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The cold metal grazes my gentle abdomen, making it clench as if I were being tickled by loving hands. The scalpel doesn’t cut me, no, not yet. I do not know when. Perhaps, once I stop thinking, he will realize, and begin. Or he will stop my thinking forcibly, jamming the blade into my flesh until it kisses bone.
It is almost romantic— how his strong, lean hands hold my torso. Gently, as if I were made of porcelain. Yet, his grip on the cool metal is hard, I can tell, even with the latex covering the peach of his skin, and the blue in his pulsing veins.
Even within his harsh grip, the blade doesn’t stab me, instead, it quietly drags down from my navel to above my groin, making the faintest of lines, but still deep enough to cause red pool from the newly engraved mark. I wince just barely.
Hesitantly, I take hold of his free hand, of which is settled upon the side of my chest, holding my body steady. He glances at my action for just a moment, though continues without a word, letting my soft flesh of my hand lay upon the glove covering his own.
The second incision is deeper, and I bite my lip to stay quiet, small tears at the corner of my eyes from the pain. More blood oozes out, but it’s not long before it’s mopped up by a cloth. Once the bleeding lessens, he traces the wound with the pointer finger of his free hand, the one that I am not holding tightly in pain. Is it, though? Pain? I do not feel hatred towards him, nor the hand attached to the wrist that has sliced my abdomen open. It was not harsh, or quick— the cut. It was smooth, gentle, loving. Aware of my consciousness, aware of the nerves within my body that sense the wound he created.
He knows every part of me. Inside and outside, in the most literal sense. He has seen my insides. Many times. Whether it be colonoscopy, endoscopy, an ultrasound— he could identify the insides of my large intensities within seconds if shown an image, I’m sure of it. Surely, no man who has done these things to my body would harm me. He knows how i receive pain, how I express it and how I feel it.
He moves his scalpel to the rhythm of my body, so achingly so, that it barely hurts when he cuts a slice deeper— through muscle.
He speaks not a word, nor makes a sound. I wish I may of had the pleasure to stare at his peachy lips whilst I was cut open, if only to imagine those lips touching me as well as the blade. Luckily, his eyes are fair game, open to the world as he works. They’re a gorgeous greenish-blue, a color I was not even aware existed before I met him in the emergency room.
They shine gently, as if he were on the verge of tears. But he is never choked up, nor is he ever stuttering his words, nor does he drink an excessive amount of cold water, to wash the urge to cry down his esophagus.
My hand tightens around his, his thumb soothingly rubbing the back of my hand, before letting go. He uses both of his hands now, utilizing them to gently reach into me, causing tears to run down my reddened cheeks. He hushes me, not scolding, but like a mother comforting her child would, the mask over the lower half of his face moving as he does so.
I look away from him for a moment, eyeing the large lights illuminating my naked body. The rest of the room is dark, making my nudity more obvious to anyone who came in through those doors. The only part of my body that is covered is the area around the incision, where there is a small tarp like material, preventing any blood from seeping onto my skin.
His left hand holds the wound, pulling it open slowly. I hiss with my teeth clenched, keeping the sound trapped within my mouth. Despite the fact I am the one being operated on, I am still thinking of his feelings. How may he feel, seeing me wince and hiss at the artwork he is making of my body? Likely insulted. How dare I feel pain towards the metal he presses to my skin, like a paintbrush to a canvas. Picasso would be offended dare you critique him, and so would the man above me. So I keep my mouth shut, jaw clenched.
As I stare at the blinding fluorescents above me, his right hand gently tugs at something within me, and it is all I can do not to cry out. My hands grasp the table tightly, conveying the pain I cannot show vocally. The tears still drip down my face. I hope he is not offended by them. Perhaps, they are from the pain, but what if, they are from admiration? I hope that’s the position he views it from.
I look back to his eyes. His eyelashes are dark, fluttering over the open organ. He shows no emotion on his face, only in his actions do I see how he is feeling. How he cuts me, how he holds my body. All actions, I critically analyze, trying my hardest to understand how the man feels toward myself. I pray every night in this hospital—my knees on the cool tiled floor, covered partially by my gown— that he feels the same love towards I, that I feel towards him. Does he too, dream of my body on a gurney, as I dream of his above mine, in scrubs? I pray on the floor, hands rested against the bed, hoping he does.
The day I leave this hospital, the day I am healthy, I will sob, I know I will. From being healthy, from being finally independent. But, also, from the loss I am receiving. The loss of his body overseeing mine; anesthesia forgotten, pushed off to the side as he operates on me with the tenderness of a lover.
I almost hope that day does not come. That I will be sick forever, only to lay in his grasp.