The Boy With the Wax Hands

This is a story I wrote as an assignment for my middle school English teacher. It is quite sad and, truth be told, I remember him commenting that an eleven year old girl usually doesn’t write such dark stories. Nonetheless, I present to you a faithful to the original yet slightly revised (because trust me, my grammar was HORRIBLE) version of: “The Boy With the Wax Hands”. Please forgive me for the general absurdity of the story, if I could I would slap eleven year old me in face for thinking this was a good idea!

The Boy with the Wax Hands

“There’s no way to save him, he’s losing to much blood!”

The surgeons voice was full of anxiety. He was loosing his composure: beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, there was no foreseeable way to save his patient. Of course, as a surgeon, he was used to this. He however happened to be operating on a child, which always made the job harder.

“Are you sure there is no way?” Inquired the nurse, voice tinted with hints of pity and distress.

The situation was dire, as the surgeon explained, once more regaining his composure.

“The hands have been completely severed. We need to stop the blood flow or he will bleed to death.”

The atmosphere was changing. The weight of imminent death could be felt and silence fell upon the operating room. The surgeon was fiddling with his hands, thinking deeply. There was another way, one single other way, but it was risky. Not to mention the excruciating pain the patient would have to go through. He sighed, it was time to give the nurse more directions.

 “We’re going to have to put him to sleep…”

He himself was shocked by the calm with which he managed to deliver the next set of information. The procedure was risky and he had never done it. He was scared, yet there was nothing to lose with a dying child on the operating table. This was the only way.

“The only other solution is to give him new hands.”

A sudden booming noise was heard and the doors flew open. The child’s father burst into the room, face overflowing with tears. He kneeled in front of the surgeon, desperate to save his young son’s life.

Choking back tears, he looked the surgeon in the eyes.

 “Do whatever you can to save him. He doesn’t deserve to die. He is so young. Please! Please!”

The doctor sighed again, deciding to explain the dire situation to the mourning father.

“Maybe, if we put him in hibernation, he will not feel the pain of inserting wax hands. Otherwise the pain would kill him, however, he will be asleep for the next one hundred and one years. Only then will the merge complete. Then he will awake.”

The father stood silent, thunderstruck at the news. He would never see his son again, but his son would live. His posture stiffened and he regained just enough composure to communicate one last time with the surgeon. He felt empty and desperate, the pain was unbearable. He wasn’t ready to show it though, he put on a brave face. His tone became almost apathic as he said:

“As long as he lives, I don’t care. You may proceed.”

The surgeon nodded and looked at the nurse. She too proceeded to nod and started wheeling the near dead body of a ten year old  out of the room and into prepping for surgery.

A sudden whoosh was heard in the building as the hibernation machines were activated. It had been years since they had been deemed too risky and hidden from society.

 A single isolation cell was prepped, ready for the boy.

Dysfunctional Girl