Surgemonkey

In response to a WD prompt:
In the right light, his hair almost cast a shadow.
"Well, seeing as how I don't have a choice in the matter, I suppose I'll have to go with eyesight."
He, Dr Manne, had me strapped to a cold, sterile, surgical steel operating table. I didn't remember how I got there.
"Eyesight? Typical."
"That's the one I want dulled."
"Oh. Interesting. Willingly blind." He was stooped over a table, his shoulders hunched with anticipation. I was catching mainly the echo off the plain white walls.
"I want you to enhance my sixth sense."
I heard a clang and what sounded like the rapid rearranging of metal pieces of a metal tray. When he spoke, his voice came out in starts and stops. "The sixth sense?" he sputtered.
"That's what I said. I want you to enhance my sixth sense."
He laughed, slowly at first, with the gurgle building steam in the pit of his stomach, then reached a Vesuvian explosiveness. "You seem to be very calm, considering the stakes."
"What else can I do? You have me strapped in, I can't go anywhere, and you're going to perform the surgery anyway. I am calm."
He turned around to face me. Aside from the stereotypical hair, he wasn't a typical mad scientist. He had clear skin, almost tan, a thin nose, and deep blue eyes. "I'm going to have to go digging around in your cerebellum; I may even have to scratch around in your basal ganglia. Chances are you won't survive."
I laughed this time. "Again, I'm not going anywhere."
"You're going to stay awake. This is brain surgery." And that's when the endorphin/anaesthesia cocktail surged through my body. I couldn't feel my head, which, considering the circumstances, was probably a good thing. I certainly wasn't a fan of the sound. I assumed he was picking around my cortices, messing with my memories.
My life flashed before my eyes. Seriously. But, it wasn't death. I could see every milestone recreated in perfect synchronicity. The purple dress my mother wore the day she brought my brother home. The skinned knee I got when I fell off my first bike. The savory lustfullness of Angela. Her lips, plump and satisfying. Her curves and perfectly formed eyes. Her scent lingered in my nose. The wedding band of solid platinum hugging her ring finger. Our girl, Scarlet, in my arms as she cried into the night sky. But that was all I saw.
The bright light of the operating room was no more. In its place was a sense of drive. A sense of fire. I felt it first in my fingers. A tiny flame, one that could barely contain a spark. Then, it moved up my forearms, traced my biceps, lit my shoulders and chest on fire.
"There it is," he said, just as my thoughts crushed his windpipe.
I heard him crumple to the floor. My skull was still open. I could feel a breeze kissing my brain. I was able to hover outside my body and peer into the mind of the doctor. WIth his memories, I was able to suture my wounds. It took surprisingly little time.
The world was black, just as the good doctor promised. I didn't need my eyes anyway, when the world was so clear.

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