The Flesh Factory
by Leonardo J. Lamanna
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
Dr. Jung takes the syringe from Nurse Santos’s fingers, plunges the needle into the rubber stopper of the vial, and pulls back the plunger until the cylinder is filled with yellow serum. The lower half of his face is hidden by a surgical mask, but I know he’s smiling. He loves this part of his job.
“I’m proceeding to inject the serum into the subject,” he says, his voice flat and emotionless—an attempt to maintain a professional tone. He pushes the needle into my left side, just beneath my rib cage, only a centimeter deep. Then he tilts the syringe like he does every time, just to cause me a bit more pain. I’ve learned to play along to make the process as quick as possible.
I let out a faint gurgle. His hands tremble around the syringe. He’s pleased. He drives the needle deeper into my side, where my spleen is regenerating for the sixteenth time.
He slowly depresses the plunger until every drop of serum has been injected.
“Well done, No. 3013,” he whispers. “As always.”
I emit another gurgle. It takes effort, as Dr. Jung removed my tongue and vocal cords many years ago. I was a boy then.
Nurse Santos frowns. “The spleen is developing more slowly than usual, Doctor,” she says, her voice cold and metallic. But I have to admit, she has an amazing rack. I could easily get an erection if Dr. Jung hadn’t removed my testicles four years ago. He doesn’t seem inclined to let them regrow. No demand for testicle transplants, apparently.
“We’re not in a hurry, Nurse,” Jung replies. “No. 3013 here isn’t as young as he used to be. His cells don’t replicate as fast. We all age. Except you, my dear, of course.”
Beneath her mask, her Botox-swollen lips curl into a flattered smile.
She adjusts the mechanical ventilator, which pumps oxygen through my tracheostomy tube, inflating and deflating my lungs like balloons, keeping me alive.
If you can call this living.
Up until about twenty-three, I didn’t need artificial respiration. But as Dr. Jung said, we all age. I’m thirty-eight now and not what I once was. Yet I’m still one of the best organ sacks here at the Flesh Factory.
“Good old No. 3013 never disappoints,” the old Dr. Mancini used to say. Ah, Dr. Mancini. So many memories. He was the one running the ward when they first strapped me to this bed.
My family sold me for a few hundred dollars. They never liked me. My grandmother always said I was a cheeky kid. Then came the mutant locusts, the great famine, war, plagues. Money at home was tight. The organ market was booming. Demand was high, especially from the rich.
I was cheeky but healthy.
I don’t hold it against them, not anymore. Dr. Mancini removed my amygdala so many times I’m no longer capable of anger or resentment.
After making sure everything is working properly, Nurse Santos sashays out.
I have a room to myself—rare privilege at the Factory. Many organ sacks don’t survive the serum for years, but I have.
My last surgery was two months ago. Dr. Jung removed my spleen and a kidney.
“The serum isn’t working as well as usual,” he told me after the operation. “The spleen is regenerating, albeit slowly. As for the kidney, no luck. Good thing you have another. Those idiots on the board won’t let me use a higher dose of serum. Cost issues, they say. Morons.”
I gurgled extra to express my moral support.
“We’ll try to regrow at least the spleen, No. 3013. High demand for spleens. If you manage, I could schedule the next extraction in three months. Hang in there.”
Absolutely, I would’ve said. I tried to reassure him with my eyes.
But I was lying.
Oh yes. I’m a liar. My grandmother was probably right about me.
I’ve decided to leave the Factory. To resign. For good.
Maybe a piece of my amygdala regrew. Maybe not. Either way, I’ve decided to end it. For all these years, death has only been a dream.
No more neon lights. No more disinfectant smell. No more needles.
Soon it will be Christmas at the Flesh Factory, and I’m giving myself a gift.
How? That’s my secret.
So far, neither Nurse Santos nor Dr. Jung has noticed.
I’m always very careful.
It happened after the last surgery. The serum couldn’t regrow both my spleen and kidney. Instead, it started growing a finger.
My left index finger.
Near the mechanical ventilator.
If it keeps growing, I’ll soon reach the switch and turn it off.
And I’ll be free.
The problem is hiding it. If they see, they’ll cut it off immediately. Unfortunately, hiding it isn’t as simple as it sounds. My finger is quite noticeable.
Years ago, Dr. Jung removed both my hands to transplant them onto a steel tycoon’s son. The kid, high on cocaine, wanted to impress a girl by hand-feeding an alligator in daddy’s pool. Things didn’t go well, and the boy found himself in desperate need of new hands.
After the surgery, Dr. Jung discovered that the serum couldn’t regenerate severed limbs. Not entirely, at least.
For years, I had nothing but two useless stumps.
Now, protruding from the left stump is a bony index finger, about six inches long and still growing.
Every time Dr. Jung and Nurse Santos enter my room, I hide it under my thigh.
I’ve had close calls. I hardly sleep—thanks to an intern’s slip with Jung’s scalpel damaging my hypothalamus—but sometimes I black out.
For weeks, I’ve feared they’ll walk in while I’m unconscious. I keep the finger tucked under my thigh just in case.
A few more inches, and I’ll reach the switch.
I have time. The next surgery is a month away.
At this growth rate, I’ll only need a week.
