My Personal Demon

20:24

The surgeon slices the patient's scalp with precision, gently peeling back the flesh. The white bone of the skull stands out among the red bits, reminding me of a pale dove. Blue latex gloves drill little holes into the skull, removing a section of the bone so that the surgeon could access the brain beneath it. They peel back the membrane on top of the brain called the dura mater before they begin the operation.

Watching these surgeries from the blue light of my computer screen brought me a small comfort after I was diagnosed with my mental illness. It made the chemical imbalances in my brain seem less severe as I watched patients with cancer, various viruses, aneurysms, and anything else that could go wrong, endure this grotesque invasion of their bodies.

Sometimes the surgeons had to remove a tumor or release built-up fluid. A careful incision is followed by a bottle of fluid washing the blood away. Metal clips hold back the skin of the scalp as they continue their work.

I suppose normal people watch other things when they can't sleep at three in the morning. Pimple extractions seem to be popular, whether it's a dermatologist removing a cyst or squeezing out a blackhead. I've been told that it's satisfying to see puss ooze out of an orifice or witness a set of tweezers pull out a tangle of ingrown hairs. There's a release that the viewer gets from seeing these small lumps removed from under the skin, an orgasmic cleansing from witnessing the removal of an imperfection. I wouldn't be surprised if some people got off to watching those sorts of things.

But the brain surgery was sacred, an act that was shrouded in ritual and weighed down by the seriousness of life hanging in balance. One wrong move and the surgeon becomes a murderer.

It was a sobering reminder that regardless of what my thoughts were or what I assumed my worth was based on, I was merely a collection of fragile body parts. One wrong turn on the highway had, after all, caused my husband to become a pile of ash sitting in a jar on the nightstand.

I watch the surgeon stitch the piece of the skull they carved out, sewing the bone that would eventually be fused back to the body over time. The skin is unclipped off-camera but reattached to the rest of the head in front of the lens. Another brain surgery successfully completed.

The demon slumbers on the bed behind me, softly snoring. I try to imagine what would happen if he woke up and caught me watching these videos. Would I even have a good lie to tell him?

Realistically, I doubt he would even bat an eyelash at this sort of behavior. He was from Hell so I'm sure he's seen worse. The most he would do is offer to smoke and talk with me.

I settle in the bed next to him, tugging the blankets away. He had a habit of stealing them while I was asleep.

I cast my eyes toward the ceiling, watching the blood steadily drip from the corners. Even while he was unconscious, his presence still conjured up illusions.

"Can't sleep?" He rolls over to face me, slowly blinking the sleep away from his eyes.

"There's blood falling from the ceiling." I pointed to the cracks where the red drops were racing down the walls.

"Does it scare you?"

"It unsettles me," I confessed.

"Would you like me to hold you until you fall asleep? It would be easy for me to offer that sort of comfort."

I hesitate for a moment. We normally held hands, but he was giving me something more this time, something I had craved since my husband's death: physical intimacy. But was I ready for that?

"If you wouldn't mind," I said at last.

He pulls me toward his chest, tucking me between his arms. He felt like Charles if he were to come to life again, except there were a few things that gave away the deception.