Fitting my leg through the narrow opening, I inch forward until my thigh starts chafing against the circular ring. Alan adjusts its dimension and it dilates a little more, allowing me to set it as high as I can, the rough metallic edge slightly denting the flesh near my groin.
I nod towards him and he activates the machine. A low hum starts emanating from behind him and it slowly travels through the machine up the arched structure and down again towards me. I close my eyes and prepare for the worst.
With the sound of a gunshot going off inside the room, the concentric blades snap shut on my leg, and hellfire unleashes inside my brain. I clench my teeth as hard as I can while it lasts, but the pain quickly dwindles away, leaving behind not even a shadow of what it once was. I back away from the machine to examine myself.
“A clean cut.” I mumble.
“Do I ever disappoint?” Alan replies. “I’ve had a few years to practice, I’m not gonna lie. The first ones were… Uhh.. a bit more messy. But you know that already, of course.”
“Just give me my money and let me out of this place.”
“You may not give a damn, but what you do helps a lot of people down the line, you know that?”
“As long as you never say who it’s coming from and it allows me a living wage, you’re right. I couldn’t care less about who I’m helping.”
I rotate away from the table and set my remaining foot on the ground, hopping a few steps to reach my bag, rummaging inside for my spare pair of pants. Sitting on a nearby chair, I promptly put them on, the sewed up fabric of the unused leg nestling my new stump perfectly. I run my hand across it, feeling its curve, appreciating how fast the pain disappeared today. Around us, I can feel the walls of the room vibrating. I stare at the ceiling, as if trying to see the subway through the thick concrete walls.
“See you in a few weeks, then.” I say, turning my back and reaching for my crutch where I left it, leaning against the wall.
He clears his throat. “What would you say to a little… extra today?”
I sigh and roll my eyes.. “What do you want?”
He presses his hands together, unsure how to say it. “A client of mine got involved in a pretty rough…”
“What. Do. You. Want.” I’m starting to lose my patience.
“Left arm.”
“No.” I reply simply.
“Come oooon pleaaaase. Think of the guy, he got it ripped off!”
“And you think these chicken wings will make him happy again?”
“Anything’s possible with genetic therapy! Give him a year and it’ll be as muscular and hairy as can be!”
“Goodbye, Alan.”
“I’ll pay you double!”
“No, no and no! It just finished regrowing! I haven’t played guitar in months for fuck’s sake and I’m simply not going through another arm so quickly. Plus, it’s not what we agreed on. Goodbye.”
“I said double the price!”
“Forget it.” My crutch clicks on the dirty floor as I shift my balance above it to send my left leg forward.
“TRIPLE!”
I stop. “Only the hand, but for triple the price of an arm.”
“Ouuhhhh, you have no idea how I love it when you get mad. You’re such a fierce negotiator.” He turns around and taps away on a keyboard, talking to himself. “Yeah, that could work…” He faces me again, gesturing in front of him “Come back and take a seat, my dear Camelia.”
I sit on the polished steel surface while he cleans the machine, unceremoniously throwing my right leg on ice, splattering my blood across the room, the precious liquid still oozing from the sliced blood vessels in my thigh. I wonder how many people get to walk around this city with one of my limbs as their own, although I don’t really care. As long as I get paid…
“If you’d please…”
He gestures towards the circular opening, now a lot narrower than before. I remove my rings and transfer them to my right hand before delicately setting the blade right in the middle of my wrist. Then, the sequence is repeated : Low hum, gunshot, indescribable pain, and then radio silence.
“I expect there to be no delays for the payment this time, Alan.” I press the stump in my hand, examining its shape.
“What happened last time was an exception. You’ll get your money in time, don’t worry.”
“Good. I’ll contact you in a few weeks when I’m ready for the next cut. Wait for the burner text.”
As I stand on my leg, it’s like the few lights in the room have grown whiter and brighter. The walls start spinning like a carousel and I fall back on the bench. Still holding my crutch, I bring my newly shortened arm to my head, the rounded stump pressing against my temple. It’s like my brain wants to leak out from my ears and onto the floor. A cold sweat covers my body from head to toe. Alan steps forward:
“Camelia? Are you okay?”
“Don’t…” I raise my stump towards him. I close my eyes for a few seconds as a feeble attempt to look in control of the situation. When it finally fades away, I pull myself up again, pretending to be fine. “I gotta go.”
My crutch hits the floor before he can place another word and I strut out of the lab. I quickly make my way through the labyrinth of corridors up to the entrance, punching the button to unlock the door ; heavily barred from this side, but nothing more than a service door from the outside. I step out and lay my back against it, allowing me a short pause. I’m out of breath. I stood up too fast, I know that. Even though my body healed the wounds as fast as usual, I didn’t let enough time for the baroreceptors in my brain to adjust to my new blood volume. I close my eyes again, trying to chase the black spots flashing in my field of view. After a minute or two, I allow myself to breathe normally and look around. At least I’m alone.
-------------------------
This apartment is the farthest I’ve ever rented from Alan’s lab and I can’t wait to crash down on the couch to rest. The first trip always makes me nervous. Even though it’s far from being my first time, I tend to feel more comfortable in my new skin a few hours after the cuts. I open my eyes when they announce the station and stand up to prepare for my exit. My headache has mostly settled down.
Without warning, the subway driver slams the brakes hard, sending me and most standing people tumbling across the others. Among the confusion, my phone flies off into the distance and my ass ends up on the ground. Grabbing a nearby pole, I pull myself to my foot and replace the straps of my bag on my shoulders, spotting my phone further down the aisle. It quickly passes hands to come back to me and I turn around to look at the man I had just elbowed in the gut. I press my lips together, offering him the most pitiful form of an apology I can pull together in this moment.
Stuffing my phone into my back pocket, I grab my crutch from his extended hands, managing to stretch my mouth sideways into the rough shape of a smile. The subway starts moving again. This time maintaining my balance, I fix a few strands of hair that had been misplaced during my fall.
By the corner of my eye, I notice he’s gesturing for my attention, offering me his seat. I shake my head.
“That’s my stop. I’m hopping off.”
I bite my lip as soon as I finish my sentence. What a stupid pun. As the doors begin to open, the people waiting on the other side are already piling up, anxious to get in. I manage to find my way through them just in time before they collapse on each other like a wave and walk away from the car, cursing at myself.
This station isn’t too deep underground, so there are no escalators. I would usually swallow my pride and take the steps, but with my recent drop in blood pressure, I’m not ready to risk any big physical strain so soon. However, I know there is a freight elevator I might be able to borrow, depending on who’s on the job at the moment. I walk up to a service desk to ring for help.
“Service.” The voice aims for neutral but instead sounds quite annoyed.
“Yeah I’d like to use the elevator.”
“Elevators are for machinery only.” The speaker clicks audibly as he turns his microphone off.
I buzz again. “I’m handicapped, fuck bucket, need a diagram?”
Above my head, a camera whirs to life, rotating, angling down to watch me. I take a step back, waving my shortened forearm at him. Almost immediately, the door swings open, letting out a scruffy-looking dude in his forties. The security outfit he wears can barely contain all of his belly fat.
“Sorry, of course, of course. Please, this way.”
I follow him back about halfway towards the platform, around the corner from where the staircase is to a rusty-looking gate hiding the elevator. During our little promenade, he can’t resist looking back at me. Twice, even. After several unsuccessful tries, he finally finds the right key and opens the gate. I step in and wait for him to close it behind me, but he doesn’t. He just… Stares back. Not that I’m not used to it but..
“Never seen a stump before?” I grope my leg stump with an open hand. “There’s no magic trick. It’s like a leg, but instead it’s gone.” I cross my arms. “Fucktard.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. I was having a déjà-vu but I just remembered actually seeing you here about a month ago.”
My blood freezes in my veins. Fuck.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t care. Now would you just…”
“No, no, I remember. A few weeks ago, you asked me the same thing, a lift up to the street. But I’m pretty sure…” He opens and closes his mouth several times, scratching his chin, choosing his words. “I’m pretty sure it was the left leg you were missing…”
“That’s impossible, my car accident was…”
“And that hand… You had two hands last time, I’m sure of it! What happened to your hand?”
I stuff it down my coat-pocket so fast I wonder how I didn’t punch a hole through it. Realizing that this wasn’t going to help me, I instead clasp it with my hand. “Ohhh yeahhh, the hand. Umm, see I’m a woodworker and I use a bunch of sharp stuff to etch and carve, and it so happened that last week something happened that’s... none of your fucking business!”
He stands there, shaken. His mouth undecidedly ajar. Without a word, he turns the key to finally let me up. Slowly, painfully, the elevator takes his sweet-ass time to carry me up as I stare back into his glassy but perplexed eyes. As soon as the floor of the lift cuts away our visual fight, I let myself crumble to the ground. I run my hand and stump through my hair, searching for air, hyperventilating. I look around me, almost waiting for the cage to stop moving, trapping me in-between floors.
I rummage through the pockets in my bag desperately. He’s going to call the police. He didn't have the authority to arrest me so he’s going to lock me in here while he brings them to me... not in the small zipped pouch, not in the big divider in the middle.. The lights flicker above me and I shriek. Calm down Cam, it flickered last month too, you remember! Or he’s already made its way into the electrical panel and he’s trying to put the brakes on. Where are these FUCKING PILLS!!! My finger touches something round and hard and my spine sends a shock all the way up to my brain. I close my fist around the vial and bring it to my stomach where my stumped arm holds it firmly. I pop the cap off and bring an Ativan to my lips with shaking hands. I scoop it using my tongue and let it nestle underneath my lingual veins.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply as I wait for the drug to enter my bloodstream. As I do, I machinally replace the vial in its place and zip my bag shut. The loud noise of the elevator gradually morphs into a smooth hum, and the walls around me don’t seem so hostile anymore. I blink several times to clear my vision. Then, I push my ass towards the wall and use it as leverage to help me up, fighting the slight dizziness that tries to overcome my senses.
I look down at my new stumps, now more delicately feeling the absence of my leg. “It’s okay, buddy.” I tell it. “In a few short weeks you’ll be back with us.” I bring my empty wrist up and sigh. “And what are we going to do with you…” I scratch the side of my head with it and shrug. “Eh.”
When the doors open, I swallow what’s left of my Ativan and put on my apathetic face again. People give me quick double checks, but quickly go back to their usual business. They’re not the ones worrying me.. I’ve always managed to manage, so I guess I’ll continue doing that. However, it’s time to move out. Again.