Dark Designs

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  I managed to turn his head and evacuate the vomit from the back of his throat.

  Once he had finished retching he turned his head and I think he looked at me. It was difficult to tell as his one eye is still swollen and bruised from the macula transplant I performed last week. I hope Father’s immune system does not reject the new macula as he now has only that one eye. The first time I tried the procedure I rather botched it up, and I had to remove the entire eyeball for fear of an infection. At least the empty eye socket looks clean and healthy.

  As Father lay there looking at me I noticed his lips moving a little. I think he might have been saying thank you to me.

  I can’t be sure. But he was trying to tell me something.

  This sign of awareness has increased my determination to pull him through. And with a fresh arrival of donor skin this morning I have decided it is best if I operate as quickly as possible. That last batch of skin must have been contaminated in some way. Probably a low grade of flesh culled from a drug addict, or a homeless man.

  Or, God forbid, infected with Ebola.

  I really must have a word with the supplier. Not that there is a lot I can do about it. They don’t have any competition in the field of body parts, so it’s not like I can threaten to take my business elsewhere.

  A new batch of flesh is currently hanging above the sinks, draining. Before I prep for the operation I will give it a good wash with saline and flush out the last of the preservative. Maybe that was the problem last time. Perhaps I didn’t clean the batch of flesh thoroughly.

  I won’t make that same mistake again.

  Sunday, 6:45 pm

  I am exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open. I have been operating all day. Of course everything takes longer when I am not only the surgeon, but the assistant and the surgical team too. Having to play all the parts of a fully staffed surgical theatre is exhausting, but I have no choice in the matter.

  Who else could possibly work with me?

  The procedure went well, overall. I first removed all the skin that I had grafted on to Father only last week. To be honest I should be doing this in sections. That is how I planned the procedure originally. Divide the body up into squares, each one 30cm squared. Remove each section of flesh a square at a time, clean the area up and repair any muscle damage and finally transplant with the new flesh.

  Today I didn’t have time for that. I sliced Father open and peeled off the layers of infected skin, long sheets at a time. Working as fast as I could, I washed out the open wounds with an antibacterial solution and then layered on the new flesh. This fresh batch of skin really is superior to the last one. I do wonder if the supplier realized the mistake he made and is trying to rectify it.

  I mainly concentrated on Father’s torso, where most of the damage seems to have been done. At least opening him up in this way gave me the opportunity to dig a little deeper into his chest cavity and inspect his new heart. That seems to have settled very well in its new body.

  The operation is done now, although I still have to clean up the piles of old skin I dropped on the floor whilst working.

  I am going to keep Father sedated for the moment. He needs as much rest as possible for the new skin to graft successfully. At least his temperature is showing signs of dropping already, which is very encouraging.

  But now I must rest.

  Wednesday, 12:15 pm

  I had a visitor this morning. Most unpleasant.

  I was upstairs, in my bedroom, when I happened to glance out of the window and saw him approaching. Clive Barton, fellow student at my last educational institution and complete idiot. I had hoped he would have forgotten all about me by now, but it appears not. He seems to have some silly idea about persuading me back into the field of medicine.

  Ha! As if I would be accepted by any medical institution in the land after the incident with the cats.

  Still, there he was, walking up the drive towards the house. I dodged out of the way, hoping he hadn’t seen me. But at the last moment, just as I disappeared from his view, I saw him wave at me. And then he started pounding on the door.

  “Hey, Johnson!” he shouted, in that stupid plummy voice of his. “I know you’re in there, don’t pretend you’re not!”

  I thought about ignoring him, but our brief association at school had taught me one thing about Clive Barton: once he got the bit between his teeth he never gave up. I knew I could hide in the house all day and he would stay where he was, pounding on the front door, shouting, “Come on Johnson, let me inside!”

  I decided my best strategy would be to open the door, persuade him that I was more than happy to be free of the shackles of regular society and send him on his way.

  I never intended to let him inside the house, but Barton is one of those insistent types who can bully their way into anything. As soon as the front door was open he shoved his way past me and was inside.

  The house has rather gone to rack and ruin since Mother ‘died.’ I realize that, of course I do. I had to sack the cleaning lady. I couldn’t risk someone coming in and wandering through the place at will, and discovering my parents in the cellar.

  But the thick layer of dust over all the surfaces, and the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, wasn’t the first thing that Barton noticed.

  It was the smell.

  I must have got used to it. I never set foot outside myself and so I live with the smell all the time.

  I must do something about that.

  “Bloody hell, Johnson, what’s that stink?” Barton said.

  He never was one for subtleties.

  I muttered something about the drains. I was still standing by the open door, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

  He then started babbling on about the incident with the cats, assaulting me with questions but then not waiting for an answer and just rattling on at top speed.

  Really, such a bore.

  I didn’t offer up any resistance, I simply let him chatter on and hoped that he would talk himself out and then leave.

