The Surgeon

T/W: Sensitive content.

Mentions of surgical procedures.

It would take no longer than a split second.

One slip, one cut.

How would anyone ever know?

The scalpel rests in my hand, a weighty, tiny blade that I control.

The beep of the heart monitor shrouded the room in a terse excitement, thumping in time with pulse of the body lying open before me. The nurses are all focused, trained eyes fluttering about the equipment as they surveyed the patient.

They trust me.

Fools.

The heart is exposed, thumping delicately in the light of the surgical lamp. Fragile, vulnerable.

I control her future, her life. It’s in my hands— literally.

They hover above the delicate life, calm.

Everyone else is watching the monitors, but I’m watching the life in front of me. It’s a rhythm that I can break. One wrong move, one inch too far, and this whole thing ends in a flood of blood and chaos.

‘I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgement; I will abstain from harming or wronging any man by it’

How easily it could happen.

I press the scalpel to the tissue, slicing just as I’ve done many times before. The myocardium parts smoothly, and my lips twitch into a smile at the  sense of power that comes with it. The thrill never leaves. Every time, it’s there, buried deep, the sense that I’m more than just a surgeon—I’m a god.

They trust me to save them, to mend their broken bodies, but they don’t know how close they come to...

‘I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgement; I will abstain from harming or wronging any man by it’

Focus.

Cut there, cauterize this.

Control.

That’s what they see.

I could twist my hand slightly, nick an artery. Let the blade go just a little deeper.

The blood would come rushing, a violent spray, staining the sterile field with life spurting out of her chest like a macabre pressure washer. I could watch it happen. They’d scramble, hands moving frantically to save her life, but it would be too late.

They’d call it a complication. Sometimes, the heart just doesn’t make it.

They’d never know.

My hand trembles, just for a moment, enough for me to notice. The scalpel is still steady, but there’s a tremor inside me. It’s there. It’s always been there. I’ve kept it hidden, tucked away behind the mask of a doctor. But here, with the blood and the blades and the body under my hands—it calls to me. It whispers.

No one would know.

I shift the scalpel again, moving closer to the life.

It’s so delicate. One wrong move, and everything would spill out.

Flesh. Blood. That’s all we are. And I control it. I can carve through it, rearrange it, end it. They think I’m a saviour, but they don’t see what I see. They don’t feel the same way I do.

I make the next cut, deeper this time, skirting the edge of safety. The scalpel gleams, slick with blood, and I feel it again. Power. The power to end this. No one would stop me. They’d call it bad luck, a surgical complication. But I’d know.

I pause, my hand hovering just above the artery, just one more cut away from severing it. My breathing is steady, my face neutral beneath the mask, but inside... inside it’s chaos. The thoughts race in, faster now, disjointed, sharp.

Do it. No one will know. Just a little pressure. Just a slice.

Focus.

I tell myself to focus, to ignore it, to keep control. But it’s there, lurking, that twisted desire. I feel it in my bones, in the way my hand tightens around the scalpel, in the heat rising under my skin. I’m supposed to be saving him, but all I can think about is how easily I could end him. I could watch the life drain out of him, and it would feel... good.

That’s the truth, isn’t it?

It would feel good.

Just a little deeper.

The artery pulses, so close to my blade, just waiting for me to sever it. It’s beautiful, really. The fragility of life. One mistake, and everything stops. I control that. I decide.

Am I really going to let her live?

I hear the nurse’s voice, distant, asking for a status update. My heart races, pounding in my chest, but outwardly I’m calm, collected, the picture of professionalism. I force myself to answer,  voice steady.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Proceeding as expected.” The lie slides off my tongue like butter off a hot knife.

I lower the scalpel again, poised, ready. The temptation is stronger now, almost unbearable.

My hand hovers, shaking slightly. I want to do it. I want to watch the blood spill, to feel the moisture spray onto my face. I want to see the panic, the chaos that would unfold.

I want to be the one who decides whether this woman lives or dies.

I could do it. Right now.

It’s right there.

A mistake. One tiny mistake.

‘I will use my power to help the sick to the best of my ability and judgement; I will abstain from harming or wronging any man by it’

But... no.

I can’t. I can’t do it.

I pull back, forcing my hand to steady, forcing my mind to calm. I make the incision just as I have done thousands of times before. Careful, precise, avoiding the artery by mere millimeters. My breath comes in slow, deep waves, and for a moment, the dark thoughts recede.

The rest of the surgery moves in a blur, my hands working on autopilot, mind elsewhere. The temptation never fully leaves. It never does. But I finish the procedure, stitching the patient back together, restoring what I almost destroyed.

She’s alive. For now.

They wheel her out of the room, and the lights dim as the nurses begin to clean up. I pull off my gloves, feeling the sweat on my palms, the tension in my muscles.

I should feel relief.

I should feel pride in what I’ve done. I saved her life, didn’t I?

But all I feel is emptiness.

I didn’t do it.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

I stare at my hands, still stained with blood, and for a moment, the urge returns, sharp and undeniable.

Next time, it whispers. Next time, maybe you’ll let go.

I shake my head, trying to push it away, but it’s there. It’s always there.

Tomorrow, there’s another surgery. Another body. Another life in my hands.

How long can I keep holding on?