Chapter Summary: Karl didn't always speak in a rumbling baritone. Previous to the incident explored in a later chapter, Karl had a more quiet - and even euphonic - voice.
An explanation for the scars on Karl's face, as well as his interest in medical knowledge. Also, an introduction to his early relationship with a well-known character.
X
1940
What's wrong with him?
Boy's got the Devil inside 'im. Can't you see it? Lookit 'is eyes.
I don't believe in the Devil, nor his devilish counterpart for that matter - the one who you so lustfully call God…
Then take 'im.
I will not. It's his brother that I want. Ken. Come here.
I won't sacrifice my blessing to your unholy experimentations, Miranda. Take Karl. Free me of the boy's curse. Yer charitable, aren't you?
X
Karl sat up with a gasp that rocked his entire body. For a brief moment, he had felt that familiar cold clutch along his shoulders, felt himself lifted from his very bed and out of his repeated nightmare. After a few moments of heavy breathing and letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room, he fell back against the wall and closed his eyes. It had all felt so real again: the torch fires wriggling in the rain, the moist heat from the horse's nostrils flushing across his face, Miranda's eyes peering down at him through the fog…
He grabbed the pendant cross hanging from his neck and held it tight.
"You are a shield around me…you bestow glory on me and lift my head," he muttered to himself as he untangled himself from the sweaty quilts upon the floor. "I lie down and sleep; I wake again because the Lord sustains me. I will not fear the tens of thousands drawn up against me on every side..."
There was no way of knowing what time it was. His small room within the factory was windowless and uncomfortably hot. Still muttering to himself, he turned the knob on the small stove and wiped the moisture away from his neck. The floor beneath his bare feet gave off a soft vibration as he padded around the room, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on without discretion. There'd be hell to pay for oversleeping but, with any luck, he'd be able to slink into his duties without his father noticing his tardiness. Already, the thought of donning heavy protective wear and shoveling coal into flaming furnaces for the rest of the day made him feel sick and clammy. Quickly, he downed a flask of something rancid unveiled beneath a pile of britches and moaned against its sharp taste
"Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God," he whispered as he swiped his already stained sleeve across his lips. He stopped before the small fragment of cracked glass hanging above his bedding. The sight that greeted him was horrendous: tanned cheeks smeared with soot, darkish circles pooling around the eyes, the eternal shadow of a beard sprouting along his upper lip. It was no wonder his father admonished the use of mirrors. They could be too revealing at times.
A steam whistle sounded out from the floor beneath him and he hurried to the door while shrugging on his boots. The attic that he had claimed as his room was so small that he once again bumped his head on the low hanging beams of the doorway as he stumbled out to the hall. A line of men with downcast eyes and sallow faces were filtering past him silently: workers of the factory. None amongst them glanced up or even offered up the smallest of 'hellos' as he took his place amongst their rank. It didn't matter that he was the factory owner's son. Judging by their heated silence, he could have been nothing more than a bug flitting around their worn boots.
"Swell day, isn't it?" He said aloud to no one in particular. Several men glanced back at him and then quickly averted their eyes. Only twenty years old, and he was already taller than all of them. "Heard that it's going to be a real scorcher. Know what I'm sayin', boys?"
Someone muttered something tepid in response as he leveraged his shovel along his broad shoulders. They were all stooped and pathetic creatures with shriveled limbs and narrow chins. But Karl, in his youth, had developed a remarkably strong stature - stronger than his brother, which was his only claim to fame. Years spent toiling tirelessly in the factory had caused him to fill out his ill-fitting clothes to near bursting. Though he was strongly disliked by his coworkers, it couldn't be denied that he worked the hardest of all of them. Hard work had proven to be the only remedy against poisonous thoughts.
Down they marched, into the very bowels of the factory. Steam from the various machines gusted across his face, and many times he had to turn away lest the very hair upon his chin was singed off. The air around them grew hotter and suffocating as they approached the furnaces. The space was filled with the ground-shaking thump and clank of machines at work, and the clatter of coal being lifted and shifted by many men. He didn't have to look around as he walked: he knew the factory's layout by heart. Ever since he had been able to hold a spoon to his mouth, he had shoveled coal into the lolly-gagged tongue of fiery furnaces. His skin bore the marking of many burns and bruises that were long since past the point of healing. He'd carry the discolorations forever, discolorations that could only be seen when he rolled up his sleeves in the privacy of his room or the monotony of the work line. Ken, with his unblemished pale skin and long, unsinged hair had never known of such toil.
