Barbarism Itself
Jenner woke feeling utterly refreshed. No thoughts came to mind—he just felt good. His stomach ached a little, but all the same, it was refreshing. Like he'd slept for days.
"Mr. Jenner? You're awake?"
At the voice, he turned to see a doctor seated beside him. Memories flooded back the instant he saw the man's face.
"Ah. My left arm."
Suddenly, his left arm felt uncomfortable, as if something had it bound tight. Jenner couldn't bring himself to look.
"Doctor. Will I have to live without my left arm now?"
He asked in a plaintive tone. The doctor patted his shoulder.
"Nonsense. Just look at your left arm."
Jenner's left arm was fine. Wrapped tight in bandages, but intact—no amputation. His fingers even wiggled.
"Amputations have been gone from these lands for a while now. You're from out of town, I take it?"
"Yes. Seems so..."
"Anyway, surgery was a success. Bone fragments are all set. Lie still for a month—no moving, or we'll have to cut it off."
"Yes."
Jenner obeyed the French doctor's words without protest. As the doctor turned to leave, a question bubbled up.
"But how do you operate on a fracture like that without amputating?"
"Aren't you a doctor yourself? No anatomy?"
"Anatomy?"
The French doctor pulled a pamphlet from his bag and handed it over. Basics of Anatomy.
"A real outsider, huh. Well, it's been nearly three years since it caught on—countryside might not know. Read it. I'm done with it. Off I go."
The French doctor left the room behind him. Jenner sat there blankly and opened Basics of Anatomy.
July 8, 1778, central Paris.
Late afternoon, people clustered in the broad square. A surgery was underway.
*clink*
"What? Thought surgery meant blood spraying and knife work."
*clink*
"Pfft, 'art' my ass. Michelangelo's dead."
*clink*
"Ugh. Boring. Should've watched Robespierre's public defense."
*clang*
"Ugh, ruined my mood."
The crowd, drawn in like high tide by surgery rumors, ebbed away like the receding sea.
*slash slash*
"Surgery complete. Guardian? No unwrapping bandages for a month."
"Oh, doctor, thank you so much. Thought our outsider was done for—one-armed for life..."
"No trouble. Paid a gold coin? Doctor's code: treat worth the gold."
They were doctors. Philosophers. Enlightenment men.
"Assistant. Next patient?"
The doctor rinsed tools in goat bleach—sodium hypochlorite stock solution.
The boy assistant flipped papers, scanning the list.
"Er... next is an amputation case."
"Wha—amputation?!"
The bored crowd, shuffling off from the dull show, grinned wide at the word and turned back.
The doctor muttered low, out of earshot.
"Barbaric."
"Pardon? Didn't catch that."
"No. Tools clean—bring the next patient."
A man in his early thirties climbed onto the table at the order.
The doctor scanned the file the assistant held.
"Thirty-one, male, leg fracture... prior treatment? Then why amputate?"
"Unwrapped after a week."
"Barbaric."
"I can hear you, you know."
"Meant for you to."
The doctor prepped the saw, firing questions.
"One thing: who treated you?"
"That guy last week."
The irked patient spat it out snippily.
The doctor squeezed his eyes shut, pinched his nose.
"Too much work. I'm beat."
"This many patients a day? Duh."
Ignoring the rudeness, the doctor pressed on.
"How'd it happen? Why unwrap?"
The patient hiked up on the table, showed the wound.
"Pitchfork stab."
"Details—who'd know from that? Why stabbed?"
"Work accident then. No pitchfork? Call it a hayfork?"
The doctor drew out scalpel and saw, brushed a dotted line below the knee.
"Just curious. Most amputation cases unwrap too soon—before bones knit."
The patient lectured back, teacher to pupil.
"You wouldn't get it, but lying around all day? Wastes time. Work hard when it don't hurt. Pain gone in a week? Lie a week. Simple, right?"
"Hence the amputation."
"Truth? Lying a month changes squat. No pain means healed, yeah?"
The doctor cinched cloth tight below the knee joint.
"That's barbaric."
"Spit it out?"
"Amputation commencing."
He ignored him, sloshed liquor over the site.
"Amputation! Commences!!"
The assistant bellowed to draw eyes.
"This is why we watch surgeries."
"Nothing beats no-anesthesia chop!"
Dopamine junkies swarmed for screams and gore.
"Tweezers for hours? Lame. Surgery's thrill: over in a flash."
"Mm. True."
Enough gathered; assistant nodded. Doctor raised the curved blade high—sunset turned it blood-red.
Blade met dotted line; murmurs died.
The crowd held breath, fixed on the crimson gleam.
So keen the edge: mere pressure sank it into flesh, blood streaming.
Patient's face contorted; a groan leaked.
As scream built, doctor whipped a circle.
Leg sheared clean; saw already gnawing bone.
Audience clutched hearts, moaning.
No empathy for the pain—just alien thrill, guilty ecstasy.
Screams? Beautiful melody.
The taboo rush of inhuman acts.
Some slumped, hyperventilating in wicked bliss.
Master surgeon: swift end, every instant vital.
Leg-side viewers thrilled silent at the stump's clean cut—proof of skill.
Done, doctor jaw-punched him unconscious.
Some eyed the truncated scream wistfully.
Careless of regrets, he bandaged the stump, staunching flow.
White wrap crimsoned in seconds.
Blood seeped like roots burrowing soil.
But it slowed... halted.
Excitement crashed.
Now they checked themselves: cramps from tension, sore rears from falls, nosebleeds from frenzy, dry eyes from staring.
Late fixes: pinched noses, squeezed lids.
Patient stirred; crowd clocked total success. Amputations killed two in three, usually.
Doctor cleaned tools calmly in hypochlorite.
Assistant handed crutches, pocketed fee.
Patient crutched home, wife-supported.
Audience staggered off, show truly done.
Remnants: noseblood, spit, lost odds.
"Barbaric."
Packing tools, the doctor muttered solo.
"Aw, doc. Ease up. Everyone's got their thing."
"Still over the line. Field hospitals weren't this bad."
"Corpses everywhere—no need for spectacles."
"Not in front of others."
"Soldier slander? Got it, got it."
As they readied to leave, beggars swept in with brooms, buckets.
Bucket reek: sharp, less harsh than disinfectant.
"This, though—not barbaric."
"His Majesty's command."
Beggars sloshed the liquid, scouring the square: squished blood, brick grime.
All rinsed clean in wash solution—water to sodium hypochlorite at 1:100.