'Danger and Disco Balls' - an original fiction
Fic: Danger and Disco Balls (one shot)
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG-13 for mild horror and allusions to violence
Summary: Zach never knew that a routine operation in a lonely surgical ward would ever come to this.
Written for the morbid fic challenge (unbetaed), spawned from a particularly bizarre lunchtime conversation between myself,
achairsomewhere and
anti_social_ite .They completed their fics many months ago, but if you dig around their LJ you'll find it. Credit definitely goes to them for plot and ideas. :)
Unfortunately can't tell you more about it because it would sort of give away the story. ;)
So here it is - B & S! Not nearly as good as yours, but I tried.
To my flist - be wonderful and support an extremely shy, newbie writer? *begs* I THRIVE on comments - would love to know what you thought, especially if you have criticism.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's always something different. Sometimes shiny, sometimes silly, sometimes something so small that you would barely feel it sitting in your palm.
But always, always something different.
After all, every piece of art is unique, right?
I can remember the first time we did it - the memory is still fresh in my mind. Vivid. Probably because of the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins, making my heart beat faster than it ever had before...
A cold winter's evening - a routine operation. Another patient, another day, another name crossed off that burgeoning public hospital list. It was a successful operation, of course. We’re good at what we do. Everything we do.
The lights were dim, and a young woman (quite beautiful; serene, almost) was splayed across the surgical table - we had just removed her appendix, and the incision was gaping. All that was left to do was stitch up the cut (it was going to leave a nice little scar), clean up and call the nurses to look after her.
It was just two lonely doctors in the room that night, social outcasts whose lives revolved around their laborious work at a dank, boring little hospital in Nowheresville, Australia. Everything had been sacrificed for this - shipped to a country town by the government, leaving us with a life devoid of happiness, success, meaning.
There I was, working alone with the new doctor in the ward - he’d developed a reputation as a bit of a loner - dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, watchful. I hadn’t really had an opportunity to talk to him until then, but I was struck by the ease with which I let him into my confidence, the way he understood me and the repressed thoughts of my mind. I was ready to drink up every word that fell from his mouth and accept and believe it.
Before I knew it, it was happening - a perverse thrill had taken over my body; this was exciting, forbidden, dangerous - flushing my cheeks as my hands were bathed in blood… and it had been done.
I’m not trying to explain myself, justify my actions. I don’t have to. I’m not feeling guilty or anything, and I’m not going to back out. God knows what he would do if I did - I can feel his black eyes now, watching me, as I try to sip the always-bland hospital coffee (the hysterical family members never notice, but the doctors always will) from the cafeteria, that has somehow gone cold in my hands.
Besides, no-one will know about this anyway. No-one will find out - it will be years before someone finally makes a diagnosis, and by then we will be long gone. No one can find out.
“Okay - Madison Hawthorne. Age twenty-four. She’s in to have her gallstones removed. It’s just like our first time, isn’t it Zach?” He looked up at me, his teeth visible in a wide grin.
How had I never noticed just how cold and ruthless those eyes really were - just how lopsided his smile was?
“I found us a little something for today…” he murmured, pulling out an object from the plastic bag in his gloved hand. “What do you think?”
A keyring with a small, multicoloured disco ball hanging from it.
It looks so harmless, just there, hanging from the tips of his gloved fingers. But soon - when we put it in, push it down into her flesh, drowning it in blood and tissue until it’s sunk deep, deep inside - it becomes something much more powerful. That’s our mark, don’t you see - our mark within our patients, our form of expression and excitement.
It’s a ticking time bomb - it will cause this… Gemma Hawthorne excruciating pain for months, years - shifting and turning in her abdomen, causing nausea and abdominal pain - until one day someone will X-ray her and discover the small disco ball, lodged deep within, and hold it up in disgust. It will be in the media, and I’ll be caught, and jailed, and everyone would… would… How did we ever think we could risk this?
