A Surgeon's Hands

He had the hands of a surgeon. One look at them would tell you that. The fingers were long and slender. His hands would have mastered any skill that demanded a superior level of manual dexterity. They never shook and moved with almost unreal grace. They never trembled, no matter how fine or delicate the work. The most important thing about his hands was that they belonged to a plastic surgeon, just the kind of doctor his wife needed.

His wife was a beautiful woman. Men's eyes followed her when she walked across a room. But, still, she felt inadequate. She decided that the only way to deal with her problem was to have her breasts enlarged.  He didn't like the idea; they discussed it to the point where it became clear she was doing it regardless of his objections. There was no talking her out of it. Many of her friends had done the same thing, she argued. They were all happier than they ever imagined they would be with the results.

They asked around, did some research and finally settled on a doctor that was highly recommended by his other clients. Several of her friends had sworn by him. His wife trusted her friend's advice. After a couple of consultations she decided she trusted the surgeon as well. She loved his beautiful hands. The surgeon assured them both that there was virtually no risk. He showed them photographs of clients and let them read their glowing testimonials.

The horrific results, however, were not what they expected. The surgeon blamed everything and everyone connected with the surgery for the hideous appendages his wife's breasts had become, everyone except himself. She suffered the pains of several follow-up procedures, but none could correct the damage. The scarring and the pain, along with the shame, finally drove his wife to suicide. At least that was the official conclusion.

He never accepted the official explanation. He knew better. Nobody committed suicide by cutting off their own breasts. He knew his wife and her obsessive vanity. She couldn't face her future as a deformed woman. In the end, she simply went mad, unable to live with what the surgeon had done.

It wasn't until after her death and the reports surfaced in the papers that the real truth about the surgeon was revealed. He was a fraud. He'd lied to everyone about his certifications. The surgeon lied to his wife, and she trusted him. His former clients were paid shills. Despite the husband's efforts, after three years of legal battles, the surgeon was still practicing his craft.

Once it became clear that the courts wouldn't help, he decided he had to stop this monster himself. So he did what any husband... any man... would do. He stopped him. He made certain that no other woman would suffer being mutilated at the hands of the surgeon ever again.

Now, he had the hands of a surgeon. They sat in a jar on his mantle; right next to his wife's ashes.