He went to work as usual, of course. Woke up, brewed his coffee, brushed his teeth, patted his already balding head down, got in the car, parked the car, got out of the car, went inside the hospital, entered the elevator, exited the elevator, found his office, unlocked his office, set his laptop case down, took his laptop out, plugged the power source in, booted the laptop up, logged in. Nothing changed much that day. People gave him looks, tried to comfort him, but he dismissed them without pause. Only one operation was scheduled, and he got through that operation quickly and efficiently. Another woman’s face reconstructed, another couple thousand dollars for him. Perhaps the only thing that did change was the thought that his wife, for all her imperfections, could certainly have impressive timing and aim.
Time passed, and he reflected on what he could have done wrong. He treated all his possessions quite nicely, kept himself nicely shaven, did the dishes, cleaned the house when she asked, and he never dared risk his reputation by sleeping with the much prettier ladies he met at work. Really, he thought he was the model husband. Never once did he touch her if she did not touch him first, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized how little they touched if at all. Perhaps the occasional touch while they slept side by side, purely accidental in nature, was the extent of their physical relationship. Was that the problem, then? Was he not affectionate enough? But, he remembered, did he even know how to show affection at all?
The realization unsettled him for a day, but then he realized that he was being ridiculous, so he moved his mind onto other subjects. He had to. The ER called his mobile and let him know that they had to perform an emergency facial reconstruction on a woman, so he had no choice but to forget for a couple hours. The woman in question was involved in a severe car accident, a product of the drunk man who had died before the ambulance arrived, and nobody knew who she was or what she looked like (other than the bloody mass that the doctors salvaged). As he stared, he pondered what to do. Since a DNA check would take too long and they had no way of knowing who she was, he had to decide her appearance quickly and begin the operation. But who should he model her after? Would she want to look beautiful or average? More feminine or masculine?
Chewing his lip, he fingered a strand of dark, blood-stained hair and saw the vision of his wife lying in bed, sleeping peacefully and with a complete disregard for his presence. It was decided, then.
The operation lasted quite a while. There was more damage than he originally thought, but he was determined to mold the woman’s face perfectly even as his assistants grew tired and his hands shook. A touch here, a scalpel there, he concentrated until his eyes watered and his assistants pried him away to tell him that they were finished, that there was nothing more they could do. Only when he finally left the curtained-off area did he notice the stench of blood that followed wherever he went. Quickly, he stopped by the sinks and peeled his gloves off.
He thought this operation was his most successful yet.
“Excuse me, sir, but a woman wishes to see you,” a hesitant nurse asked. She was peeking into his office, body posture stiff and fingers white as a ghost from where they gripped the door.
“Who?”
“It’s the woman from the car accident. She just regained consciousness and began screaming after we brought food to her. Then she demanded a mirror, and, well, it seems as if the appearance you chose for her has sent her into a sort of shock.” Wetting her lips, the nurse shifted uneasily in the doorway. The surgeon unconsciously mimicked the same action and stood from his seat, the wheels rolling along the tiled white floor and sighed.
“Room 234?” The nurse nodded. She moved aside and allowed him to pass, eyes pressed into his back as he walked down the bleak hallways to the elevators. Although he appeared calm to the patients and nurses he passed, inwardly he was pondering the consequences of his decision. The foolishness of his actions struck him and he physically staggered into the elevator, weakly pressing the little button that read “2” and clutching his forehead, a sudden pain embedding itself into his skull. His fortune, his position in the hospital, everything! His wife was a replaceable loss, but if he lost his position at the hospital, then he would truly become nothing. A nobody.
He heard the screaming before he left the elevator. The sound pierced through the wall like nails and claws, and he wondered if he had summoned a banshee or stepped off into a different plane altogether. Knowing that he could not delay the inevitable, he hurried along to Room 234, entered through the open door, and brushed past the privacy curtains, the screaming never ending and steadily increasing in volume. What awaited him looked startlingly like a banshee, he thought, but if this was the banshee he had summoned, he was quite alright with the end product for the sight that greeted him was not the patient from the car accident nor the bloody mass she had become, but it was his wife that lay curled up on the white hospital bed, shrieking, clutching at her injured face and paler than a ghost. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, right down to the fold of her eyelids and the curve of her porcelain lips.
To hell with his position at the hospital; it was worth everything to see her again.
“Excuse me, Doctor–”
He brushed the nurse off and waved her away, stepping closer to the bed and watching with curiosity as the screaming and writhing stopped when her eyes turned to focus on him. In a split second, they widened with something akin to terror, and she began trembling violently on the white bed, too paralyzed to scootch away and too terrified to do anything but tremble. All this he observed with scientific curiosity, and a fleeting question broke through his mental notes: was she really that upset with his choice in her appearance?
“She never loved you.”
Perhaps she did want a look more masculine and ferocious, rather than the weeping nature of his wife’s expression.
“They never loved me, but she loved me. But she never loved you.”
No, perhaps she wanted a look more fitting of a supermodel or an actress to compensate for the unfortunate accident that had fallen upon her.
