The Anathema
The
waiting room was hell. He looked at the woman with the child, both dripping
snot and wiping tissues, and the elderly man who didn’t seem to know where he
was. They weren’t the worst though. There was a pregnant woman who was moaning
and sweating and a semi-conscious twenty-something man with his hand wrapped in
a bloody bandage. But none of that bothered him. The worst thing in the room
was right there with him.
A
door opened and he heard his name called. “Horace Brennan?” He stood, unsteady,
and began to walk toward the nurse. Everyone stared at his unusual gait. As he
moved toward the door, he swung his left leg out away from his body and took a
small step with his right leg. Not knowing his affliction, one could only guess
the cause of his odd lurching.
He
quietly endured the weighing in and the blood pressure check, he’d long since
stopped blushing or caring what other people thought. He knew he was out of the
ordinary, he knew perfectly well. He knew he had a disorder and he was totally
aware that it was, in fact, a mental disorder, and some people could be helped
with therapy. He knew all of that. He also knew that none of it mattered. His
affliction was as real to him as the sun in the daytime sky.
Settled
in the examination room, he brooded. He was tempted to walk out. No, he told
himself, I need to be strong. He had to at least hear his options. Who knew
what would come about?
The
door opened and Dr. Bruceis entered. Horace began to stand, but it was
difficult without using his left leg.
“Sit,
Mr. Brennan,” the doctor said. He closed the door behind him. Horace sat
uncomfortably.
“I’ve
studied the results of your tests,” the doctor said. “Your case is far outside
of my range of studies, but I did find a handful of similar cases and I have
some ideas on how to proceed. First, let me ask you if you have also done any
research? Are you aware of your condition?”
“Yes,”
Horace said. He was trying to stay calm, anxiety was gnawing at him. “I’m fully
aware of my affliction. It’s called Body Integrity Identification Disorder or
BIID for short. The internet has all of this. I’m aware of the standard
treatments, and I’m also aware of how it appears to other people. I am sane and
rational. I have done nothing but think about this for years until I . . . until
I just don’t care and I could just die.”
Dr.
Bruceis was silent for a moment. “Mr. Brennan, you’re a young man, you seem to
be articulate and intelligent. I don’t see any way we can go forward with your
plan. We just don’t do that.”
Horace
felt his blood pressure rising and he could feel his cheeks redden.
“It’s
the only solution, doctor. It’s the only solution. You don’t know the horror,
the terror of living with it.”
The
doctor sighed. “Let me have a look at your leg.”
Horace
turned his left leg toward the doctor and he looked away at the wall. The
doctor felt the skin and gently squeezed the muscles in his calf.
“Any
pain?”
“No,
of course not,” Horace said, exasperated. “I’ve told you that already. There’s
no pain of any kind. No numbness either, just a normal feeling leg.”
Dr.
Bruceis looked up. “It feels normal, yet it’s alien?”
“Yes,”
Horace exclaimed. “It is not my leg. Like I’ve said a thousand times, that leg
does not belong to me. I can’t stand to have it attached to me. It has to go.”
“Okay,
let’s not get upset,” the doctor said. “I’m going to recommend that you see a
specialist. I have a referral here for you.” He handed Horace a card.
“A
psychiatrist? Are you serious? I’ve seen more head doctors than I can count. I
don’t need any more help with my head. I just need this thing removed from my
body. You don’t understand. I will not feel whole until this leg is removed
from my body.”
“But,
I-”
“No,
doctor. It has to go.” Horace stood and staggered out of the room.
***
The
delivery man carried the foam cooler into Horace’s living room and set it on
the floor.
“Early
Halloween?” the man asked.
Horace
looked at him quizzically. “How’s that?”
“Halloween’s
not until next month. That’s usually when we deliver, you know, for haunted houses
and stuff.”
“Oh,”
Horace said, annoyed. “Here” He handed the man a twenty.
