To Make The Perfect Man

Ellen had long since been banned from practicing surgery, but they couldn’t stop her in time from barricading the men’s bathroom door and filling the room with her clothes and soup cans. Police weren’t able to make it to the hospital just yet, so until then the staff would have to make sure no one came in or out. It’s not like Ellen was capable of much in there anyway.

Until Jerry stopped by to use the bathroom.

Ellen had been screening each potential suitor through a self-made peephole in the door, and finally she found someone knocking on the door who suited her tastes. He just needed a few adjustments.

******

By the time police finally burst open the door and took Ellen away, Jerry was gone. He stumbled out of the room in a daze, shuffling past his car in the parking lot and onto the long stretch of lonesome road towards home. As his skin loosened around the puncture holes, every step jangled the staples in his face more and more, scraping against the open nerves under his flesh. He couldn’t feel it, nor could he care. He was beautiful.

The blood had congealed over his left eye, shutting it completely. But his right eye could still see through the pinhole of the mask to the outside world, to the mirror in front of him. And what he saw was breathtaking. A bold push-broom mustache, the likes of which he could never grow himself. A strong nose, proud brow. Everything was smooth and pliable. He had achieved his dreams.

It was a shame, he realized, that the rest of him didn’t match up. Everywhere else he looked, he saw the flabby, rough, pale skin of his former self. It sickened him that his old body couldn’t live up to the promise of his new face.

He dug in deep to the skin in the crook of his arm, and pulled. Like wet tissue paper, it sloughed off with a bare squick. He saw the tendons underneath, the beautiful bone. He grabbed more, pulling up his forearm until the flesh inverted around the bones of his fingers like a glove.

He grasped at the skin above his pectorals, his scapulas, his trapezius, peeling them off in globs and strips. The pile of blood and gristle grew at his feet as he shredded more and more of himself in a drug-fueled stupor. All the while, he never took his eye off of his new, beautiful face.

He reached for his kneecaps, but the blood loss caused him to lose his balance and he fell over, breaking his arms in the process. His exposed muscles twitched and flexed like a symphony in red, writhing like a fish out of water, covering the bathroom tile in his slop.

He was finally perfect, he thought, before the spark went out in his brain forever.

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