The Mad Doctor Wants My Hands

The smell of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I stared blankly at the reflection of the ballroom chandelier. Veronica Salk nudged me with her elbow, the wariness in her eyes as sharp and cold as ice. I knew what she feared, just as I was afraid too. Jeff Fitzpatrick wore a sharply tailored white coat, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms, revealing hands with clearly defined wrist bones. Those hands had carved seventy-two wounds into my skin—each precise, avoiding vital points, yet enough to let my blood slowly drip away. "Cynthia, Veronica," his voice was as gentle as a spring breeze, "there is something I want to say to both of you today." The colleagues around began to jeer, camera shutters clicking incessantly. In my previous life, it was at this year-end team building that Jeff Fitzpatrick, holding a diamond ring, let his gaze drift between Veronica Salk and me. Back then, blinded by love, I reached out first and became the enviable Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Now, looking back, that was not a proposal—it was a ticket straight to hell. "I hope to choose one of you to be my wife." Jeff Fitzpatrick lifted the velvet box, the diamond's brilliance stabbing painfully into my eyes. The murmurs among colleagues grew louder; some said that Veronica Salk and I were the luckiest women in the hospital. My stomach turned over, the excruciating pain from my previous life's last moments seeming to spread once more. Veronica spoke before I could, her voice carrying a barely perceptible tremor, yet unwaveringly resolute. "Dr. Fitzpatrick, you must be seriously ill." The entire room instantly fell silent; even the sound of shutters ceased. Jeff Fitzpatrick's smile stiffened, and a flicker of scrutiny entered his eyes as he looked at Veronica Salk. I immediately stood up and took a half step back, lining up beside Veronica. "Dr. Fitzpatrick's proposal—we simply cannot accept it." I deliberately stressed the words "cannot accept," finally suppressing the nausea churning in my stomach. Jeff Fitzpatrick furrowed his brow, and the gentle mask on his face began to crack. "Can you tell me why?" He pressed on, his tone already carrying an unmistakable air of authority. Veronica snorted coldly, her gaze sweeping over his hand. "Why? Just looking at your hands makes me feel sick." Those words stabbed at Jeff Fitzpatrick's heart like a needle; I saw his knuckles pale slightly. In the previous life, it was with these very hands that he repeatedly cut open my palms, documenting the responses of nerves and skeleton. "Veronica, don't say that." I grasped her wrist, the touch so tangible it brought me to the verge of tears. In the second life, I thought that letting her go would bring me peace. I voluntarily transferred out of cardiology and took refuge at a suburban community hospital, no longer daring to even hear Jeff Fitzpatrick's name. But on that afternoon, five years later, the delivery man brought a cold package. When I opened it, I almost collapsed to the floor. Veronica Salk's bones were perfectly separated, each one cleaned to a pristine white and neatly wrapped in sterile gauze. Beside it lay her skin, the edges sewn like a work of art, just as Jeff Fitzpatrick stitched those laboratory animals. Only then did I realize that Jeff Fitzpatrick never wanted a wife, but a "component" that met his requirements.