The Procedure

January 24, 2018
By wearejareth BRONZE, Pensacola, Florida
wearejareth BRONZE, Pensacola, Florida
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Part I


There was no sound when the doors opened before me, meaning they were well used by that of the surgeon Dr. Walter J. Freeman and his many thousands of patients that came in from around the world. But when I did pass through them, I could feel almost everything there could be felt at all, as if to make up for my lack of response to the whole situation only minutes before the procedure. I wondered if anyone else had felt this way, had their cache of memories run down them like piss on a scared child’s legs, exposing the last of their humanity as a sort of plead to stop this malpractice. But it never was acknowledged, certainly not in my case, and this is because people like me weren’t actually humans, no, not in their eyes.
This silent moment of reflection had been disturbed by the sour notes of Dr. Walter J. Freeman’s voice when he asked, “Cynthia T. Dolliad, are you aware of the procedure you are about to undergo, and do you have any last words to say to your family before it begins?” In the observatory room adjacent, there sat my uncle and father, who both signed to have the procedure after they had found me with her. Found me in such an ordinary place and at such an ordinary time, doing such an ordinary activity, but that to them was a behavior which warranted the end of my conscious life. “Yes,” I said, giving myself a moment to compose the very last words I would own. “I would like to say that even after this damned procedure, there is something I will always have that you never will: a truth to myself of who I love.”


Part II


One of my only memories left is of someone saying change is the only constant. At one point long ago, their words might have been true, but now there’s nothing more incorrect. Every day I’ll lay in bed and try to remember parts of the woman that I loved. I don’t know where she is, much less who she is now, but I’ll fleetingly remember parts of her; her hands, her hair, her incurable desire for sweets, but never her name. My father has given me no information on this woman and says she’s a figment of my imagination, and always has been, so that was why I had the lobotomy. I don’t believe him, but I’ll have my doubts from time to time. Either way, it’s impossible for me to make any efforts in finding her myself- I’m not allowed to leave the house. But I hope, oh God I hope, that one day she’ll come to me, and that we’ll know each other’s love once again.

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