Still, they walked on and on. Karl's feet had begun to drag but he forced himself to keep moving even though his legs burned and his feet ached incessantly. He couldn't fall behind - no, they'd trample him in their bleary-eyed trance. The roaring within the factory became louder as they reached the furnaces - so loud that it overwhelmed his mind and erased his thoughts. Up ahead stood many wriggling silhouettes bending back and forth along the belching flames and calling to each other in angry voices. On the wall to his left stood a glass encasing and it was here that he stopped with his arms braced across the tip of his shovel. He had been here many times before, and yet ritual forced him to pause and admire the large hammer-headed staff trapped beneath the thick, foggy glass. Guglielmo's Hammer read the faded plaque above the hammer. It truly was a magnificent thing, if not a bit ungainly.
"It's said that none but the most powerful descendants of Guglilelmo's can lift it," came a croaking voice from behind him. Karl startled and whirled around. Damn, he had been so engrossed in his daydreams that he hadn't even heard his father approach.
The line of workers had long since disappeared ahead of him, and he was left alone with the man that he both feared and loved the most. There was that ever-present frown and narrowing of the eyes on the older man's face as he stared down at his son. His age was indeterminable, and yet something was telling about his snow-white beard and the lines extending from his eyes. Karl had always promised himself that he would age with much more grace and better looks.
But, just then, he felt fearful. There was an unseeing vacancy in his father's eyes that betrayed the fact that he hadn't taken his pills, or had run out.
"See how it looks at me," his father mumbled tonelessly as Karl hunched his shoulders defensively. There was something clutched tight within his father's left hand but, what it was, Karl could not tell. "Without shame, without remorse…eyes of the Devil surveying its playing ground…challenging the fortitude of the faithful…"
"I'm not the Devil, papa," Karl said tiredly. "I'm your boy. I'm Karl." He knew that attempting to reason against his father's convictions was futile, and yet he couldn't stop himself from defending his own honor. His father made a small noise of disgust and turned his head.
"See how it speaks out of scripture," the old man said in a hollow moan, carefully avoiding his son's eye. "He-yaw, take this."
The man threw what he had been holding onto the ground between Karl's boots. They were glasses, Karl realized as he picked them up, and quite ugly. Karl looked between their tinted, circular lens and his father with some confusion. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to think that they were his father's sorry attempt at an apology for all that he had put him through. But the moment was short-lived.
"It must cover its eyes," his father continued in a quiet voice, never once looking at him. "I will not have it gazing upon the world with its Devil stare."
In an uncharacteristic show of rebellion, Karl tucked the glasses away into his shirt pocket. His father watched his every movement through the corners of his eyes with unconcealed dislike. Long ago, Jebediah Heisenberg had made it clear that Karl was a Devil spawn, the proof of which he claimed lay in his son's green eyes, silver tongue, and lusty smile. Ever since then, Jebediah had forcefully insisted that Karl speak only in scripture in order to save his tainted soul. But it must not have worked. If saving his soul was akin to liberation, then both of them must have failed horribly. Karl felt no different than the day he was born, and highly doubted that he'd be sprouting a halo or golden wings anytime soon.
"See how it disobeys me," his father continued in a soft, broken voice. The old man was tired. Karl could see it in his eyes. "I will be a father to him, and he'll be a son to me. When he does wrong, I'll discipline him in the usual ways, the pitfalls and obstacles of this mortal life. But I'll never remove my gracious love from him-"
"2 Samuel 7:14-15," Karl said somewhat begrudgingly and his father nodded.
"Come," he said with a jerk of his chin.
His father turned upon his heel and waved his hand over his shoulder. Seeing no other choice but to be led like a bear with a ring in its nose, Karl dropped his shovel and followed him obediently. Long they walked through the factory halls. Though Jebediah was sick and off in the head, he had a word or two to spare for every factory worker that he passed.