“I can’t believe it’s you. She never loved you. Look at what you did to me!”
The sharp shriek brought him out of his ponderings and he blinked blankly back to the heart rate monitor on the other side of the bed before focusing his attention on the woman. The terror had been replaced by hatred, he noticed. He had no time to wonder at the reason why.
“She never loved you!” she howled.
“Who are you talking about?” he finally asked. The answer he received in return, however, put him into further silence. With surprising strength, the woman struck her hand out onto the tray in front of her and fumbled with a flash of silver and white, a flash that seemed, to his growing unease, like metal, and when she finally managed to get a good grip on the thing, she slipped it around the middle finger of her right hand and pointed the back of it toward him. It was a ring. A ring he recognized. A ring he knew quite well and had wondered, for the longest time, where he had misplaced it.
“You proposed to her with this ring,” she whispered, and then suddenly she wasn’t a banshee anymore but a frail and fragile human, “and you ruined everything.” Then her hand lowered and she was fingering the engagement ring with fondness and pain. “You ruined everything for my sister and I. And now you’ve ruined both of us again.”
“Your sister?” he hollowly echoed, finding his voice again. “Who?” He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he desperately needed to know. The confusion was too much for him, a foreign feeling of being in the dark and hopelessly lost. And yet–
“Your wife!” she yelled. “Your wife! My sister! My sister! The only one who ever loved me! The only one!”
For a moment, he was unable to move a muscle. Then he laughed. He laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Why,” he cried, “if she had a sister, then I would have seen her at the funeral! But not once did any of my in-laws mention a second daughter! You imposter! You liar! You dirty, filthy whore!”
He could not comprehend why, but to his irritation, she smiled, and the smile made him regret all the words he had ever spoken in his life. “She didn’t tell you many things, sir. I was disowned, if you must know. The black stain upon the family, and for what! Standing up for my sister in the first place. But nevermind that. Nevermind it at all."
“What?” His heart pounded against his ribcage. “You’re lying.”
“My sister was the liar,” she cackled with glee. “Tell me this, sir: did she ever kiss you? Did she ever let her lips touch yours after the one time she said ‘I do’? Did she ever tell you where she went every weekend when you worked double shifts and slept at the hospital? Did she? Did she ever tell you anything at all besides ‘Hello Husband’? ‘Goodbye Husband’? Hm?”
Time passed, and he reflected on what he could have done wrong. He treated all his possessions quite nicely, kept himself nicely shaven, did the dishes, cleaned the house when she asked, and he never dared risk his reputation by sleeping with the much prettier ladies he met at work. Really, he thought he was the model husband. Never once did he touch her if she did not touch him first, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized how little they touched if at all. Perhaps the occasional touch while they slept side by side, purely accidental in nature, was the extent of their physical relationship. Was that the problem, then? Was he not affectionate enough? But, he remembered, did he even know how to show affection at all?
The realization unsettled him for a day, but then he realized that he was being ridiculous, so he moved his mind onto other subjects. He had to. The ER called his mobile and let him know that they had to perform an emergency facial reconstruction on a woman, so he had no choice but to forget for a couple hours. The woman in question was involved in a severe car accident, a product of the drunk man who had died before the ambulance arrived, and nobody knew who she was or what she looked like (other than the bloody mass that the doctors salvaged). As he stared, he pondered what to do. Since a DNA check would take too long and they had no way of knowing who she was, he had to decide her appearance quickly and begin the operation. But who should he model her after? Would she want to look beautiful or average? More feminine or masculine?
Chewing his lip, he fingered a strand of dark, blood-stained hair and saw the vision of his wife lying in bed, sleeping peacefully and with a complete disregard for his presence. It was decided, then.
The operation lasted quite a while. There was more damage than he originally thought, but he was determined to mold the woman’s face perfectly even as his assistants grew tired and his hands shook. A touch here, a scalpel there, he concentrated until his eyes watered and his assistants pried him away to tell him that they were finished, that there was nothing more they could do. Only when he finally left the curtained-off area did he notice the stench of blood that followed wherever he went. Quickly, he stopped by the sinks and peeled his gloves off.
He thought this operation was his most successful yet.
“Excuse me, sir, but a woman wishes to see you,” a hesitant nurse asked. She was peeking into his office, body posture stiff and fingers white as a ghost from where they gripped the door.
“Who?”
“It’s the woman from the car accident. She just regained consciousness and began screaming after we brought food to her. Then she demanded a mirror, and, well, it seems as if the appearance you chose for her has sent her into a sort of shock.” Wetting her lips, the nurse shifted uneasily in the doorway. The surgeon unconsciously mimicked the same action and stood from his seat, the wheels rolling along the tiled white floor and sighed.
“Room 234?” The nurse nodded. She moved aside and allowed him to pass, eyes pressed into his back as he walked down the bleak hallways to the elevators. Although he appeared calm to the patients and nurses he passed, inwardly he was pondering the consequences of his decision. The foolishness of his actions struck him and he physically staggered into the elevator, weakly pressing the little button that read “2” and clutching his forehead, a sudden pain embedding itself into his skull. His fortune, his position in the hospital, everything! His wife was a replaceable loss, but if he lost his position at the hospital, then he would truly become nothing. A nobody.
