Page 13 of Vetted for Vengeance
When Frank's voice joins in the background wailing, I almost speak, but I don’t. This is Rhys's moment. This is his private life, and I don't want to give him a reason to put me on the table. I really like my insides where they are.
“I think I'm going to leave you here to think about your life while I give your brother a little attention.” Rhys informs Derek bluntly. All sounds stop, even the pained whimpering of a man I imagine with his abdomen open and half dissected.
After a few scraping sounds I can't place, Rhys continues his work, his macabre operation and slightly creepy monologue.
Some sounds remind me of dogs struggling through labor. Usually around puppy number five, when they're tired and hurting, and still have a long way to go. But other sounds are more desperate. More broken.
Barely words now.
“Are you interested, Noah? A dog would have died long before this point. Humans are remarkably resilient when they finally experience consequences.”
“Do you think the guilty should suffer?” I question softly, unsure if his words were rhetorical or require answering. He questions the audience during his podcast, and I confess I usually answer, but this time he can hear me.
“They shouldn’t live long enough to suffer. Only long enough to understand.” Rhys continues, an ominous squelching sound fills my mind with the memory of tearing the membrane from a newborn puppy's face. “Most people believe the heart is the most important organ. Personally, I find the conscience far more interesting.”
“I think the heart is important biologically.” I answer carefully.
“So is it possible to die without compromising the circulatory system?”
An interesting question.
“Yes, that's possible. I've seen pups die without bleeding, but there is usually some underlying health condition.”
“Good. I like an intelligent answer.”
That makes me smile more than it should. Is it intelligent to calculate the cause of death… when it comes?
I wonder if it would be shock or blood loss. Maybe seeing your intestines on your chest is enough. Maybe catastrophic organ failure.
Or maybe Rhys likes to be the direct cause, giving a final, fatal cut.
Only time would tell.
I should be horrified.
I should pray he forgets I exist.
Instead, I lean forward in the chair, listening harder; waiting for the next sound.
Chapter nine
Rhys
Death is… anticlimactic.
So much buildup, and then it's gone. In my day job, I rip off the latex gloves and walk out, leaving the post-op care and clean-up to my nurses. Here I have to do it all myself. I can’t stop my mind drifting to Noah. Imagine having a nurse here for this. I could bring the professionalism of my day job into my nighttime extracurricular activities. I could train him to hand me instruments, anticipating what I need before I say it.
A scalpel placed in my palm without asking.
A suction tube ready before the blood pools too deeply.
A real assistant.
Someone who listens when I speak instead of nodding politely and pretending to understand.
But that is a pipe dream. A long-term goal I can't allow outside of my head for the next few months, if ever. Knowing what I do and assisting is a huge jump, and my puppy-mad companion has given no sign he's interested in anything beyond walking off into the sunset with a pack of waddling dogs.
But that small idea makes the cleanup go faster.