Finally, they crossed the threshold and found themselves outside. The sun battled for its place among the damp-dark clouds as Jebediah saddled a horse and bid Karl to come closer. Of course, Karl knew what was coming. There was no escaping it, and so he held his wrists out like a good boy and let his father bind them with thick twine. The sun beat mercilessly along his brow as his father tested the knot and then looped the other end of the twine around the horse's strong neck. It was at times like these that Karl imagined himself running away, running all the way to the glittery, promising shores of a dreamland like America. But he couldn't. He had been born and bred in the Romanian village. He was shackled to the derelict land, much like he was now shackled to the horse.
Satisfied that his son was secured, Jebediah mounted the horse and called out a coarse command. The horse began to amble along as Karl stumbled tiredly behind it, his hands trussed and held out behind its bouncing rump. The tips of his boots shuffled along as he kicked dust from the gravel until he was coated from head to toe in a suffocating layer of thin, gray particles. Every inch of him was shaking in anticipation of the hell that was to come but still he kept his eyes riveted along the back of his father's neck. All things came to pass, he thought to himself over and over again as his father glanced around the weed-riddled yard. The cruel and unusual torture wouldn't last forever.
Finally, his father pointed a limp finger at a piece of rusted machinery standing amongst a withered bush. Karl walked as far as his tether would allow, braced his hands beneath the heavy object, and leveraged it along his forearms with a grunt. The cold, dry stalks of the bush pricked at his clothing as he bent his knees and hefted the machinery fast enough to make his back ache. Another command by his father, and the horse began to walk ahead as Karl lumbered behind it with teeth grit in desperation beneath the machine's weight. Twice, he stumbled to his knees. But he was quick to force himself back up before he could lose his grip on the machine.
"I command you: be firm and steadfast. Do not fear nor be dismayed, for the Lord, your God, is with you wherever you go," Jebediah said, his voice floating behind him as he guided the horse in a loop around the factory. Karl squeezed his eyes shut as he stumbled again.
"Um. J-Joshua 1:9," he said with difficulty. It was so muggy outside. He wished that the sun would hurry up and relinquish itself to the heavy clouds. His lips were dry as sandpaper when he licked them, and he could feel the sticky sweat pooling its way along his lower back and beneath his armpits. All he needed was a quick gust of cool rain to make his punishment more bearable.
"The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord," his father called back and he answered immediately.
"Job 1:21. Papa, wait, please. Just give me a minute-"
But, as to be expected, his father ignored him. Karl's legs began to shake. He could feel his knees knocking together as if they were completely separate from him as he struggled to maintain his awkward hold on the machine. The horse snorted and gave a dainty flush of its tail as Karl weaved behind it like a drunkard.
"Papa! God damn it-" he finally cried. He wouldn't be able to do it, not this time. The piece of metallic junk wedged along his shaking forearms was too heavy for even him to carry. He fell to the ground and began to shuffle along bruised kneecaps as the tether tied between him and the horse grew taut.
"Unless the Lord of hosts had left us a few survivors, we would be like Sodom…we would be like Gomorrah," his father continued in an uncaring monotone. The gravel was beginning to cut into the fabric of Karl's trousers as he shuffled desperately along. He could feel every jag and pebble cutting away at his skin.
"Wait-"
"It knows its scriptures, does it not?."
"Wait, I just-" he saw his father's hands tighten around the reins and he quickly searched his mind for the right answer. "Romans! Romans 9:29! Fuck! Fuck!"
"Isaiah 1:9."
"What-"
A loud 'snap' cracked through the air and the horse reared up on its hind legs with an alarmed whinny. The last thing that Karl saw was its magnificent body framed by the molten gray sky before the horse fell back onto its front legs and began to run. Karl barely had time to scream before the rope gave a taut bounce that yanked at his wrists. The machine flew out of his arms as he was jolted forward and snatched off of his knees. Instinct forced him to close his eyes as the rubble cut bloody tracks along his face and arms. He wanted to scream and shout as he was dragged mercilessly by the horse driven by his father. The pain was reaching an unbearable point, and yet he realized that he'd have to untether himself if he wanted to make it out of the ordeal alive.