He heard the screaming before he left the elevator. The sound pierced through the wall like nails and claws, and he wondered if he had summoned a banshee or stepped off into a different plane altogether. Knowing that he could not delay the inevitable, he hurried along to Room 234, entered through the open door, and brushed past the privacy curtains, the screaming never ending and steadily increasing in volume. What awaited him looked startlingly like a banshee, he thought, but if this was the banshee he had summoned, he was quite alright with the end product for the sight that greeted him was not the patient from the car accident nor the bloody mass she had become, but it was his wife that lay curled up on the white hospital bed, shrieking, clutching at her injured face and paler than a ghost. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered, right down to the fold of her eyelids and the curve of her porcelain lips.
To hell with his position at the hospital; it was worth everything to see her again.
“Excuse me, Doctor–”
He brushed the nurse off and waved her away, stepping closer to the bed and watching with curiosity as the screaming and writhing stopped when her eyes turned to focus on him. In a split second, they widened with something akin to terror, and she began trembling violently on the white bed, too paralyzed to scootch away and too terrified to do anything but tremble. All this he observed with scientific curiosity, and a fleeting question broke through his mental notes: was she really that upset with his choice in her appearance?
“She never loved you.”
Perhaps she did want a look more masculine and ferocious, rather than the weeping nature of his wife’s expression.
“They never loved me, but she loved me. But she never loved you.”
No, perhaps she wanted a look more fitting of a supermodel or an actress to compensate for the unfortunate accident that had fallen upon her.
“I can’t believe it’s you. She never loved you. Look at what you did to me!”
The sharp shriek brought him out of his ponderings and he blinked blankly back to the heart rate monitor on the other side of the bed before focusing his attention on the woman. The terror had been replaced by hatred, he noticed. He had no time to wonder at the reason why.
“She never loved you!” she howled.
“Who are you talking about?” he finally asked. The answer he received in return, however, put him into further silence. With surprising strength, the woman struck her hand out onto the tray in front of her and fumbled with a flash of silver and white, a flash that seemed, to his growing unease, like metal, and when she finally managed to get a good grip on the thing, she slipped it around the middle finger of her right hand and pointed the back of it toward him. It was a ring. A ring he recognized. A ring he knew quite well and had wondered, for the longest time, where he had misplaced it.
“You proposed to her with this ring,” she whispered, and then suddenly she wasn’t a banshee anymore but a frail and fragile human, “and you ruined everything.” Then her hand lowered and she was fingering the engagement ring with fondness and pain. “You ruined everything for my sister and I. And now you’ve ruined both of us again.”
“Your sister?” he hollowly echoed, finding his voice again. “Who?” He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he desperately needed to know. The confusion was too much for him, a foreign feeling of being in the dark and hopelessly lost. And yet–
“Your wife!” she yelled. “Your wife! My sister! My sister! The only one who ever loved me! The only one!”
For a moment, he was unable to move a muscle. Then he laughed. He laughed at the absurdity of it all. “Why,” he cried, “if she had a sister, then I would have seen her at the funeral! But not once did any of my in-laws mention a second daughter! You imposter! You liar! You dirty, filthy whore!”
He could not comprehend why, but to his irritation, she smiled, and the smile made him regret all the words he had ever spoken in his life. “She didn’t tell you many things, sir. I was disowned, if you must know. The black stain upon the family, and for what! Standing up for my sister in the first place. But nevermind that. Nevermind it at all."
“What?” His heart pounded against his ribcage. “You’re lying.”
“My sister was the liar,” she cackled with glee. “Tell me this, sir: did she ever kiss you? Did she ever let her lips touch yours after the one time she said ‘I do’? Did she ever tell you where she went every weekend when you worked double shifts and slept at the hospital? Did she? Did she ever tell you anything at all besides ‘Hello Husband’? ‘Goodbye Husband’? Hm?”
“What are you saying?” he angrily begged. “That she cheated on me? But how could she? Not once did I ever smell the scent of another man upon her!”
“And that is exactly it!” the woman cackled with glee. “You never smelled a man upon her! A man! A male! And that is the problem!”
It was as if a blanket had been lifted from over his head, a surgeon had removed his tumor, and scenes throughout his marriage assaulted his addled mind in rapid succession: it all made sense now. Every flinch, every twitch, every touch of their relationship, it was all a lie. So it wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to show affection! He had done nothing wrong, he happily realized. Only, he had been born the wrong gender. Surely this was a sign from God that he had a chance to start anew and find a wife that would faithfully not leap out the the side of an open building window.
A sudden thought struck him, and following the impulse he grabbed the sister’s hand, a hand that looked so much like his late wife’s, and fingered the ring. “I think,” he said, “the more important problem is whether or not you don’t prefer males as well.”
She looked at him with the same expression that his wife had given him when he proposed to her five years ago.
