"Rope."
"Stick."
"A saw."
Dr. Joseph's voice was flat, mechanical, almost detached, as if he were listing tools for a mundane task. But the grim scene unfolding in the small, dimly lit room was anything but ordinary. Luther, his young apprentice, swallowed hard, feeling his pulse quicken as he nodded, gathering the tools with trembling hands.
"Very well, Luther," Dr. Joseph said, his tone still eerily calm. "Hold his legs down. I'm going to begin."
Luther moved to the patient, a man who lay trembling and wide-eyed, his body tied tightly to the crude operating table. A thick wooden stick had been shoved between his teeth to stifle his screams. The patient's broken leg, swollen and purple from infection, looked grotesque under the flickering lamplight. His eyes darted from Luther's face to Dr. Joseph's, pleading, though he must have known there was no other way.
Without further ceremony, Dr. Joseph raised the saw, the blade glinting coldly in the light. Luther braced himself, pressing down on the man's legs, feeling the muscles tense and shake beneath his grip. With one swift, merciless motion, Dr. Joseph brought the saw down into flesh.
A muffled scream tore from the patient's throat, almost drowning out the sickening sound of the saw biting into bone. Luther's stomach lurched, but he couldn't look away. He was caught between horror and fascination as Dr. Joseph worked with brutal efficiency, his face expressionless, focused, almost serene.
The air filled with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp, nauseating odor of sweat and fear. Each drag of the saw through flesh and bone sent a grotesque squeal echoing through the room, punctuated by the patient's strangled cries. Luther glanced at Dr. Joseph's face, splattered with blood, a mask of grim concentration that had taken on a monstrous quality, more butcher than healer.
Luther's heart raced, but it wasn't entirely from fear. An unsettling excitement stirred within him, a thrill he couldn't quite place. The sight of the saw carving through flesh, the hot blood splattering onto his hands; it was both repulsive and strangely exhilarating. He clenched his jaw, trying to focus, to ignore the growing, inexplicable hunger that clawed at him from within.
The patient's screams subsided into faint whimpers as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Luther pressed down harder on the man's thigh, his fingers slipping slightly in the slick blood, until he felt the last shuddering resistance fade. Dr. Joseph finally stopped, lifting a pale, severed limb from the table, his hands steady, almost reverent. The patient had fainted, his head lolling to the side as blood pooled around the stump of his leg, the room thick with the pungent, fishy odor of freshly severed flesh.
Luther stared at the severed limb in his hands, feeling a shiver run through him. His mouth felt dry, and yet he couldn't stop himself from licking his lips, tasting the salt of blood that had splattered on his face. A strange, wild urge whispered in his mind, urging him to sink his teeth into the cooling flesh, to taste it, to devour it.
What's happening to me? he thought, heart pounding. This isn't normal. This isn't right.
He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, trying to push down the horrifying desire. It had only been a month since he arrived in this strange world, thrown into a time where medicine was brutal, primitive, more torture than cure. He'd come with dreams of healing, but each operation had chipped away at his idealism, replacing it with a grim acceptance of reality.
Dr. Joseph looked up, his blood-splattered face breaking into an unsettling smile as he examined his work. He placed a hand over the patient's nose, feeling for breath, and nodded in satisfaction. "Operation successful," he announced, his tone devoid of triumph, as if announcing the outcome of a butcher's slaughter rather than a life-saving procedure.
Turning to his other apprentice, Carol, he said, "Bandage him up, apply the herbs." Then, his gaze shifted to Luther, whose face was flushed, his eyes dark with a hint of something that Joseph recognized instantly. Admiration, yes, but there was something deeper, something darker. A fascination that bordered on the unsettling.
"Excellent work, Luther," Dr. Joseph murmured, his smile widening. "You've got a strong stomach. Very few can keep steady during… procedures like these."
Luther felt his skin crawl under Dr. Joseph's gaze, his grip tightening on the severed limb in his hands. He forced himself to return the man's praise with a nod, though his insides churned. Dr. Joseph's hand clapped him on the shoulder, sending a wave of revulsion and the faintest spark of that disturbing hunger coursing through him.
"Now, clean the saw, and prepare for the next operation," Dr. Joseph ordered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.
"Yes, sir." Luther managed, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice. He was desperate to get away from the suffocating stench of blood and the oppressive weight of Dr. Joseph's gaze. Yet, as he placed the severed leg on the tray, he felt a pang of something unidentifiable; almost regret. It was as if he were leaving something precious behind, a forbidden delicacy.
Why am I feeling this? he thought, horrified at his own reaction.
Steeling himself, Luther exited the room, his steps hurried as he left behind the muffled groans and blood-soaked table. Outside, the chill of the evening air hit him, and he gulped it down, leaning heavily against the rough stones of the clinic wall. His hands were still stained red, the blood drying and cracking on his skin.
A well stood just a few steps away, its water shimmering in the fading light. He moved toward it, hands shaking as he plunged the saw into the basin of water beside it, scrubbing it as though trying to cleanse not just the blade but his own mind.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing the bloodlust, the insane urge to bite and tear: to fade. His thoughts were a chaotic whirl, fear mingling with the strange, dark hunger that had been growing in him since his arrival here. He clenched his teeth, swallowing hard, trying to suppress the unnatural craving that pulsed through him.
