Hedonism and timid submission battled. One day I would lie on their game table, up to my ears in all manner of substances, spouting nonsensical sense and having a merry go at it. The other I would shuffle about in the clinic, murmuring, "no, I'm really quite alright" or "I just need a moment, please, I will be fine, I assure you" while the rope of my intestines turned black with spiritual frostbite. I was at once a satyr, halfway tame, and one of those gray-faced, miserable little creatures. One version of being was an escape from the other.

I remember more of my misery than I do my artificial euphoria. I remember staring at that hospital-green wall with more clarity. I remember the eternal ticking of a wall clock, the chill of that building, the fidgeting of my tremorous hands.

I came to him one day in autumn. My arms and legs prickled as if I was a step away from a thundercloud. My hand moved on its own. I could feel every cup's worth of essence in my stomach. The electricity tickled my heart as the doctor stepped into the room.

Dr. Katz. I always felt that, like myself, he wore his grayness as a superficial mask. His passive disposition was merely an act, I knew it in my heart. His blood raged as mine did, something filthy and passionate and violent just like they hate it. I knew that sometime, someday, he would let the gray glass shatter and would embrace me in something beautifully loving and hateful. I would be his stag to hunt. He'd pierce my heart with his arrow, he'd lean down to cup my dying face, he'd kiss my bloody, frothy mouth with all the love afforded to a husband.

Anyway, I liked him quite a bit.

Cold light reflected in his spectacles. He wore a clean white coat with buttons at one shoulder and a high collar. Katz kept his dark hair short and neat; gray had already begun to creep up his temples, though he was only in his thirties.

"Ill again, Mr. Winters?" he asked. I nodded, still fidgeting in part to mask my hand's involuntary movement.

"I've felt terribly nauseous," I told him. "Light in the head, sore in the throat. Weak." Katz nodded, turning away for gloves.

"Are you feverish?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know," he echoed. His tone had a weightlessness to it, prompting me to explain myself. Each glove fit onto his hand with a tiny snap.

I could offer him nothing but a pitiful, useless, "I've been ill." With gloved fingers, Katz palpated the sides of my neck, igniting an odd sense of longing in me. Time stuttered at that moment. His care, while given out of obligation, still seemed tender. Some foolish part of my mind twisted his professional detachment into kindness.

His face softened in my mind. The gloves became warm, thick hands. Amber light touched his face.

I lost his touch and fell back to reality.

"When did your symptoms begin?" Katz asked. I became briefly aware of the heaviness in my stomach.

"Yesterday. I rested that afternoon, but I've only worsened since then. Pardon my nausea. My head aches. Everything does, honestly. I'm exhausted, Doctor," I mumbled. He turned away again, and I thought to reach out to him. I could touch his forearm, perhaps his upper back, just to get his attention.

“When did you last eat or drink, Mr. Winters?” Katz asked, opening a cabinet.

“Oh, not since the morning. A bit of water for my stomach. The tiniest bit of alcohol.” I admitted the last part on impulse; regret snared my throat when I saw how he looked at me. I could not tell if he judged me, but it nipped my heart.

“I would advise against drinking when ill,” he said evenly. Of course he felt upset with me. How could I disappoint Dr. Katz? I told him that I intended to abandon my habit; he seemed so radiant with pride then, but I had given him an unfavorable view of myself as a drunkard. Yes, my stomach protested, my hands trembled, and spikes of cold continuously darted up my spine– but this was my burden to bear for indulgence.

“It relieved my soreness,” I assured him with a hint of desperation. “It was only a bit. Far below the amount I would need to become intoxicated. I could walk here on my own.” Katz raised his hand, gesturing for me to quiet.

“I understand,” he said, his tone gentle within the confines of professionalism. “I only express concern for your health. Now, your temperature.” He lifted a thermometer to my mouth. I held it under my tongue. In those five minutes that a silence hung over us, I let my trembling mind run.

I entertained one of my fantasies. Katz would be my husband. The clinic table melted into a softer couch, perhaps with ornately carved wood. He seemed the sort of man to enjoy finer things– not obscenely extravagant, but lovely enough to display his love for a house. His love for me. I could sit on that couch, enveloped in a thick blanket as I hate the cold. Katz would dote on me, tell me to rest, call me ‘darling’, bring me something warm to eat.

He took the thermometer out of my mouth. Everything fell cold again.

“Slightly elevated.”

“I do feel cold,” I said, my voice timid. Katz paused, studying me for only a second with vague confusion.

“Well, you should be able to return home and rest. Is there a symptom that particularly bothers you?” he asked. The heaviness in my stomach grew, and I leaned back on the table. My mouth watered.

“I…” I trailed off, then felt an angry tug. I lost my battle with the wretched urge to retch– I doubled over and abruptly vomited.

He sent me home with common medicine. I wondered if it would at all aid in keeping me sober. After the humiliating end of that appointment, I did consider reaching for a drink. I often had a glass waiting dutifully on my nightstand. The leash on my own impulse only remained intact as I imagined Katz frowning in disapproval and disgust.

Naturally, my desire for him nurtured that tame thought until it became more aggressive. I imagined taking the glass, pouring myself a drink– I almost fulfilled the thought in reality. He would bat my hand, knock the wickedness out of my grasp to shatter against the nightstand. Perhaps I would grow pale and resort to yelling at him. He would loom over me, cast his shadow over me, and chastise me for being so reckless. I would tremble and make a desperate attempt to dart like a rabbit over to the bottle, only to find myself in his arms.

My imagination split into two paths. He would lift me and place me directly on the shattered glass. He would hold me there. Look what you’ve done to yourself. Dead, clear teeth would dig into my soles. Tears would spring into my eyes. I could feel their warmth, taste the salt. He would force me to walk the length of my room and back, crying out harshly in pain, glass embedded in my skin.

Then, love. If violence did occur, Katz would lift me again and place me on the bed to cry and writhe. He would abandon me for a minute, then return to clean me, tend to my wounds, kiss my forehead. I would think, this is simply a lesson I must learn.

If violence did not occur, then he would simply have calmed once he first embraced me. He would kiss me. Hold me down on the bed, under his reliable warmth, until my feverish urge to drink passed. He told me that I would be alright. He extended his compassion to me.

Both scenes came to the same ending. Katz held me. I rested my head on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it. I would have someone.

But I was alone. I sat in bed, still cold and filthy with sweat as the fever worsened. Soon enough, the medicine would dryly gift me with sleep.

Heaviness clouded my temples. I would worship him if he desired it. Chilled, ghostly hands grabbed my sides, loveless lovers. I would lie on the bed, clinically naked so that Katz could dress me with his tenderness. I closed my eyes and felt his gloved hands. Perhaps a finger would run up my midsection, up between each clavicle. I would open you with this incision. Latin, “little key” to my innards. I would be anesthetized, my blood quieted enough for him to peel my veil of flesh back.

I despised my mortality. Humans! They are intricate machines, yet proper motion done by proper material may end them in an instant.

But Katz! He would open me, he would sweep my organs with his holy gaze. I am disgusting. He would relieve me of my intestines, unravel them, set them aside on his shiny tray. I would live, though he freed me of my lungs, my liver, my kidneys, my heart. It is all meat. Katz, unweaving my design, purifying me. He would drain my blood but not my essence. I would wake with stitches in a Y-shape. So closely they would rest to my collarbone– he would own me, claim me with that collar of a scar. His perfect, deathless creation.

That is the perfected man. To be gutless is to be clean.

I leaned over the side of my bed and vomited into a bin.