A RIP in the Seam

September 21^st 1882- The Day After

It wasn’t visible from where I sat in the balcony the previous day, but when you are standing in the middle of the stage, looking down into the pit, they are unmistakable.  Hundreds of tiny droplets of dried blood. They are sprayed across the floor like a galaxy of crimson stars, practically glittering from the candle trembling in my hand. To my left, I can see fresh discoloration of the wood. Two dark splotches stretched across the surface. The larger one looked vaguely familiar. It’s shaped like a silhouette of a face. It came to me then, what it reminded me of. It was a painting I saw in the Lourve--the summer I spent in Paris. It was called ‘Winter 1573’ and painted by an Italian artist named Giuseppe Arcimboldo. It was meant to look like the profile of a man, but instead of skin, he was covered in a thick blanket of gnarled tree bark. His hair was replaced with sharpened branches, which jutted through the top of his skull.  I remembered the bloke standing next to me muttering, “Bloody hell, that’ll give you nightmares” to himself before walking away in repulsion.

I couldn’t understand his abhorrence. I was captivated by the subtle morbidity of it, the same way I was captivated by those stains on the floor. Could blood really soak clean through the wood? If there was enough of it, maybe. And there was an astonishing amount.  Even after years of studying medicine, you don’t really realize how much blood is trapped beneath the surface. It’s incredible, the way it pulses and flows languidly through our arteries and into our veins neatly contained inside of us…until it isn’t.  All it took was one piercing cut from a scalpel, sharp enough to penetrate those bothersome layers of flesh, and it was set free. It hypnotized me as I watched it cascade down like a waterfall, forming congealed scarlet puddles as it kissed the ground.

 It was evident whoever was tasked with cleaning up after the procedure did a dreadful job. The debris had been swept away but the space was still covered in a thick layer of grime in addition to the blemishes on the wood. Even if they had managed to remove all the stains, there was nothing to mask the lingering odor. It’s what lured me back there, back to the operating theater in the middle of the night—that undiscernible scent.  When I returned to my flat, hours after watching the “performance”, I kept getting whiffs of it. A walk through the city in the cold night air had diluted its potency, but there were still traces of it. It clung faintly but desperately to my clothes. It was embedded in the follicles of my hair. I scrubbed my skin raw as I soaked in scalding water and I still could not get rid of it. Its ethereal presence was both haunting and frustrating because I still could not grasp what it was. So, I came back here in a fit of exhaustion and madness, determined to smell it again. I closed  my eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the air snake up into my nostrils in slow, warm tendrils. Metallic. Yes, metallic and acrid—like copper. But it was mixed with something else. Sweat? No. This was distinctive. It felt palpable, as if the scent was alive, buzzing around me like a horse fly. The back of my neck prickled as the answer came to me. Fear. This is what fear smells like. I felt almost giddy by the realization. I opened my mouth wide and stuck out my tongue trying to taste it like you do with fresh falling snow.   

“Oi!! What you doin’ in here?” a loud voice reverberated off the walls of the empty theater. It was one of the guards.

“My apologies sir, I was just leaving. I thought I left something here but turns out I had it with me the whole time”

The guard softened and said, “Young lad like yourself ought to be home with your wife this time o’night.”

I locked my empty eyes with his and gave a clever grin. “Not married, just off the find me a proper girl.”

September 20^th 1882- The Day Of

         This was my first time observing a surgery as a medical student and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I heard a wide variety of stories from classmates--some retelling with abject horror a gruesome tale of gore and violence while others were revering the surgeon for his adept techniques. I was neither deterred by blood nor was I particularly interested in the speed or precision of a leg amputation. If I’m being honest, I did not want to be a doctor because I had an innate desire to help people. No, my motivation boiled down to curiosity. You see I’ve always been fascinated by how things work. When I was a boy, I went through a phase of compulsively smashing open clocks just so I could study the parts inside. It amazed me—all of those tiny gears working secretly in synergistic harmony. Turns out the human body isn’t much different. Sure, inside is a bit messier, but bypass the blood and the guts and you’re left with the important parts—the bits and bobs that make the machine run. I was becoming a surgeon because frankly, clocks became a bore.

         As I walked into the operating theater, it felt like half the city of London was in attendance. The rows closest to the stage were already filled with spectators noisily chattering to one another as the middle and back rows filled up quickly. Not being in the mood for an argument, I found a seat up in the balcony, grateful to be distanced from all the distractions. From my bird’s eye view, I took in the entirety of the scene before me. Even with the doors on both sides open, the air was thick and stifling. In the center of the stage there was a large raised operating bed adorned with fresh white sheets and next to it, a small table with scalpels of various size and length, a small basin of some kind of liquid, towels, and two pairs of artery forceps. Underneath the stage was a small pit with a flutist and a violinist. “Ha!” I snorted in disbelief. This was supposed to be a medical procedure!! With the dimly lit candles, the soft music and the buzz of excitement from the crowd I half expected to see a production of Hamlet.

