Jurgen maintained his instruments religiously, keeping them sterile, polished, oiled and above all, sharp.
He liked the way that they gleamed, chatoyant under the cold flourescent light when he laid them out on the tray, flawlesss, immaculate, waiting.
He could picture them now as he tied his gown behind his back, his mind tracing the razor thin edge of the scalpel, the curved blade of the retractor, the delicate limbs of the clamps…ah, so beautiful; so clean.
Classical music piped into the operating theatre helped him work. What would it be tonight? Ah of course…Bach, cello suite.
Jurgen smiled to himself as he tied on his face mask, snapped on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. He pictured his scalpel drawing the line of that first incision across the skin, so sharp its edge that there was no resistance at all, the flesh parted like water. Using the retractor to pry apart the gap, laying out the intricacies of the human body in all their glory for him to work his art.
He enjoyed his work; he was good at it too, certainly his employers were always pleased with the results. He walked out of the dressing room and walked smartly down the hallway, approaching the door of the theatre where he saw his patient laid out on the operating table, which was raised up at an angle so that she was facing him, so that she saw him as he entered the room.