After
the man left, Horace donned a pair of work gloves and opened the cooler. He
removed the blocks of dry ice and set them on the kitchen table. He’d already
fashioned a trench out of pillows on the couch and he lined it with plastic
wrap.
On
the table next to the couch was a bottle of whiskey and a prescription for a
strong anti-depressant. He sat, had a drink, and downed two pills. He didn’t
want to overdo it and pass out too soon. He would have to experiment and see
how much pain he could take and how quickly he would become unconscious.
Finally,
he figured that if he wrapped his leg in plastic he could withstand the real
intense pain for about three minutes. Two more pills and two more shots and he
was almost there. He set his leg into the ice trench and covered it with more
slabs of dry ice. He could barely move the last one into place before he
slumped over, passed out with his accursed left leg covered to the knee in
blocks of dry ice.
***
Craig
Wells was getting burned out on the night shift. He knew there was nothing he
could do about it. He was resigned to the shit detail until the end. His boss
knew about his pending felony charges and only because he’d agreed to do the
night shift was he granted permission to be employed until the cops came for
him. He wiped his greasy hands on his work shirt and checked his list of menial
chores for the evening.
It
wasn’t all bad; the other poor souls stuck on night duty were mostly good
people. And he did get to see the most interesting cases brought into the
emergency room. The weirdness started after dark .
This
was Thursday night and that meant that all of the bio-hazard waste would be
delivered to the lab. Normally, it was not a big deal, just specimen bags and
containers from local clinics, to be disposed of in the hospital incinerator.
Tonight would be a little different because the incinerator at the next largest
hospital was down for repairs.
Knowing
that he would have a larger than normal load this evening, Craig headed down to
the laundry room to procure a cart. He knew it was absolutely against health
rules, but he also knew that nobody would care. He brought the cart up the
service elevator and wheeled it into the lab.
He
opened the first refrigerated locker and stared at the contents. He wondered
what nightmare diseases lurked in the nasty looking specimen bags and
containers. He scooped them out into a garbage bag and tossed them into the
cart. There were more in a lower locker. Racks and racks of vials and test
tubes. He moved to next case where larger specimens were kept. Here he knew
there were amputated extremities of all sorts. The cart was almost full when he
removed one last bag from the back of the cooler. He saw through the clear
plastic that it was a leg that had been amputated above the knee. The leg
appeared to have a mottled patchwork of blackened and
bleeding
skin that seemed to be moving, peeling away and then joining back together as
he watched.
Weird,
Craig thought, and tossed the bag on top of the other waste. He was used to
seeing horrific things, but this leg just creeped him out. It was clearly an
amputated limb, but it seemed to still be alive. He shuddered and shook off a
chill. He explained the phenomenon away with thoughts of accelerated
decomposition or possibly some sort of chemical exposure as he pushed the now
heavy cart into the hallway and then to the service elevator.
In
the basement, the incinerator created an uncomfortably hot, dry environment.
Craig began to sweat almost immediately. He pushed the cart between stacked
hospital equipment of every description until he came to the far end of the
basement. He stopped at the yellow and black striped safety door that had to be
powered up to gain access to the fiery inside. He pressed the red button and
the door slid up, releasing a blast of even more heat.
Craig
staggered back and considered just pushing the whole cart in. He decided
against it, knowing he would need the cart again in the future. He started to
grab some specimen bags and he paused.
He
used his gloved hands to sort through the specimens on the top of the pile. It
was odd. That weird leg was gone. He started picking up bags one at a time,
looking under all of them. He was getting extremely hot and he knew he couldn’t
take it much longer. He picked through the pile with both hands, tossing them
into the incinerator as fast as he could. The cart was more than half empty and
there was no sign of the leg. He tipped the cart and dumped the rest of the
bags on the floor. It wasn’t there. It must have fallen off the cart somewhere,
maybe the elevator.