  And it was while Johnson was talking on and on and my mind was wandering that I realized what an almost perfect specimen of physical beauty he is. His posture is good, he is perfectly proportioned in every way and his complexion is beautiful. I experienced an almost irresistible desire to remove his clothing and inspect his muscle tone.

  Of course I restrained myself.

  But then, as he continued to talk, a thought occurred to me. Why spend any more of my money on sheets of pink, raw flesh from unknown and probably highly dubious origins, when I had this perfect specimen right in front of me? Surely, if Father’s body rejected this latest batch of skin, it wouldn’t reject Barton’s?

  Barton looked as healthy as it was possible to be, and in the prime of his life too.

  It was perfect.

  Wait, I can hear Father howling down in the cellar. He sounds as though he is in agony. I must go and investigate and I will finish this diary entry later.

  Wednesday, 4:25pm

  There has been a new and rather startling development, and I am unsure as to its consequences. Still, before I can write that down I must continue to record events as they happened. Only by setting down my findings in a logical order will I be able to verify my research and deliver it to the scientific world.

  Now, I was recording my observations of Clive Barton, and what a superb physical specimen he looked to be. As it turned out, I was quite correct. Upon removing his clothing I saw that he possesses superb muscle tone and almost unblemished skin.

  Unfortunately that handsome face of his suffered a rather brutal blow from the heavy iron doorstop. I was aiming for the back of his head, but Barton, the fool, turned at the last moment and he took the full force of the blow in his face. His nose will never be as straight as it once was and his jaws will need wiring together. Unfortunately there is nothing at all I can do for his left eye.

  A pity, as I had been hoping to use his eyes as replacements for Father’s. At least there
is one I can take. Father’s eyes won’t match, obviously, but at least he will have two of them.

  The good news is that only Barton’s face has been disfigured and that he is still alive. As long as he lives his flesh will remain as fresh as it is possible for it to be. As soon as I terminate his existence I will have to work quickly to peel his skin off his decaying body and graft it onto Father’s.

  Ah, but it occurs to me that I don’t need to end his life so quickly. If I were to keep him alive whilst I peeled the skin off his body, the flesh would remain in perfect condition for longer.

  Father is improving and his temperature is hovering just above normal. The previous skin graft has mostly been successful, but there are still many patches which will need replacing. It is fortunate that I have Barton.

  But, the new development I mentioned about Father. It is quite remarkable, especially considering his age.

  Upon hearing him howl in agony I ran into the cellar to see what was wrong. By the time I reached him he had stopped crying out in pain, although he was still panting with exertion. I was stopped in my tracks as I noticed a thick, creamy liquid dripping from the operating table upon which he lay, and hitting the cellar floor with a splat.

  What had happened? Was this a sudden eruption of pus from a festering site of infection? How could I have been so blind to have missed it?

  But then, on closer inspection, I suddenly realized no, it wasn’t pus.

  The viscous liquid was in fact semen.

  Father had spontaneously ejaculated, and what I had thought was a cry of agony had been one of pleasure.

  I immediately took to the task of cleaning him up. Unfortunately, so engrossed was I in ruminating on what had happened, I did not notice Father had begun to moan with pleasure again. It was only as I was cleaning his genitalia that I realized he was erect, and at that point I heard his moaning reach a fever pitch. Before I could snatch my hands away he had ejaculated once more, the hot semen spurting over my hands.

  Very messy.

  As I continued to clean him up I was amazed at how much semen there was. I decanted as much as I could manage into a measuring jug.

  Two hundred and twenty milliliters!

  I can only surmise that my rejuvenating serum is having some unexpected side effects.

  The serum is one of my own devising, intended to help Mother and Father respond to the treatments and operations they are undergoing, and revitalize their aged bodies. I must reconsider its constituent mixture, as I am quite puzzled by this new development.

  Tomorrow I will also check Father’s prostate and see if there have been any changes.

  But now I must get some sleep.

  It has been a hard day.

  Thursday, 3:02am

  I cannot sleep. And when I do manage to doze off I am plagued by nightmares so vivid I am waking drenched in sweat and shivering. Because I could not sleep I decided to review the elements of my rejuvenating serum. The problem with procuring everything through the internet is that one cannot be entirely sure of its provenance. I need to be more careful in the future and trace every element that I source back to its origins.

  It took me some time but I finally found the answer. Element K0171#2 is a concentrated form of the male baboon’s sex gland. At the concentrations that I have been injecting my parents with, I am not surprised at Father’s increased libido. Still, I can’t stop administering it now. The rejuvenating effects are working better than I had hoped. This is something I will have to address at a later date.

  Hopefully there will be no issues where Mother is concerned.

  As there was no chance of me returning to my bed and sleeping I decided to go ahead and operate. Poor Father has been without his eye since my botched attempt to replace his macula. But I have had plenty of practice since then, and I do believe I can perform a whole eye transplant with minimal fuss. In fact a whole eyeball transplant will be easier than replacing the macula.