The familiar excitement began to fade (as it had been, slowly, these weeks past) and suddenly the disco ball was flashing, reflecting the bright artificial light into my eyes; warning me.
“Perhaps… perhaps we should give it a miss for today.”
For a long moment, I thought he had not heard me, until his eyes flashed up to look at me, piercing, questioning, probing.
“Zach? Is there something you want to tell me?”
Silence.
“Uh… no, no. I was just feeling a little sick today, that’s all, but… no. I’m sure it’s nothing. Let’s get started.”
I don’t want to do this anymore.
I can’t.
But…
….
“Oh… I forgot to bring something - I’m so sorry, it just totally slipped my mind.”
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. How could I forget we’d been scheduled for another surgery again, just the two of us - so soon after I almost said I wanted out?
“You forgot?” He casts me a sideways glance as he slips on the surgical gloves; the mask makes him look almost… alien.
“Yeah… I’m really sorry, but I’ve been so busy lately, you know, with getting furniture for the new apartment, and I’ve been…” I’m babbling, but the moment his soft whisper reaches my ears I close my mouth.
“I know you don’t want to do this anymore - you’re panicking. You might, in your stupidity, even give me up. But I am sorry - you were a good assistant. I guess life is cruel sometimes, isn’t it? ”
The knife is held firmly in his right hand, the muscles in his jaw pulsing despite the calm expression on his face.
It’s coming towards me - the knife, his sharp edge twisting towards me…
Oh god - he wouldn’t?
He couldn’t.
He…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[I cannot, for the life of me, remember how such sweet and innocent teenagers came onto such a topic - but while I was on Google, I found at that 1,500 people per year in the United States alone have items left within their bodies after a surgical operation. Kind of scary, huh?
I accept that I am not a medical professional, and apologize for any mistakes describing anything to do with medicine or hospital procedure. However, the feelings about the public hospital system and the Australian government definitely do apply for many doctors.]
PS: How HOT is Chase in that Gossip Girl icon? SQUEEEEE. :P
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG-13 for mild horror and allusions to violence
Summary: Zach never knew that a routine operation in a lonely surgical ward would ever come to this.
Written for the morbid fic challenge (unbetaed), spawned from a particularly bizarre lunchtime conversation between myself,
achairsomewhere and
anti_social_ite .They completed their fics many months ago, but if you dig around their LJ you'll find it. Credit definitely goes to them for plot and ideas. :)
Unfortunately can't tell you more about it because it would sort of give away the story. ;)
So here it is - B & S! Not nearly as good as yours, but I tried.
To my flist - be wonderful and support an extremely shy, newbie writer? *begs* I THRIVE on comments - would love to know what you thought, especially if you have criticism.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's always something different. Sometimes shiny, sometimes silly, sometimes something so small that you would barely feel it sitting in your palm.
But always, always something different.
After all, every piece of art is unique, right?
I can remember the first time we did it - the memory is still fresh in my mind. Vivid. Probably because of the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins, making my heart beat faster than it ever had before...
A cold winter's evening - a routine operation. Another patient, another day, another name crossed off that burgeoning public hospital list. It was a successful operation, of course. We’re good at what we do. Everything we do.
The lights were dim, and a young woman (quite beautiful; serene, almost) was splayed across the surgical table - we had just removed her appendix, and the incision was gaping. All that was left to do was stitch up the cut (it was going to leave a nice little scar), clean up and call the nurses to look after her.
It was just two lonely doctors in the room that night, social outcasts whose lives revolved around their laborious work at a dank, boring little hospital in Nowheresville, Australia. Everything had been sacrificed for this - shipped to a country town by the government, leaving us with a life devoid of happiness, success, meaning.
There I was, working alone with the new doctor in the ward - he’d developed a reputation as a bit of a loner - dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, watchful. I hadn’t really had an opportunity to talk to him until then, but I was struck by the ease with which I let him into my confidence, the way he understood me and the repressed thoughts of my mind. I was ready to drink up every word that fell from his mouth and accept and believe it.