The horse cut a quick corner and the very breath was knocked out of Karl as his body collided violently against the factory wall. His fingers scrabbled uselessly together as he attempted to free his bloated wrists but his movements were disjointed. The pain from being dragged was just too much. He opened his mouth to scream but dirt and dust immediately filled his throat and he was left sputtering and coughing stupidly as his skull was knocked repeatedly against the ground. But there was shouting coming from somewhere. It wasn't him, so who was it?
The horse came to a sudden stop. He was swung in a wide arc around its twitching legs before coming to a crumpled stop before it. Immediately, the tears began to spill from his eyes as he circled his arms around his head and whined in pain. He heard the sound of his father's muffled voice through the ringing in his ears and he looked up.
There, above him, stood two factory workers with their arms around each other's shoulders. Karl could see the urgency on their faces through the water wriggling along his lashes. Every single inch of him felt as if it had been set on fire, especially his face. The rubble had cut deep gashes along his cheeks. He could feel them pulsing against the grains of dirt still embedded in the open wounds.
The real pain of punishment hadn't come from being dragged by a horse, it had come from knowing that his father had cruelly and carelessly disfigured his face once again.
The sound of his father's voice grew louder. Suddenly, Jebediah was kneeling right in front of him. Two strong arms slinked beneath Karl's armpits as he was simultaneously lifted and slung sideways along the back of the horse. As he squirmed around to catch his bearing, the factory worker was lifted and placed unceremoniously between his splayed legs. Karl leaned back with a disgusted sneer as the worker let his head fall upon Karl's chest and began to moan pathetically.
"Elias broke 'is arm," he heard his father croak. "It must make itself useful, 'n take 'im on over to Sal."
Before Karl could object, Jebediah smacked the horse's rump. Once again, the horse reared up to its full height and began to gallop away as Karl held on for dear life. The whistling wind seared his torn cheeks with its iciness and he screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, the sound of it echoing all along the plains and making people look up from their struggling crops. He didn't care. He didn't even know why he was screaming. Years of pent-up rage were finally starting to boil over, and being dragged through the dirt had been the final, unloosened stone that had sent it all tumbling down. The man atop the horse with him curled into himself and whined as Karl went crashing through the village avenues. People were quick to duck and dodge out of Karl's way, frightened by his bloodied face and his enraged wailing. It was an odd sight, but none of them were really surprised. To them, Karl had always been an odd sort. He was bound to lose his head eventually.
Finally, he reached the docks at the very edge of the town. He wasn't sure how much time had passed and, truth be told, he couldn't be bothered to care. Though his wounds still ached both his body and mind had gone numb. It was better that way, he supposed. Fully acknowledging the unfairness of the cruel hand that he had been dealt would have only made him slit his own neck.
"Come on, asshole," he grunted as he grabbed the wounded worker by his waist and pulled him bodily to the ground. The man sputtered and cursed as Karl dragged him by his collar along the misty docks, towards the large ramshackle stone building stationed some ways back. Karl hopped the steps two by two and, without hesitation, shoved his boot against the wooden door. The man sitting within the small room jumped and quickly scooted back as Karl made his thunderous approach.
"Got a special delivery, Sal," he said as he swung the worker onto Sal's cluttered worktable, causing papers and medical knick-knacks to go flying everywhere. "Courtesy my bastard father."
"Karl, m'boy, what happened to your face!?" Sal asked. Though he watched Karl from the corner of his eye, he had already busied himself with strapping the wounded worker on the table. Only much later would Karl come to understand his strange sense of urgency. He sucked his teeth and jabbed an accusatory finger in the direction of his throbbing cheek.
"Also courtesy of my bastard father. Any more questions?"
"I-"
"Fuck off!"
