The Scalpel
Eliza Arndt
Stadium-esque lighting
hits the cold steel blade. On the surgical tray it waits, Reflecting, plotting: to kill or to save? Monitors glow while the air, cold and sterile, fills lungs. In. Out. In. Out. As rhythmic as the beeping machines. The plastic crinkles a worried warning as the doctor lifts the knife with shaking hands. Out of its plastic holster emerges a smiling blade. The corners of its mouth lifted by the power it contains. Will this one live? Will this one die? Daisy leaves drip downward Worry lines ease, erased from the face. Pulling the mask upwards releases a contented sigh. In his mind, the victory is forever branded. He is the one to decide who will live and who will die. The scalpel may be the one to sever and slice, but he is the one who owns the knife. |