And then came the applause. It erupted in raucous waves as the star of the show, Dr. Robert Ainsworth, stepped into the arena. Standing beside him, quivering and terror stricken, was a young woman of about 20 or so. She was unsteady on her feet, most likely from the whiskey used to help sedate patients prior to surgery. He helped prop her up on the table, her body appearing to shrink as she laid her head down on the pillow. Dr. Ainsworth leaned his 6’foot frame down towards his nurse so she could slip his operating apron over his street clothes. The smock was covered with splashes of dried blood in various shades—a startling contrast to its pure white cotton. I had heard this was a perverse sense a pride for surgeons—the dirty aprons. A clean smock equated to a lazy and idle surgeon. By the looks of it, Ainsworth was a busy man.

He whispered something in the patient’s ear and she nodded nervously, her face visibly pallid. Dr. Ainsworth cleared his throat loudly and waited expectantly for the audience to turn their attention to him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your enthusiasm and I am honored you’ve all come to watch me perform this surgery.” His voice was deep and commanding, with the hint of arrogance one might expect from a handsome, renowned surgeon. “The patient here with us today, who I will refer to as Patient 109, has been suffering from severe pelvic pain and excessive bleeding. Additionally, patient has not been able to sustain a pregnancy. As a result, I have made the decision to remove the uterus.” Ainsworth pauses a moment as some of the audience members let out collective gasps which I suspect was the reaction he attended to evoke. I can’t help but shake my head at the pageantry of all of this. He continues, “Yes, yes this is indeed a very risky surgery. There is a 75% chance of mortality, which Patient 109 is aware of.” As he said this, he turned his head back to look at her with something akin to empathy. “This means, I will need to move quickly. Speed is key here today. I ask that you all remain as quiet as possible as I begin. Thank you.”

The theater is suddenly quiet, the spectators overcome by a collective apnea. I can hear the percussion of my heart as its pace begins to quicken. This was it—the smashing of the clock. Dr. Ainsworth firmly grasped the largest scalpel in his right hand and took in a long, slow, deep breath. At the exhale, he quickly and deftly plunged the knife deep into the woman’s lower abdomen. One my classmates who was seated a few rows in front of me ran to the end of the aisle and began to wretch violently. Another poor fool in the crowd fainted at the ghastly scene.  And then, as if now just realizing what was happening, the patient began to scream.

The sound she emitted was not merely a declaration of pain. It was guttural, almost primal. It was a sound unearthed from some dark cavern of her body—coaxed into existence by the presence of fear. I felt it then, felt something shift in me, in the marrow of my bones, as I realized fear was immeasurably more potent than pain.

I brought my focus back to Ainsworth, who snapped at the nurse to bring him the artery forceps as he attempted to quell the bleeding. Patient 109 slowly began exsanguinating. Her blood coated the floor like glistening melted rubies. All that beautiful blood.  How could a woman so small be filled with all that blood? Ainsworth began to slip one of his large hands inside the incision as the patient’s eyes widened in shock.  “Almost there. Just need a bit more room.” He grabbed the smaller scalpel to elongate the opening before plunging back into Patient 109’s abdomen. It happened so quickly I almost didn’t register it. The tearing of flesh. Mixed shouts of horror and exultations from the audience. The bloody mass of organ triumphantly freed from the body. Watching this woman’s tortured body on display, being literally torn apart, ripped something inside of me wide open. I felt like I had undergone an operation, too. The removal of my former self, a malignant tumor of mediocrity. I was never meant to be a Doctor. I was destined for something much greater.

April 21^th 1889- Today

It’s a lovely, mild Spring day in London. The sun is shining and there isn’t a trace of rain insight, a rarity in this city. I’m at my favorite café in the heart of Trafalgar Square with a seat outside facing the street. I have nowhere to be, no one I am obliged to be with. I breathe in the heady scents that seem to dance around me. Blooming flowers. Freshly baked scones. Tobacco smoke from someone’s pipe. It’s days like today I am filled with gratitude for that day in the operating theater nearly 7 years earlier. If I had never seen what I did, if I never had the revelations I had, I would be in a very different place right now. I could have ended up some pompous bore of a doctor, with a wife and children I despised and a tireless schedule. I could have been another fool like Dr. Ainsworth, hacking people up and convincing myself it was for their benefit, not mine. Wasted potential. Unextraordinary. But here I am now. Not a care in the world, doing what I was born to do.

I reach inside my leather bag and pull-out today’s issue of the London Daily Post.  I carefully unfold it so I can see the entirety of the front page. I smile as I read the headline.

“JACK the RIPPER CLAIMS 5^TH VICTIM. WOMAN BRUTALLY HACKED TO DEATH.”

“More tea, love?” I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and look up to see my usual waitress, holding up a steaming teapot.

“I’d love some. Cheers.”