The Body Artist

As the first needle was prepared, Virgil Stuttaford looked at the man with eyes edged with concern. “Are you sure this procedure is safe, doctor?”

Doctor William Knott glanced up, pushed wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose, and smiled. His face softened in an instant.

“This treatment has been carried out since the late 1920s, Mr. Stuttaford, there’s really no need to worry.”

William watched his patient relax. The man’s shoulders dropped and he slumped further into the leather seat as an anxious smile twisted his gaunt face. It didn’t hide Virgil’s obvious doubts, William was pretty good at picking up on those sort of things. The man tried to look at ease but failed miserably.

“It’s just the first time I’ve tried any sort of alternative medicine,” Virgil said. “I’m a little nervous at having my blood treated, that’s all.”

With the first needle, tube and apparatus readied, William moved to the other set. “That’s perfectly understandable Mr. Stuttaford. Photoluminescence is not a well-known procedure, but I can assure you it is carried out with the complete absence of any harmful effects.”

“My wife doesn’t believe in any of this stuff. That’s why I haven’t told her.”

William stood and ceased his preparation. “Should we continue with this, Mr. Stuttaford? I’m not sure I’m comfortable working on a family man without the knowledge of his spouse.”

Virgil chuckled. Even his laughter was coated with apprehension.

“I’ve signed the consent forms, so it’s no problem. Besides, this isn’t her treatment.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Stuttaford.”

“Please doctor, you’ll have to stop calling me Mr. Stuttaford. It’s too formal.”

“I’m always formal with my patients Mr. Stuttaford, I find it’s good for the patient to feel they’re in the company of a professional.” William smiled again hoping to soften the man’s nerves further. Once finished with the second needle, he nodded to his patient. “Please, continue. Do you have any children?”

“Yeah, two.”

“How lovely. Boys or girls?”

“One of each.”

“Tell me about them while I set this up,” William said, and wheeled the tray of equipment closer. “It may help you to relax.”

William lay the needles by Virgil, one on either side. He checked there were no creases in the tubes. Walking behind a screen he inspected the apparatus concealed from the patient’s view. Virgil talked. He spoke about his son, Marcus, the eldest, the one who liked to study hard, the boy with childhood dreams of becoming an astronaut. William smiled. Such love shown by a father to his child had always touched William. It made him glad to know good people still existed in the world. The receptacles were ready, everything sterilized. He listened to Virgil talk about his daughter. Julie, only four, the little girl who was always active and yet never went to sleep at night. William’s smile widened. Youth was always a mystery to him: It was a deeper mystery than death.

William stood by Virgil’s side. The man glanced at him and offered a forced smile. He hadn’t relaxed much but William didn’t mind. A nervous man meant a faster heart beat and a quicker procedure. Mid-morning sun seeped through the basement window and lay a luminous sheen over Virgil’s face.

“We’re all set Mr. Stuttaford. Would you like me to go over the procedure one more time?”

He nodded. It was subtle, the agreement of a man still struggling with feelings of uncertainty. William watched him try to swallow. His Adam’s apple jumped as he forced saliva down.

“Okay, first I’ll be inserting a catheter into the femoral vein in your neck. The blood will leave via this tube and pass through a cuvette -- a small glass chamber. Here it is subjected to ultraviolet light and will return to your bloodstream through the second catheter, inserted into your carotid artery.”

He watched Virgil’s face cloud over. All the talk of veins and blood hadn’t sat well with his patient. Virgil was a nervous man anyway, William had got that impression about him the moment he’d arrived for his consultation three days ago. The man hadn’t sat still the entire time; locking fingers, rubbing hands, crossing legs, pulling at his tie. Virgil did it all, a writhing mass of neurotic tissue.

The light in his basement surgery reflected off Virgil’s balding head. William wondered how the man would react when the first needle pierced his skin.

“Any questions?”

