Creepy Peter Creedy
A drabble on Peter Creedy's deeper motivations.
Rating: R / Gen
Warnings: Scalpels, self-harm, character death.
Disclaimer: Written at 3AM. Un-beta'ed. I didn't even know I had a Peter Creedy living in my head before I wrote this, and now I know he's there, I don't particularly like him, either. He always thinks about himself in third person, and calls himself by his full name, and that's just plain strange.
Creepy Peter Creedy likes to cut things up. Cadavers, insects, little girls, it doesn’t matter. He likes to see the insides of things, to see where the soul resides.
He is five when he first thinks to tear the carapace off a beetle, but it is another sixteen years, in his first year of med school, before he is given a scalpel. That is when he begins what he feels to be his true life’s work. Medicine is but a means to an end. Armed with the mechanics of humanity, he is sure he will find what he is looking for.
The scalpel comes in its own little paper package. An unassuming thing, small and light, sterile, it is the sharpest thing he has ever seen. He rubs his thumb along the thin blue plastic handle, feeling the ridges through his latex gloves, and shivers. The blade shines in the harsh florescent lighting, straight and neat and clean, just the way he likes things to be.
He finds he has been woolgathering, thinking nothing, staring at nothing. He looks up just in time for his instructor to grab hold of him and declare him an idiot. He finds himself at a loss for what could have upset her so, and says nothing.
She drags him, still holding the scalpel, to the nearest sink. He blinks, wondering where the blood has come from, it is too red to be from the cadaver. She rips the torn glove off his hand and washes the wound with scalding water. He winces, feeling the spray penetrate through subcutaneous fat and pour into muscle. There is no soul beneath this skin, only flesh.
Nearly thirty years later, Peter Creedy is still searching for a soul. He thinks he may finally have found one in this creature that calls itself V, this idea that now has him by the throat and is slowly choking the life from him. He clenches his fists, feels that old scar, and as he hears his neck snap, he truly wishes he had a scalpel.
But how can you dissect an idea?
Rating: R / Gen
Warnings: Scalpels, self-harm, character death.
Disclaimer: Written at 3AM. Un-beta'ed. I didn't even know I had a Peter Creedy living in my head before I wrote this, and now I know he's there, I don't particularly like him, either. He always thinks about himself in third person, and calls himself by his full name, and that's just plain strange.
Creepy Peter Creedy likes to cut things up. Cadavers, insects, little girls, it doesn’t matter. He likes to see the insides of things, to see where the soul resides.
He is five when he first thinks to tear the carapace off a beetle, but it is another sixteen years, in his first year of med school, before he is given a scalpel. That is when he begins what he feels to be his true life’s work. Medicine is but a means to an end. Armed with the mechanics of humanity, he is sure he will find what he is looking for.
The scalpel comes in its own little paper package. An unassuming thing, small and light, sterile, it is the sharpest thing he has ever seen. He rubs his thumb along the thin blue plastic handle, feeling the ridges through his latex gloves, and shivers. The blade shines in the harsh florescent lighting, straight and neat and clean, just the way he likes things to be.
He finds he has been woolgathering, thinking nothing, staring at nothing. He looks up just in time for his instructor to grab hold of him and declare him an idiot. He finds himself at a loss for what could have upset her so, and says nothing.
She drags him, still holding the scalpel, to the nearest sink. He blinks, wondering where the blood has come from, it is too red to be from the cadaver. She rips the torn glove off his hand and washes the wound with scalding water. He winces, feeling the spray penetrate through subcutaneous fat and pour into muscle. There is no soul beneath this skin, only flesh.
Nearly thirty years later, Peter Creedy is still searching for a soul. He thinks he may finally have found one in this creature that calls itself V, this idea that now has him by the throat and is slowly choking the life from him. He clenches his fists, feels that old scar, and as he hears his neck snap, he truly wishes he had a scalpel.
But how can you dissect an idea?