I can do it. I have to stay optimistic.
Oh, what a wonder! What a triumphant day! Just half a centimeter! Only half a centimeter more, and I’ll reach that damned switch!
Dr. Jung was disappointed in me recently.
“Your spleen is lagging. What’s happening, Three Thousand Thirteen? Have you gone rotten? You used to be the best. If this continues, I’ll have to punish you. Severely.”
I knew what that meant.
Without serum, our organs turn gelatinous, and our bones burn from the inside out, from the marrow. The pain is indescribable.
Withdrawal is far, far worse than the surgeries, the smell of disinfectant, the stitches, or the inability to get an erection when looking at Nurse Santos’s firm backside.
That’s Jung’s punishment for uncooperative bodies.
But then, shaking his head, the doctor left, closing the door behind him.
When I was sure the doctor and nurse had finished their rounds in the ward, I stretched my absurdly long index finger toward the ventilator’s switch, struggling against the straps that keep me imprisoned in the bed.
Every fiber of my body was stretched to its limit, desperate to gain even a half millimeter, even a hundredth of a millimeter. The cannula piercing my right arm nearly tore out, and the tracheostomy tube shifted, causing sharp, stabbing pain in my throat and chest.
One eye rolled back—probably a severed nerve.
But I didn’t care.
For just a moment, the tip of my finger grazed the switch.
I couldn’t press it, but I only need another centimeter.
Maybe less.
My finger hurts terribly, a sign that the osteoblasts are producing new collagen, accumulating it in the bone matrix. Keep going, you crazy little osteoblasts. Work like tiny industrious bees.
Tomorrow evening at the latest, I’ll be free.
A loud crash jolts me awake.
Footsteps race across the linoleum floor. Harsh voices bark orders.
“Nurse, hurry! We don’t have much time!” Dr. Jung says.
“Right away, Doctor!” Nurse Santos replies. “We’ll take him to the operating room immediately! I’ll start atropine and fentanyl.”
What’s happening? Why are they here?
I gurgle in surprise and frustration. I must have blacked out.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
The nurse grabs my arm, trying to jab a needle into the crook of my elbow.
No! I have to keep the finger hidden!
My finger!
The nurse sees I’m resisting. She shouts something at me in a language I don’t understand. Spanish, maybe. I catch only “puto.” Probably an insult.
Finally, she plunges the needle into my vein and lets go of my arm.
Relief. She didn’t noticed.
“I’ll extubate him, and we’re good to go!” the nurse yells.
I start to lose consciousness. My head feels light. My eyes grow heavy. I feel heavy. Someone is messing with my tracheostomy tube. Painful stabs alternate with waves of comforting warmth.
I fall into darkness, into darkness, into darkness.
“No. 3013, are you there?” a gentle voice asks from a blurry shape in front of me. The blurry shape wavers and changes size, and finally, my right eye—the only one that still works—manages to focus on Dr. Jung.
He stares down at me over his surgical mask. I’ve always wondered if Dr. Jung has a beard. I suppose I’ll never know.
I gurgle weakly.
I’m back in my room. The tracheostomy tube is in place, but now it’s much longer than before. I try to move my head from side to side.
“Were you looking for that?” the doctor asks, gesturing toward the wall opposite my bed.
The mechanical ventilator is pumping oxygen into the tube, but it’s never been so far from me.
“You know, I’m not angry,” Jung says. “I get it. I understand you’re tired. I get tired, too. We do hard work. Who can deny that?”
He strokes my shaved head with his latex-gloved hand. It’s the first affectionate gesture since I’ve known him. Or maybe it’s not affection; maybe he’s just checking my sweat.
“You didn’t think we’d notice?” he asks.
I gurgle again. I want to say: “I was so close.”
Jung chuckles. “I admit, you nearly made it!” He places a hand over his heart. “Nice try. If Mr. Wesson’s son hadn’t wrecked his liver in a bike crash, we wouldn’t have discovered your little secret. You remember Mr. Wesson’s son, right? The alligator. He still has your hands, thankfully. But the crash shredded his liver. Fortunately, yours was in good shape, and we were able to take a nice chunk out of it. So, during the surgery, we found your finger. Very interesting, the reaction the serum had on your stump.”
I glance down. The finger is still there.
“I didn’t cut it off,” Jung says.
I gurgle again.
“I wanted to wait until you were awake,” he says. Then he picks up a pair of shears.
I gurgle once more. Droplets of mucus and saliva splatter from the edges of my sutured lips. A red tear slowly rolls down from my good eye.
I’m afraid my amygdala might be working properly again.
With a swift, fluid motion, Dr. Jung snips off my finger with the shears. No anesthesia. No tourniquet.
A quick SNIP, and the finger is gone.
Dr. Jung waves it in front of my face, letting tiny drops of black blood stain the sheets.
I’m crying. No doubt about it. I’m really crying.
“Nurse Santos will be in shortly to stitch you up, No. 3013,” Dr. Jung says, tossing my long finger into the waste bin. “I’ll see you later for your serum dose.”
The door closes.
I’m alone in my room at the Flesh Factory.
| EXHIBIT FOUR: Return to “Worryeater“ | Proceed to the next Gallery Two: Leeches attraction, “The Basement“ |