.
. . .The Surgeon reviews her chart. "Why are you here?"
. . .Her pale fingers clench the thin, sweat-soaked sheet. "I want to let go of past wounds, but they're bleeding into the present." The faded red stains spread like a yawn, tickling the hem of her future. "I've tried band-aids, I've tried stitches, and I've tried tourniquets. The blood won't stop."
. . .He places her file on her bedside table and sets cloths and medical tools beside it. There is no need to wash His hands, they're already clean.
. . .Her gaze fixes on His scalpel. He doesn't bother to hide it. "You're a specialist?" she chokes.
. . ."The best."
. . ."What's your price?"
. . He moves aside a crinkled pamphlet on Phantom-Limb Syndrome. "No anesthesia."
. . .She touches a shaking finger to the bead of sweat slipping down her temple. "And will it be gone forever?"
. . ."Some days you will feel its shadow more than others, but I offer your last--and best--option."
. . .Her breath crawls into her lungs in tentative wisps. She lies against the pillow. Her eyelids close, but their thin film can't shut out the terror.
. . .She holds out her pulsing heart and whispers, "Goodbye."
. . .His smooth experienced hands peel her blood-coated fingers from around the rhythm of life. Her heart trembles as He places it beneath a guillotine. The cord tightens, raising the blade to the peak. A quiver of anticipation. A twitch.
. . .Slack.
. . The glinting metal plunges like a stone into the ocean's abyss. With a dull clunk, cold-edge meets soft life-tissue. All color in the heart bursts like a mighty splash and drips over the guillotine edge. In its place, rests a pale white heart.
. . Silence twirls through the air like stunned smoke tendrils. The white heart releases a single beat. It grows louder. Faster. Stronger. There is no seam. There is no stain.
. . It shudders when the Surgeon's thumbprint brushes its surface. He leans over and breathes flakes of snow over it like a winter whisper.
. . ."Be whole."
. . .The Surgeon reviews her chart. "Why are you here?"
. . .Her pale fingers clench the thin, sweat-soaked sheet. "I want to let go of past wounds, but they're bleeding into the present." The faded red stains spread like a yawn, tickling the hem of her future. "I've tried band-aids, I've tried stitches, and I've tried tourniquets. The blood won't stop."
. . .He places her file on her bedside table and sets cloths and medical tools beside it. There is no need to wash His hands, they're already clean.
. . .Her gaze fixes on His scalpel. He doesn't bother to hide it. "You're a specialist?" she chokes.
. . ."The best."
. . ."What's your price?"
. . He moves aside a crinkled pamphlet on Phantom-Limb Syndrome. "No anesthesia."
. . .She touches a shaking finger to the bead of sweat slipping down her temple. "And will it be gone forever?"
. . ."Some days you will feel its shadow more than others, but I offer your last--and best--option."
. . .Her breath crawls into her lungs in tentative wisps. She lies against the pillow. Her eyelids close, but their thin film can't shut out the terror.
. . .She holds out her pulsing heart and whispers, "Goodbye."
. . .His smooth experienced hands peel her blood-coated fingers from around the rhythm of life. Her heart trembles as He places it beneath a guillotine. The cord tightens, raising the blade to the peak. A quiver of anticipation. A twitch.
. . .Slack.
. . The glinting metal plunges like a stone into the ocean's abyss. With a dull clunk, cold-edge meets soft life-tissue. All color in the heart bursts like a mighty splash and drips over the guillotine edge. In its place, rests a pale white heart.
. . Silence twirls through the air like stunned smoke tendrils. The white heart releases a single beat. It grows louder. Faster. Stronger. There is no seam. There is no stain.
. . It shudders when the Surgeon's thumbprint brushes its surface. He leans over and breathes flakes of snow over it like a winter whisper.
. . ."Be whole."
"Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice.
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me."
(Psalm 51: 7-10)
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice.
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me."
(Psalm 51: 7-10)
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1 comment:
This = brilliant. Nuff said. :)
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