Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,4
the face for sneezing.”
“I know.”
“Two years ago at the Miami Brinks holdup he drove the truck over a three-year-old who got in the way.”
“I’m not saying he’s a good guy, I’m saying he’s a guy with a chance to do something good.”
Warden Tummelson turns his attention to the reserved, small-boned, Doctor Kim who waits quietly in his finely tailored suit. His refinement is an incongruity here. Tummelson is certain he would not last eight minutes on the inside. This is a man, Tummelson thinks, who probably did choose his life and he has a flash of envy.
“Why, doctor? Why can’t you do it here?”
Doctor Kim raises his eyebrows, “In a prison infirmary? Impossible. Even if you could construct an appropriately outfitted operating room, I could never achieve any level of sterility in this environment. The danger of infection would be too high, and so it would not be a feasible alternative.”
Not clean. Yes, that is surely true. No one knows that better than Tummelson. He swings around and paces back and forth while fighting a nearly panicked compulsion to wash his hands. The room feels hot and a drip of sweat crawls down his back underneath his shirt. Tummelson crosses back to the tiny window and pushes it open. Crisp heavy air wafts in. He breathes. It helps. “Doctor, I understand you’re a normal person, and so, you can’t really conceive of what kind of men live here.”
Doctor Kim responds with calm authority, “Look, I don’t care if he found God, lost God, or ate God. There’s a young woman who’s going to die if she doesn’t get that kidney. If your prisoner is willing to donate it’s unconscionable not to find a way.”
“If I agree to this I want armed men inside the operating room.”
“Again, infection. He’ll be unconscious, Warden, under a general anesthetic.”
“Not good enough.”
“The guards could be allowed directly outside the operating theater looking in. There’s a window. What if I arranged for that?”
“Jesus.” Warden Tummelson is torn. He paces with a furious energy. He does not trust. How can this be done without risk? He didn’t mind playing god with these degenerates, but he’s furious and frustrated to be in this position with someone else’s life, someone good and deserving.
“Look.” Doctor Kim plays his trump card. Warden Tummelson looks over. He is holding a 5 x 7 of the pretty, smiling young woman.
“Aw, shit, that’s unfair.”
“No. That’s reality, Warden. You’re going to kill this man in a month and this woman is going to die without his help. This is a no-brainer to me.”
“You don’t live in my world, doctor.” Warden Tummelson rubs his temples; they’re just bursting. He can feel the blood pulsing through the veins. His blood pressure is probably soaring again. He pulls the Excedrin bottle out of his pocket and downs two pills without water. Then, he turns to Wilkins, “Okay, bring him in. Let’s see what he has to say.” Wilkins walks over to the office door, opens it and steps out of the room. Tummelson pulls open his top desk drawer, squirts Purell into his palm and rubs vigorously. He offers it to Doctor Kim who declines.
“You ever been to a penitentiary, doctor?”
“No, Warden, I have not.”
“Not much in the way of curb appeal.”
“No.”
“You and I are alike in some ways, you know. We’re both God.”
“How is that?’
“You intervene to prolong life. I intervene to end it.”
“I suppose. Although, Warden, I am not a fan of capital punishment.”
Tummelson smiles and nods, “Yes, well, folks who spend their lives in friendly company, and who debate the death penalty during nicely turned out dinner parties rarely are.”
“I am sure your perspective is different for very good reason. And while I agree there are those who do not deserve to live, humans are fallible, the legal system is fallible, and so we cannot implement permanent solutions with fallible hands.”
Tummelson lays his eyes on Doctor Kim. Here is a face from the outside, from the other world. He knows Doctor Kim can see the damage in him. He just cannot care about that anymore.
Tummelson speaks in a whisper, as if he is imparting something terribly important, “Doctor, we tell our children, before they go to sleep at night, there are no monsters.”
“Yes, we do.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes, it is.”
“The monsters are us.”
“Sometimes.”
“No. They’re always us. Just not all of us - but us.”
Wilkins returns leading Ben Burne into the warden’s office. Ben’s wrists and his ankles are secured in heavy chains and he shuffles in