Dr Knives

The lobotomist felt at home in the old, abandoned asylum. The doors that clanged themselves and flickering lights didn't faze him in the least. Nor did the whispers, the random chilly patches, or the feeling of dread that seemed to ooze out of the very walls. Most people, people you might call "normal", were unnerved by the equipment that was reminiscent of torture devices, and sinister brown leather straps. Not the Lobotomist. He had started his illustrious * career in the Brain Wash. A clinic set up to help people remove unwanted or unnecessary memories, and sharpen beloved ones. Nobody considered this to be like lobotomy. It's a word with connotations, isn't it? It inspires revulsion and horrified withdrawal. A little cleaning up of your mind, though, what a handy thing! Humming, he collates and arranges his equipment. He wonders how he will secure his first subject. A runaway might be his best option. He drives to the next town over and cruises around the train station and the bus depot, looking for a likely target. First, he decides, he must be patient and cunning. If he plays his cards right, then in future his victims subjects will come to him, rather than him needing to seek them out. They will come along willingly and unafraid. He will not need to drug or subdue them. On the other hand, if he gets this wrong, then he won't be able to cast his net in these again, or at least, not soon, and not often. Word will get out. The vulnerable will be suspicious, and so will the police. It is for all these reasons that he doesn't give in to his primary inclinations at first. He gives out some hot drinks, tosses coins into cups. A pike shaking hands with minnows. He lures no one away with him this time. He resolves that next time he will simply book a hotel room for an unfortunate who has nowhere to go. When he has a reputation for doing this, he is less likely to be under suspicion if his experiments don't go well. A boy with a long fringe hanging down over his eyes and unusual, mismatched clothes catches his eye. He's a narrow sort of boy, with a long, pale face. The Lobotomist walks closer, almost cursing his decision not to actually pick anyone up tonight. This one would have been perfect. He's shivering, and his teeth are chattering. The ground is already sparkling with frost. He hesitates. It's a little like when you find a bargain in the supermarket, and you're not sure whether it will be in stock next time. All I can do is lay some groundwork and hope. He walks over to the boy, squashing, for now, all predatory thoughts, lest they glint in his eyes and give him away.

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Thank you for reading!

I've written about the Brain Wash before. That story and this one are both stand alone fiction, only loosely connected. I am planning to do a follow up to this one though.

Here's there other, if you'd like to give it a look: