He had forgotten his glasses at home, so the light in the operating room was disturbing him terribly. Everything he wanted was to finish with the patient as quickly as possible and go home. His head ached. He was used to pain, but him barely seeing due to the tears… that was something new that he couldn’t bear. The patient had been immobilized for more than ten minutes, and though he didn't want to show his vulnerabilities, just after another ten minutes he managed to recover partially. He had already consoled himself to failing today. He didn't like the idea that a small routine change had made him forget his glasses, make a mistake of an amateur when his eye-sensitivity was getting worse every day.
He turned to the patient and sigh loudly, disappointed by his lack of flexibility to the small changes that come in every person's life, then he moved closer to the man who is still awake on the table and sighed again. San had not yet administrated the anesthesia, but what is a naughty patient, now when he has a bad day anyway? He blinked long before altering the lamp brightness, but a moment of carelessness was enough for the patient to turn the lamp toward San and escape from his bed. The surgeon did not react as quickly as he would have done it in the usual way. He stood for a few seconds without moving to just feel the pain that had seized his head, then realized it was far too big to finish his job.
He returned quickly and followed the patient who was limping toward the door. San looked at him, trying to open it, and he was filled with satisfaction when the patient realizes that doesn't matter how much he was trying, the last person, he would see was the man who was now breathing in the back of his head, not his daughter, Matilda. Matilda… He had loved so much his Matilda… with all his soul and body… the Matilda that had been stolen by a dirty society. Matilda. Matilda… he wanted to make a mess of her for the last time, in the last night of his life. The regret had filled his entire body. He had thought of asking for mercy, but why would he give that to him? Because of Matilda? As if San knew how much he loved Matilda. Why would he listen to some empty words when his actions were talking much more?
He felt suddenly suffocated by a strong hand that dragged him rapidly toward the bed, immobilizing him again. He could see the blade shining on top of him, suspended by a trembling hand of rage and pain. His eyes filled with tears. Tears. San had tears in his eyes too. But what had happened to them? They had been transferred to the patient, when San realized that he had a pair of sunglasses in the cabinet, beside the anesthesia.
Pathetic. How pathetic he had become.
He had stabbed the man again, and again, and again, the scalpel tearing apart his abdomen until it seemed more like a badly slaughtered meat than a creation of God. Such a good creation, so good… as if Matilda had called him a creature after an incestuous pregnancy, after the terror she lived every day for her whole life, until. Until she wasn't living anymore. Blood like the blood of Matilda was everywhere, and for a second San felt sick. He could hardly see through squirted glasses. The metallic smell was intoxicating him. And the fact that he had sent the cleaners home made him feel like this even harder. He waited a few minutes beside the dead body, putting his hands in his head. How inflexible he had become! Painfully inflexible. Cleaning after his messy job would be a hard work to do, but he has to do what he has to do. He sews left-handed the man's belly, then clean it. He put the body in a fresh bed, then move it back to his ward.
He connected the patient to the devices, and says deeply affected: “Seo Jonathan, death time : 3:04”, then, after fully covering the body, he turned to the assistance that was waiting for the end of the intervention. “Did you note it down? Thank you.” He said phlegmatically, without waiting for her answer, striding out of the ward.
He took out his phone and realized he had told the wrong hour. He sighed again, then sent a message to cleaner about the dirt he had made in the operating room. She would hate him, but she owed him a lot, and her debts must be paid urgently. He left the hospital, sitting on the first bench he had seen. He stood with his head in his hands for a few minutes. How disappointed he was about this day… he had been too affected by everything that had happened. But what had happened after all? He hasn't been treated with disrespect for the first time, but this time it was all too hard. He felt like a babysitter. He had a patient in his home. In his own house, a patient was breathing. He was shaking with a shiver just thinking about him. It didn't matter how important he was, what San wanted was not more than a corpse out of him. His house wasn't a jar in which some useless people could have kept captive a damn frog. “The dissections are being made on the spot” was the only principle that he followed. No one could stop him. Tonight he will leave alone his frog, and her owner will take his place.
He sat on the bench for another few minutes thinking of what he was going to do. He had not been angry for a long time. Suddenly, he could not remember the last time he has been angered by someone. Even the old women who were sitting in front of him at any line he had to stand seemed to delight him now. His mind had been completely emptied, and if at least a part of it had been rational at this moment, he would probably have been wild slapping himself. But his mind was completely empty. He no longer cared what was going to happen, how he would do it. He had been nervous a little while ago, and though he felt nothing more now, he must satisfy his old rage. He had to. He had to do it because he had lived for over thirty-one years just like this, satisfying himself and every desire that he had.
He had to do it because nothing of it told him not to do it. And if his whole body was silent, if his entire brain was silent, if his soul was empty and silent, why wouldn't he have satisfied the need he no longer felt. Why. Many years ago, he would have shuddered at the simple thought of feeling nothing, but now he loves himself too much for such an unfledged hatred. He was satisfyig himself any time he needs to satisfy himself.