With that Karl launched himself back outside and slammed the door behind him. Once there, he let his back rest against the tarnished grains and simply stared up at the sky. Deep down inside, he knew that he was wrong for snapping so viciously at Sal. After all, the man hadn't done anything wrong. But there was no one else that he could take his anger out on - not without incurring more bloody bruises- and so he settled for bullying a man too submissive to fight back. The chattering in the back of his mind had grown louder - he could almost make out the words this time. Two men were talking back and forth in a grand voice, every once in a while in a while stopping to exchange laughter. Karl balled his fists by his temple, willing the sound to just go away. Ever since he was young, he had been plagued by the mysterious background chatter within his skull. He hated to think that maybe he was just going crazy. Craziness would only add to the long list of his inconvenience.
After a few tense moments, the chatter subsided and he opened his eyes again. The sun had finally won its battle against the damp clouds, and he lifted his face to the light. The wounds on his cheek still stung but there was something comfortable about the warmth of the sun. The village was usually so damp and cold. Sunlight was a much-needed reprieve from the gloom.
Relief flooded him and he allowed himself to indulge in thoughts of America. A distant shore free of gloom. Free-spirited people, progress…he had read all about it in the newspapers that sometimes made their way into the village. There were several clippings hidden beneath his pile of moldy quilts back in the factory: black-and-white photographs of the newly elected Franklyn D. Roosevelt, grim news of a catastrophic stock crash, bleary-eyed soldiers huddled in trenches. More than anything, he wished that he could be there in the midst of valiance and turmoil and bleeding-heart bravery.
But no.
He was stuck in the glorified pigsty of a village - religiously tongue twisted and constantly braced against the thought of being abused by his father, or overshadowed by his brother.
"Ah, damn…" he muttered to himself as he dragged his hand across his torn bottom lip. Just because he was treated like an unpredictable cur didn't mean he had to act like one. He'd have to apologize to Sal. True gentlemen came in all forms, after all.
It was this thought of his personal mantra that forced him to turn around and open the door to the stone shack. Sal had his back to him and was engrossed in his work. Karl heard him humming under his breath - nervously, it seemed - as he eased the door shut quietly behind him. He was about to clear his throat and say something when he noticed the stiffness in Sal's shoulder and the stillness of the factory worker upon the table. Karl took a step forward, holding his breath, and leaned forward until he could just barely see over Sal's stooped shoulders.
What he saw made him sputter and crash backward into the door.
At the same time, Sal spun around with a small paring knife held aloft between them. Their eyes met - Sal's horrified and Karl's alarmed - before Karl began to scream at the top of his lungs.
"Fuck, fuck - oh, fuck-!" Karl cried as he turned around and grabbed the door handle. His hands were shaking too much for him to get a grip on it, even as Sal rushed forward and grabbed him around the waist. The two men struggled violently for a long time as Sal attempted to drag Karl back, and away from the door. Though Karl was uncommonly strong, Sal's years spent as a sailor had made him stronger. He swung Karl bodily around and stood back anxiously as the younger man crashed into a desk.
"Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy-"
"Stop-!"
"-for in you my soul takes refuge-"
"Karl, please-"
"-I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings-"
"Karl, I beg of you, please! Enough with your godly bullshit! One more word from you and I swear I'll flay you alive." Sal suddenly screamed. His face was contorted and red beneath his unclasped hair as he brandished the paring knife in the direction of the young man. Karl was quick to grab the pendant upon his chest and fall back as Sal took a deep, shaking breath in and adjusted his loose strands of hair.
"See here, m'boy," he said in a dry croak as Karl continued to mutter to himself, his eyes never leaving the knife in Sal's hand. "See, here, stop. Just stop it now. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for what you see here-"
"Cutting a man's chest open ain't no reasonable cure for his broken arm," Karl spat back. Sal gave a succession of quick nods before glancing back at the man on the table. Karl's eyes followed his gaze, and he shuddered at the sight of a pale red opening that had split the skin on the man's chest. Though the factory worker was still breathing, his eyes were closed and his skin was pale.
Without another word, Sal beckoned Karl to come closer with a flustered wave of his hand. Seeing as his only alternative was to be flayed alive, Karl clamped his lips shut and slunk forward. The wound was much worse up close, but he forced himself to look at it. The factory worker gave a wet gargle and Karl twisted his lips in disgust.
"He wouldn't've made it," Sal said as he wiped the blood from the quivering blade along his coat. "He'd be crippled. This village ain't got no use for a cripple, you understand?"
