a practitioner – they were only a few years old – and then there was the operating table stored in the loft, the one they once used at a Halloween party to dissect a pig – just to disgust the neighbours. It was a risk, he knew that, but he could bring it all down into this room and have it done before she’d even wake up. He had confidence in himself, it was the board who said he was unfit for practice – not him. If he concentrated hard enough he could force his hands to remain steady, and if it was for her, he could keep them still for hours.
***
The operation was progressing beautifully, and there was little left to do – only a couple more nips and tucks. He was staying away from doing anything major, instead performing minimal procedures that would give her enough confidence to let him perform something more substantial at a later date – in better conditions.
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing the glazed expression of someone having just entered the world of the waking. Gordon glanced over at the anaesthetic; he had made the measurement based on the only weight ingrained in his mind, the one he never gave a second thought to – her mass when they were first married.
“Gordon… What’s…happening?” Her words were slurred and Gordon immediately threw himself towards the anaesthesia.
It was too late, his wife was screaming and crying, begging for help – for some form of explanation.
On impulse Gordon spun around to calm her down – his scalpel still in hand.
A perfect line of crimson was left behind – the most precise incision he had ever made – right across his doting wife’s throat…
