The Procedure

Part I

There was no sound when the doors opened before me, meaning they were well used by that of the surgeon Dr. Walter J. Freeman and his many thousands of patients that came in from around the world. But when I did pass through them, I could feel almost everything there could be felt at all, as if to make up for my lack of response to the whole situation only minutes before the procedure. I wondered if anyone else had felt this way, had their cache of memories run down them like piss on a scared child’s legs, exposing the last of their humanity as a sort of plead to stop this malpractice. But it never was acknowledged, certainly not in my case, and this is because people like me weren’t actually humans, no, not in their eyes.

This silent moment of reflection had been disturbed by the sour notes of Dr. Walter J. Freeman’s voice when he asked, “Cynthia T. Dolliad, are you aware of the procedure you are about to undergo, and do you have any last words to say to your family before it begins?” In the observatory room adjacent, there sat my uncle and father, who both signed to have the procedure after they had found me with her. Found me in such an ordinary place and at such an ordinary time, doing such an ordinary activity, but that to them was a behavior which warranted the end of my conscious life. “Yes,” I said, giving myself a moment to compose the very last words I would own. “I would like to say that even after this damned procedure, there is something I will always have that you never will: a truth to myself of who I love.”

Part II

One of my only memories left is of someone saying change is the only constant. At one point long ago, their words might have been true, but now there’s nothing more incorrect. Every day I’ll lay in bed and try to remember parts of the woman that I loved. I don’t know where she is, much less who she is now, but I’ll fleetingly remember parts of her; her hands, her hair, her incurable desire for sweets, but never her name. My father has given me no information on this woman and says she’s a figment of my imagination, and always has been, so that was why I had the lobotomy. I don’t believe him, but I’ll have my doubts from time to time. Either way, it’s impossible for me to make any efforts in finding her myself- I’m not allowed to leave the house. But I hope, oh God I hope, that one day she’ll come to me, and that we’ll know each other’s love once again.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Hexan]

This is good, I like the story and the writing. One thing you could have played with if you wanted to is making the second part disjointed, strange, to reflect her new inability to think clearly or remember clearly and the jarring difference between before and after. I think it's a little too clear minded for someone who's gone through something like that.

[wearejareth]

you're absolutely right, i didn't even think about how i could've experimented and made it more abstract, thank you

[JackValor86]

had their cache of memories run down them like piss on a scared child’s legs, exposing the last of their humanity as a sort of plead to stop this malpractice

thats lines gold, i loved the dark tones. What was the procedure? was it a sex change or like ae memory wipe like in eternal sunshine of a spotless mind? It almost sounded like Cynthia was gonna be euthanized when the surgeon was like you have any last words to say to your family. Would definitely like to read something a bit lengthier that has a sort of arc to it, like whos this persons ex and why did they get this procedure

[wearejareth]

it explains in part two that the procedure was a lobotomy, and in part one it suggests that the lobotomy happened because she was found having an affair with another woman which of course at the time was taboo