Pressure

• Charlie Milne, Grade 12, Mt Barker High School
• Short Story
• 2018

1st in the 'Time To Write 2018/2019' competition

A male lies on the operating table. His eyes are unmoving, unseeing, shimmering in the bright light though no oceans of thought are reflected from their depths. A great slash runs along the middle of his body, opening up his skin in a sickening crevice which grotesquely displays his organs for all to see. I stand above him, a scalpel trembling in my left hand. Three colleagues stand aside, utensils ready beside them. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead, and I brush it aside.
My scalpel lowers. I can hear my breaths in great rasps, a sound which deafens my ears. I do not instruct my arm to move, but it does. Everything in my world is cut off except for this moment. I feel as though I am in a fugue-like state. All memories are cast from my mind, and my thoughts suspend from travelling in their regular frantic circle. I am vaguely aware that the scalpel is moving towards the patient’s heart, as if there was a helping hand from the back of my mind enclosing my own, urging it forwards. I succumb to the power of the waves, not daring to fight against their force. The tip of my blade touches his heart, and I plunge it through the external layers. Patience and precision are the key tools that I can wield to prevent a dreadful cataclysm.
As though through a thousand walls and seas, I hear a voice, as faint as it is distracting.
“Henry… be careful…”
The voice jerks me from my tranquil flow of methodological approach, and my hand – the scalpel – abruptly sears across the crucial crimson organ upon which I am supposed to be working with exactitude. There is no chance of success now. His heart is destroyed.
A numbing pain freezes my mind. The momentousness of my mistake hits me in a single thunderous second, and I have to grip the operating table to withhold my mental stability from erupting into a chaotic mess of fire and ashes. My colleagues are as silent as trees. Only the faintest whispers pass through their lips like wisps of wind. I can see something in their eyes – anger. They blame me for what I have done. And I, as their colleague, have made this mistake not only on my behalf but also on theirs.
I allow hope to shine throughout my soul. I cannot give up. I can fix this – surely. There has to be a way.
As I force the scalpel onto the patient’s body and frantically attempt to do something – anything – I feel the watchful eyes of my superior on the back of my head. His hand clasps upon my shoulder. Soothingly, he says,
“Henry, it’s over.”
“No!” I plead, dimly aware that I yelled the word.
“I’m sorry…” He starts.
I brace myself for what is to come. I know what he will say before his lips part.
“Henry, your group has failed the mouse dissection.”