In the quiet of the fading light, Luther's reflection stared back at him from the still water of the well, his eyes wide, haunted. He knew something was changing within him, something he couldn't understand or control.
And as he walked back toward the clinic, the weight of his new life pressing down on him, he couldn't shake the feeling that this dark hunger would consume him, piece by bloody piece.
Luther's body trembled, his hands clenching as he felt that dark hunger clawing at him from within, stronger than ever. His body was nearing its breaking point, and he knew it. He shook his head violently, desperate to shake the unnatural thoughts lurking in his mind. But it was like trying to uproot a weed that had dug deep, wrapping its tendrils around his very soul.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the world tinted red. His vision was blurred, and he could feel the blood pounding through his veins, pulsing against his temples. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, darted around the street, scanning the people passing by, the veins in his neck taut as he fought the insatiable urge within him. He pulled his sleeves over his hands, glancing around nervously, hoping no one would notice him.
Quickly, he ducked behind a stone wall, crouching down, hidden from view. His hands trembled as he brought his thumb to his mouth, pressing it between his teeth, and then bit down; hard. Sharp pain flared through his thumb as he felt his own teeth break the skin, tearing into the flesh, drawing blood. He sucked at the wound in small, controlled sips, the coppery taste flooding his mouth, grounding him, forcing the hunger back into its cage.
This was the only way he knew to control the dark urges, but he could feel it was a temporary fix, a band-aid over a wound that was festering and spreading. His body was changing, and not just in his mind. He'd noticed it recently, an unnatural healing speed, his wounds mending themselves almost instantly. As he watched, the shredded flesh of his thumb knitted itself back together, smooth and unblemished within seconds. But it came at a price. Each healing drew from his energy reserves, leaving him hungrier, thinner, his frame growing gaunt.
Taking a deep breath, Luther flexed his hand, studying his now-healed thumb with a mixture of relief and fear. It was both a blessing and a curse. If he hadn't found this small ritual, he feared what he might have done to those around him.
He was still catching his breath, wiping the remnants of blood from his lips, when a cry broke through the stillness of the street.
"Please! Someone, help me! My son, he's; he's dying! Please, someone save him!"
Luther's head shot up, his eyes narrowing as he peered down the street. A frail woman stumbled along, her face streaked with tears, her clothes worn and tattered. Her eyes were swollen, her hair a mess of loose curls tangled and matted. She was pushing a cart that held a young man, her son, no doubt; lying limply with his head lolling to the side, his face a sickly yellow and his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.
Just one glance, and Luther's mind leaped to a diagnosis. The young man's airway was blocked, likely by thick mucus filling his trachea. He'd seen it before. He knew immediately that he would need to perform a tracheotomy, an incision in the neck to open the airway. He could do it, he thought, and he reached instinctively for the sharp knife he always kept on him.
He grabbed a piece of green grass growing nearby, thick-stemmed and hollow. The locals used it to feed cattle, but in this moment, it was perfect; a makeshift cannula to insert into the young man's throat. He could save him.
But then, a harsh voice broke through his focus.
"You madwoman! Get out of here!"
The crowd began to shout, voices filled with fear and anger.
"Take him away! Don't bring him here!"
"He's got the fever! You'll kill us all!"
An elderly man, who had been sitting on the roadside polishing shoes, leapt to his feet as the young man on the cart retched, expelling a dark, foul-smelling green mucus onto the ground. The old man's face went pale, his hands trembling as he backed away, then turned and ran, moving faster than Luther would have thought possible for someone of his age. His fear was contagious; others followed, scattering in all directions, abandoning the woman and her dying son as if they were plague incarnate.
Within seconds, the once-busy street was empty, a chilling silence settling over the scene. Luther remained crouched, his hand still gripping the saw, his mind racing. "Distemper," he murmured, the term repeating in his mind, bouncing around like an ominous echo. It was the word they used for any mysterious illness, anything that bore the faintest hint of contagion. In this world, it was a death sentence: a curse.
The woman looked around, desperation etched deep in the lines of her face. She caught sight of Luther, her eyes pleading, clinging to the faintest hope that he might come to her aid. For a moment, he was gripped by the urge to rush to her, to push back the fear of infection and simply do what he knew would save the young man's life.
But reality hit him like a cold wind. This wasn't his world. Here, if he so much as laid a knife to someone's throat without permission, even to save their life, he could be branded a killer, maybe even hung for practicing "dark arts." The people here feared what they didn't understand, and they didn't understand medicine, not in the way he did. He was an outsider, a stranger with strange knowledge.
Luther took a step back, heart pounding with both fear and guilt. He saw the woman's face fall as he moved away, her hope dimming, her shoulders sagging. She turned back to her son, whispering frantically, begging him to hold on, to stay with her.
With a last, painful glance at her, Luther backed away, retreating into the shadows. He knew what he wanted to do, what he was capable of doing. But in this world, that knowledge was a double-edged sword, one that could cut him as easily as it could save others.
Once he was hidden from view, he exhaled a shaky breath, forcing himself to turn away, to close his mind to the suffering outside. He tightened his grip on the saw, focusing on the metallic feel of it against his skin, grounding himself, reminding himself of the harsh reality he now lived in. He couldn't afford to be reckless. Not here. Not now.
As he closed the door of the clinic behind him, shutting out the woman's desperate pleas, he was reminded of the brutal truth: in this world, compassion was a luxury he couldn't afford.