Quickly
he tossed the remaining bags into the flames, pressed the red button again and
retreated from the heat. He left the basement and leaned against the wall in
the hallway. He recovered after a few minutes and pushed the empty cart back
toward the elevator. As he waited for it to descend, he looked back down the
hallway to double check in his mind that he had searched everywhere. The leg
had to be in the elevator. He remembered seeing it sitting on top of the
specimens when he rolled the cart through the doors.
The
elevator descended to a stop and the doors opened. Craig’s heart skipped a
beat. The elevator was empty.
***
Horace
drifted in and out of dark dreamless sleep. He woke briefly, in fearful fits,
not knowing where he was. The passage of time seemed distant. Sometimes the
lights were on and everything was blurry and dizzying. Sometimes it was dark.
Gradually, he forced himself to look at the place where his left leg had been.
The bandaged stump, with drain tubes attached, gave him comfort, and eventually
the remaining twinges of panic subsided and the numbing depression melted away.
He
looked at the stump with bleary eyes. It had been three days since he had first
awoken and his spirits has been steadily rising. He didn’t think it was at all
odd that he now felt whole. It was a new sensation and he swam in it.
Horace
looked out the window. The view from the fourth floor was mostly sky and the
wall of an adjacent wing. If he lifted his head, he thought he could see the
tops of trees in the distance. He knew that soon he would rise from this bed
and walk away from this building. It didn’t matter how he got around from place
to place, at least it would be without that thing. Crutches and wheelchairs
bothered him not at all.
That
night, he drifted in and out of a restful sleep. His mind was calm and the
feeling was glorious. He knew he had a gauntlet of psychological tests to run
before he’d be allowed to travel outside alone. That didn’t bother him. He
relaxed, content to let the nurses and the orderlies tend to him. He was in a
safe comfortable place, finally.
He
shifted in his bed, wishing he could roll over, but he knew that would be too
painful. He sighed and sunk his head back into his pillow. His room was dark
and the floor of the hospital was quiet at this hour. The nurses drifted around
in the background, mostly silent. People walking the halls spoke in hushed tones,
their footsteps leaving hardly any noise. He was restless, having slept so much
in the last few days.
He
heard a sound and turned to look toward the bathroom. The light was off and
through the open door he could only see inky blackness. Again, he heard the
sound. He stared into the shadows, futilely straining to see the source of the
noise. Something was shuffling on the floor. As he listened, he heard the soft
squishing noises grow closer.
Suddenly,
a thought flashed in his mind and he felt a rush of fear so strong he could
taste its metallic bite. He tried to sit, but felt paralyzed, as if he were in
a slow motion dream. He looked at his stump and saw a blossoming spread of red
on the bandage. The drainage tubes seemed to dislodge themselves and fall out.
His stump, tingling intensely, suddenly felt like it was on fire.
He
pushed his head back into the pillow as hard as he could and clenched his
teeth. He shut his eyes so tightly that he saw stars swimming. He heard the
noise again, closer now, at the edge of his bed. He opened his mouth and tried
to scream but only managed a raspy croak. He screamed in his mind instead,
thrashing around on his bed, trying to move away from the sound, anything, even
falling out of bed, he didn’t care. The harder he struggled, the more paralyzed
he became.
He
looked through panicked eyes at his stump. His entire body began to twitch and
he felt as if he was gripped in a seizure. He saw that the bandage had peeled
away. As he watched, he saw the end of the stump open up like a flesh flower.
Dripping crimson tendrils poked from the raw wound like fast growing vines.
And
as he watched in horror, a blackened object crept up over the foot of the bed.
Red sinews crept from the object and met up with the bloody tendrils that were
crawling from his stump, seeking. As he watched, paralyzed with fear, he saw
his missing leg, the alien, meet his stump. Tendrils caressed tendrils and then
slid over and around each other. Just before his mind snapped, he saw the
foreign thing move closer and reattach itself to his body.
© 2014 Shock Armstrong