  Again, in the interests of keeping the donor organs as fresh and as pure as possible, I decided to not give Barton a general anesthetic. All those chemicals polluting his blood would increase the chance of rejection by Father’s immune system.

  As soon as he saw me Barton began pleading to be set free. He was strapped to a table, so he could hardly move. Still, I knew I had to strap his head down to prevent him from twisting it from side to side. There had to be no movement at all on his part. One slip of my scalpel and the eyeball would be ruined.

  When he saw me removing my operating instruments from my bag Barton started crying and blubbering.

  When he understood what I was about to do his wails turned into screams.

  But that was nothing compared to the shrieking he made when I started the procedure.

  It really was rather a messy job, but I managed to pull the eyeball out without any damage to it. I made sure to leave a good long length of optic nerve fiber, which did mean burrowing into his skull further than I had anticipated.

  Good old Barton, he’s made of stronger stuff than I realized. He did lose consciousness ten minutes into the procedure, but he’s still alive. I must consider pushing ahead with the skin grafts next though, as I don’t think he will be around for much longer.

  With Father sedated I started the job of attaching the optic nerve of Barton’s eye to Father’s brain. It is a very complicated procedure and it wasn’t helped when I heard Mother start crying.

  I turned around to see what was wrong and got the shock of my life.

  I had been so immersed in my work that I hadn’t realized she had been working her wrist free from the strap that was holding it down.

  But oh, if only that had been the worst of it.

  Because, with her free hand she was now masturbating, and her cries were those of pleasure.

  I quickly turned away. I couldn’t stop the procedure now; I was at a critical juncture. And so I continued to operate on Father, whilst behind me Mother’s cries of pleasure and sexual excitement grew in volume and intensity.

  Thursday, 2:45pm

  I am so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. But I must record today’s events, as I fear things are moving faster than I can keep up with.

  A group of Barton’s friends came by today, and knocked on my door. This time I was able to hide successfully, not making the same mistake I made with Barton by hovering beside the window. I did not see them, but I hid behind the door and listened to them talk.

  They are nothing but children in their stupid, infantile manners and ways but they represent a real danger to me and my investigations. They are obviously concerned about their friend, and there was talk of going to the police.

  If ever the police were to come and investigate here then I would be done for.

  I must hurry the procedure. My life’s work must be complete at least, even if I were to be arrested and thrown in jail. But to be taken away before it was finished? No, that cannot happen!

  Barton’s friends finally left.

  Barton himself is still alive, but only just. After his imbecilic friends went on their way I decided to peel his skin off his perfect body. I removed sections of his flesh in long, wet sheets and hung them up over the drain. Barton stayed conscious for much longer than I anticipated, and he is still alive now.

  But surely not for much longer. And then I won’t have to listen to his whining and crying anymore.

  I will graft his skin onto Father later this afternoon, but for now I must rest for a few moments.

  Tuesday, 3:15pm

  Oh dear God, oh God, oh God, Godgodgodgod. I don’t… I can’t… no, please no… I must try and record what… oh God, no… I can’t do it…

  Tuesday, 3:45pm

  I am calmer now. I will never recover, I will never be the same again, but at least I am calm, and in command of my faculties once more. I must take hold of all my courage to transcribe what has taken place this afternoon. Everything in my being cries No! at the thought of recalling the terrible ordeal I have been th
rough, and of putting it down on paper. But I must. I promised myself when I began this investigation that I would record everything and that is what I shall do.

  When I entered the room to begin the latest skin graft procedure on Father, I discovered Mother had freed herself completely. She was still lying on the operating table, but she was masturbating once more, this time with a bottle. I rushed towards her, wanting her to stop.

  Only at the last moment did I realize that it had been a ruse.

  Father was also free and he attacked me from behind. (I must say here the eyeball transplant has been a complete success and Father could see very well, despite the eye looking bruised and bloodshot.)

  Father and Mother are now both incredibly strong, much stronger than they ever were before. Initially I thought they were trying to escape and I started trying to tell them that I had been working in their best interests, that I had done all of this for them.

  But it soon became apparent they were not trying to escape at all.

  Oh dear God.

  They held me down.

  They held me down and took it in turns to rape me.

  Father went first whilst Mother held me in position. Then, when he had finished with me, he held me down whilst Mother used the bottle on me that she had been using on herself. And then Father took his turn again.

  When they had finished I managed to scramble away and out of the cellar. It seems they have little interest in escaping. Their sexual desires obliterate everything else.

  I have created two monsters.

  This was not what I intended.

  This was not the legacy I wished to leave behind.

  I have decided.

  I must kill them.

  I will return to the cellar in a moment, whilst they are still sexually sated, and I will sedate them both and then administer a lethal dose of poison.

  I must be strong. Every fiber of my being resists the thought of returning to them, but I must do it quick, before they become dangerous and strong once more.