the sculptor

She was lying on a dirty mattress with her eyes closed. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around her right upper arm, an IV was attached to the back of her right hand with white tape, and a pulse oximeter was clipped onto her right index finger. There was no movement, but Michael knew that she was conscious. He knew that the curare’s effect didn’t last long, but he had ensured that the dose would be continuous. His motions were deliberate, and he tried his best not to make too much noise, although he made sure that all of his actions did produce some kind of sound. At first glance, it seemed like he was being considerate of the woman on the mattress, but the opposite was true. Curare shut down the muscles of the inner ear, greatly amplifying the sound of low notes.

He unpacked the protective suit, removed his suit jacket, picked off some stray bits of lint, and looked around for a hook on which to hang it. It was an expensive jacket. He placed the shoes under the jacket and put on the protective suit. He slipped a pair of blue plastic covers over his shoes, the kind usually used to keep the floors clean. They had been sourced from a basket at an open house event for an apartment he was considering investing in. Then he put on his tool belt, newly bought at a warehouse. He had found it at a discount. He gave it a little pat. It was made of thick leather. He checked that it fit around his waist and decided to go one hole further. It had to be tight because the tools would loosen it and make it hang. Michael hated that it became so loose that it sunk onto his hips. He took off the belt and placed it on the ground in front of him. Then he unrolled the leather pouch and laid out the surgical instruments and butcher’s tools. The steel reflected his dark eyes. In the side pocket, there was a black leather hood. He had designed it himself and had it made to order, explaining it away with an invitation to a masquerade ball. Then he lay down on his back next to the woman and looked up at the ceiling. The hoisting mechanism was attached to one of the beams, drilled in to hold the dead weight of a grown woman. The meat hooks were attached to the end of the ropes. He thought it was incredible that you could hang up a person like that. The rope was long enough to swing and short enough for her not to hit the floor as she moved. He snuggled up to the woman, so she could feel his heavy breath on her cheek. He drew circles on her forehead with his finger as he whispered to her.

“So, we meet again, Elizabeth. After thirty-five years. Long time.”

He tasted the words before he said them.

“I’ve been thinking that maybe last time wasn’t enough for you, so I thought we’d go for another round. You excited? Oh, wait. You can’t answer me.”

He laughed a laugh that sounded like a deep gurgle in the depths of his throat.

“I’ve been looking forward to this. Ever since I saw you at my conference, I’ve known that you would end up lying right here in front of me again, but you know, I think this time will be the last. It’s sad, but it is what it is.”

He paused for effect, running a finger up and down the bridge of her nose, around her neck, and in a circle around her larynx.

“We have to make sure you don’t get too much curare here because then you’ll die. It would be sad if that were to happen too soon.”

He was mostly talking to himself, absorbed by the thought of what was about to happen. It was the first time he was doing this for himself as an adult. The other times had been on behalf of other people. Commissioned work.

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe you’ll like the meat hooks, although you’re not meant to like them. I watched this thing on TV recently about people who get strung up on them because they want to. Because they want to achieve some kind of spiritual freedom. You ever hear something so crazy? But what can you expect? One of them had a horn surgically inserted into their forehead.”

He furrowed his brow and shook his head to indicate that they had that in common: They both thought it was crazy. He removed a thin awl from its clasp.

“I’m very fascinated by this curare thing. Can you believe that it paralyzes your muscles without any impact on your consciousness and pain perception? What a fucking concept. Did you know that it was used on poison arrows until the seventeenth century? By the indigenous people in the Amazon rainforest. They made it out of plants. Such a smart way to catch animals. Paralyze them and wait for them to stop breathing. Then bam, dinner’s served.”

He laughed as he ripped her shirt open. Then he pierced. Slowly. Deeply. Into her chest.

“You know that feeling when you’re not sure you believe something? I want to run a little test. How can I find out if it’s painful when you can’t move your face? … Oh, that’s right, your pulse. That’s what gives the game away.”

He continued piercing her entire body and her face. Deep, tiny pricks like he was wielding a syringe. Her face, feet, and above and around her knees started to bleed, but not her stomach.

“I think it’s because you’ve put on some weight, Elizabeth, and that’s a good thing because it means there’s something to hook into. Other than that, you haven’t changed.”

He spoke in a bright voice. The heart rate monitor beeped quietly but loudly enough for him to know that the pricks were being registered. It made him sad to know that he couldn’t continue because he found the process deeply fascinating. He felt that this little exercise could be used for research in the name of psychology. Not with the intention to harm but to better allocate resources. How much pain can a human being handle before their mind shuts down? There were plenty of hypotheses in the literature, but nobody had tested any of them in practice—for good reason. Michael Holm could easily imagine ways in which this insight could be used, such as training soldiers at risk of falling into enemy hands. Maybe you would be able to train them to shut down their minds on command. Who knew? That was one of the thoughts going through his mind. He wanted to make a difference. To go down in history.

The entire setup was part of a strategy he had been working on since the incident at the conference. The general idea was to trigger such severe anxiety that her mind would shut down, and the way to achieve this condition was through her hearing. So, she had heard it all. Materials being carried in and placed firmly on the ground or dragged across the floor, boxes being ripped open, tape being pulled off cardboard, sterile materials being opened, the soft thud of the mattress landing on the floor, drilling into the beams, ropes being pulled into place and dropped on the floor, clothing being removed, footsteps, plastic materials being unpacked, the tool belt clicking into place, instruments being removed, the clang of tools being put together, the rub as they were polished, heavy breathing, laughter, whispering, shouting.

He was almost there. Started packing up his things. When the eyes see, the brain pieces things together, and the human being draws conclusions. He had put a lot of thought into the process of packing up, uncertain if it would make Elizabeth start to relax because her brain would tell her that it was over. He had decided that she wouldn’t because she had no way of knowing what the packing meant. She couldn’t see with her eyes closed. She would register the sounds, unable to decipher whether he was unpacking or packing up, and he assumed that would fuel the sense of unease inside her.

Once he had packed up the belt, the instruments, and the hook, he picked up his shoes, took the jacket off the hook, nodded at the guy whose name he didn’t know, and whispered, “Your turn.”

Then he walked out the door with one last look at Elizabeth, who lay in the same position she had been in when he arrived. He rolled away as quietly as he could until he reached the road, where he floored it and sped towards the highway.