Before I knew it, it was happening - a perverse thrill had taken over my body; this was exciting, forbidden, dangerous - flushing my cheeks as my hands were bathed in blood… and it had been done.
I’m not trying to explain myself, justify my actions. I don’t have to. I’m not feeling guilty or anything, and I’m not going to back out. God knows what he would do if I did - I can feel his black eyes now, watching me, as I try to sip the always-bland hospital coffee (the hysterical family members never notice, but the doctors always will) from the cafeteria, that has somehow gone cold in my hands.
Besides, no-one will know about this anyway. No-one will find out - it will be years before someone finally makes a diagnosis, and by then we will be long gone. No one can find out.
“Okay - Madison Hawthorne. Age twenty-four. She’s in to have her gallstones removed. It’s just like our first time, isn’t it Zach?” He looked up at me, his teeth visible in a wide grin.
How had I never noticed just how cold and ruthless those eyes really were - just how lopsided his smile was?
“I found us a little something for today…” he murmured, pulling out an object from the plastic bag in his gloved hand. “What do you think?”
A keyring with a small, multicoloured disco ball hanging from it.
It looks so harmless, just there, hanging from the tips of his gloved fingers. But soon - when we put it in, push it down into her flesh, drowning it in blood and tissue until it’s sunk deep, deep inside - it becomes something much more powerful. That’s our mark, don’t you see - our mark within our patients, our form of expression and excitement.
It’s a ticking time bomb - it will cause this… Gemma Hawthorne excruciating pain for months, years - shifting and turning in her abdomen, causing nausea and abdominal pain - until one day someone will X-ray her and discover the small disco ball, lodged deep within, and hold it up in disgust. It will be in the media, and I’ll be caught, and jailed, and everyone would… would… How did we ever think we could risk this?
The familiar excitement began to fade (as it had been, slowly, these weeks past) and suddenly the disco ball was flashing, reflecting the bright artificial light into my eyes; warning me.
“Perhaps… perhaps we should give it a miss for today.”
For a long moment, I thought he had not heard me, until his eyes flashed up to look at me, piercing, questioning, probing.
“Zach? Is there something you want to tell me?”
Silence.
“Uh… no, no. I was just feeling a little sick today, that’s all, but… no. I’m sure it’s nothing. Let’s get started.”
I don’t want to do this anymore.
I can’t.
But…
….
“Oh… I forgot to bring something - I’m so sorry, it just totally slipped my mind.”
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. How could I forget we’d been scheduled for another surgery again, just the two of us - so soon after I almost said I wanted out?
“You forgot?” He casts me a sideways glance as he slips on the surgical gloves; the mask makes him look almost… alien.
“Yeah… I’m really sorry, but I’ve been so busy lately, you know, with getting furniture for the new apartment, and I’ve been…” I’m babbling, but the moment his soft whisper reaches my ears I close my mouth.
“I know you don’t want to do this anymore - you’re panicking. You might, in your stupidity, even give me up. But I am sorry - you were a good assistant. I guess life is cruel sometimes, isn’t it? ”
The knife is held firmly in his right hand, the muscles in his jaw pulsing despite the calm expression on his face.
It’s coming towards me - the knife, his sharp edge twisting towards me…
Oh god - he wouldn’t?
He couldn’t.
He…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[I cannot, for the life of me, remember how such sweet and innocent teenagers came onto such a topic - but while I was on Google, I found at that 1,500 people per year in the United States alone have items left within their bodies after a surgical operation. Kind of scary, huh?
I accept that I am not a medical professional, and apologize for any mistakes describing anything to do with medicine or hospital procedure. However, the feelings about the public hospital system and the Australian government definitely do apply for many doctors.]
PS: How HOT is Chase in that Gossip Girl icon? SQUEEEEE. :P