Hello there, they call me Dr. Smiley. I am not like the doctors you find in hospitals, desperately trying to fight off the inevitable. No, I embrace death, and I help my patients welcome it too. You see, just the other day, I encountered a young woman on the street. She looked frail, fading away, perhaps from anorexia. I offered her a smile, a gentle kiss on her hand, and a promise of help. Charmed, she followed me to my clinic. You might recognize the place, it’s on the edge of town—the building with the paint peeling off, shutters hanging precariously, plastic and cardboard patching up the windows. Most people assume it’s abandoned. That is where I reside, and where I practice my unique form of medicine.
When we arrived at my clinic, she seemed frightened, like a little mouse caught in a trap. I found it endearing. I simply gave her my sweetest smile, gently tugged her hand, and led her inside, into my living room. Releasing her hand, I locked the door behind us. Panic began to set in as she noticed the dark stains marring my old couch. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” I chuckled, trying to suppress my excitement, “that’s just from a little emergency surgery I had to perform!” I guided her to my ‘operation’ room and instructed her to lie down on my operating table. She obeyed, her eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. She scanned the room, taking in the array of pill bottles and jars filled with strange liquids lining the walls, finally fixating on one particular specimen jar. “W-what is t-that!?” she stammered, pointing. I glanced at the jar, unfazed. “Ah, that’s a specimen from my last patient. She suffered from a disease that caused her blood cells to die, leading to complete system failure.”
She gasped and tried to bolt, but I had anticipated this. My syringe, filled with the bluish concoction I use on all my patients, was ready. I spun around, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her back, plunging the needle into her neck and injecting the liquid. “Shhh… don’t be scared… I’m here to help,” I whispered in her ear, my smile widening, revealing my sharpened teeth. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a soft gasp escaped her lips before she succumbed to the drug, falling into a deep slumber.
I resumed my preparations for the surgery, meticulously polishing my tools. Everything was laid out on a platform beside the operating table where she lay, now propped up with pillows and restrained with handcuffs. A soft whimper broke the silence, and I laughed. “Welcome back, sleepyhead…” I announced as I placed the last tool on the table. Her eyes fluttered open, and she began to thrash against her restraints. I tsked in disapproval. Didn’t she understand I was trying to help her? I picked up my scalpel and began my work. I started by cutting her open, probing her insides as she bled and writhed. I prefer to keep them alive during the examination; it’s far more fascinating to observe their organs struggling to function when exposed to the outside world. After exploring her stomach and kidney, my interest waned. I sliced off a piece of her womb and dropped it into a jar. “Another specimen for my collection,” I mused aloud, my smile broadening. She was twitching now, blood trickling from her mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head. I giggled. Their final moments always amused me. With that thought, I plunged my scalpel into her still-beating heart. Blood welled from the wound, and she went completely still. I smiled widely. “Another successful surgery…”