Virgil looked about the room. The walls were stone with mortar falling from some joints. Slender windows set high in the walls revealed sunlight and people’s legs on the street but little else. There was no reception or receptionist. Charts and documents in glass frames adorned the walls, William’s certificates in pride of place behind his mediocre desk. Virgil’s eyes settled on the miniature skeleton hanging from a hooked stand on the furniture.

“Not much of a surgery, is it?”

William’s jaw tightened. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Mr. Stuttaford, yet from these meager beginnings, I hope to build an empire.” William smiled, his warmest yet. “Well, a respectable practice anyway. Any more questions?”

“You sure this treatment will cure my dermatitis?”

William looked at the man’s skin, the patches he could see. Red and sore, they were covered with flaking skin. He nodded. “Of course. It can treat bacterial infections, blood poisoning, allergies, asthma, rheumatologic diseases and many other things. You won’t have to worry about your dermatitis for very much longer.”

Virgil offered a satisfied look. It was still tainted but William ignored it. Everything was ready.

“Okay doctor. Before I change my mind then, let’s start the treatment.”

William feared the man would pass out but Virgil didn’t react too adversely when the needles entered his neck. His breathing increased but that was all. William secured the catheters with tape, his smile broader than ever.

He walked behind the screen. Setting the pumps in motion the room filled with their soft hum. He noticed Virgil stir restlessly in his seat. The man couldn’t see the tubes inserted into the catheters. Stepping back, William monitored the process.

Blood drained from the femoral vein.

Embalming fluid traveled the tube to Virgil’s carotid artery.

William sat back in his chair, took a small sip of vodka, and waited for his patient to die.

* * *

Using a surgical scalpel William removed his subject’s face. He made sure it came away in one complete piece. He dropped it into a plastic bag and deposited it in the burner that heated the basement. The bag containing clothes, wallet and any other information that would identify Virgil Stuttaford had already burned to ash.

Setting about his creation, he administered the scalpel to his patient’s facial muscles. He tried his best to keep the orbicularis oculi muscle around the eyeball intact. The muscles were placed in another bag and William tossed this into the burner. He washed the skeletal face, ridding it of blood spatter and residual tendon ends. He cleansed the body, noted any birth marks or identifying features, then cut these away.

William manipulated his subject into the correct position, working quickly to find the right pose before rigor mortis would allow no more give. By the time he found a posture he was satisfied with, night had fallen. He was tired. William stopped work and left the basement, locking it securely. He watched the city live as he ate a small meal in the restaurant across from his home. He talked to the owner and shared a joke.

Returning he went to bed and slept restlessly. He was too excited to sleep heavily; this was set to be his best exhibition to date.

He was awake early, too early, but William could not contain his excitement. He washed and shaved, determined to look his best. His breakfast was small and rushed, and he neglected to wash the dishes before hurrying into the basement. William took a moment to admire his latest creation, then loaded it onto a trolley and wheeled the body into his gallery.

There were six subjects, each depicting a different stage of life’s struggle. A distinct situation where the futility of mankind was emphasized in life form. Pale skulls grinned at him, and their eyeballs, left in the sockets, watched him intently. He worked quickly, setting his newest subject in place and adding the final touches to his masterpiece. When finished he stepped back and gazed at the body through his hands like a photographer determining the best camera angle for the next blockbuster scene. It wasn’t shocking, William didn‘t think so, and he was pleased with the cadaver’s lifelike stance. It was a pose that, to William, highlighted trust and how it was exploited.

Ten minutes to go.

William briefly inspected his other subjects: The pregnant woman on her back holding her swollen stomach, depicting life’s vulnerability. The teenage boy surrounded by drugs and alcohol, an exploitation of youth. Two subjects as one, their genitalia forcibly joined, a vibrant account of the pleasure, embarrassment and pain of sex. Finally the torn, broken body of a person unidentifiable in any way, an honest explanation about death’s unforgiving inevitability.

It was complete. He was ready.

With a final satisfied glance over his creations, William walked to the main doors, turned the key, and with a smile opened the gallery to his expectant public.