"So w-why cut open his chest?" Karl asked. Though the sight of blood oozing in rivulets along the worker's chest was repulsive, he couldn't help but feel intrigued by the ruby-red glimmer. He took a step closer, glanced at Sal for reassurance, and then leaned in closer to the limp body.
"Thoracic cavity," Sal muttered and Karl whipped his head up.
"The fuck you just call me?!" He demanded and Sal quickly shook his head.
"It's the, ah, space beneath the chest…enclosed by the, ah, ribs and vertebral column…containing the lungs, tracheobronchial tree, and the, ah…heart."
Karl was staring at him as if he had gone mad. Seeing this, Sal gave a defeated smile and retrieved a small tool with a serrated edge that had been knocked onto the floor.
"Have you, ah, ever wondered what your heart looks like, Karl, m'boy?"
"I don't have one," Karl said quickly. "Not one that I give two shits about, anyway."
"Well. I could…show you…not your heart, I mean, but…"
It was eerie, the strange halts and pauses in Sal's speech. Karl watched with a creased brow as the older man bent over and coughed up a mouthful of inky-black phlegm into a wooden bucket. Then he stood up, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and held the handsaw out to Karl. Karl looked at it, glanced at the slowly heaving chest of the worker beneath him, and then gingerly accepted the handsaw. He knew that what he was about to do was sinful, and his father would knock his head off if he knew. But he was curious, and he couldn't help it. Sal curled his fingers into the gash on the factory worker's chest and pulled the fleshy hinges aside with a grunt. Rancid bile immediately rose in Karl's throat, but he forced himself to watch as Sal clamped the edges of the man's chest to the side, applied a suctioning needle within the gash, and placed the tip of his finger on something pink and meaty within.
"We'll, ah, start by sawing through the sternum," Sal said in an unsure voice. "And then…separating the ribs like a…clamshell."
Karl didn't know what any of this meant. Once again, he looked up at Sal for reassurance and the older man nodded with a small hint of pride in his shockingly blue eyes. "Don't worry. There is no God here. Just you and me, m'boy. Now…carefully…gently…saw through the, ah, thing that you see there."
Karl took a deep breath in and then did as he was told. Sal had draped an old cloth over the factory worker's face, and his hands. The dehumanization of such a small gesture made it easier for Karl to see the worker's body as less of a human thing, and more of a coagulated lump of flesh. The sound of the saw against the bony lump was jarring, and soon sweat began to run along the side of Karl's face as he clenched his teeth and worked the handsaw. Sal had backed into the corner of the room and was wringing his hands. Karl could sense Sal watching him carefully - not so much judging Karl's work as he was appraising him.
"What?" Karl asked gruffly after spitting a shard of dislodged bone from between his teeth.
"It's nothing, I suppose, but…I've been meaning to tell you. Your voice. It's different. I've never heard a voice like yours among the villagers."
Karl twisted his lips at this. Unbeknownst to Sal, Karl had spent many nights attempting to emulate Ken's bravado and stage voice. He assumed that his practice must have leached over into his everyday speech, and this embarrassed him. Sal looked away, ran this finger along his bottom lip, and then chanced another glance at Karl.
"Reminds me of the smell of wet wood rising from a ship at sea….or a drizzle of honey atop a chocolate cake. It's overpowering and yet, somehow, euphonic-"
"Papa says I have the voice of the Devil," Karl interrupted him. "And the eyes to match."
"Well, Lucifer was the most beautiful of God's angels. I sometimes wonder if that made God jealous…"
"You sayin' I'm pretty?" Karl teased, though something in his treacherous heart gave a jolt at the thought of somebody finding him somewhat attractive. But the moment was short-lived, as Sal gave a shake of his head.
"Well, I'm sure Mother Miranda finds you pretty…what with the way she, ah, looks at you whenever you make an appearance in the Church."
The sound of Miranda's name made Karl freeze. The voices were crowding around his mind, different this time: his father's and Mother Miranda's…horses snorting…rain splattering against the rubble.
What's wrong with him?
Boy's got the Devil inside 'im. Can't you see it? Lookit 'is eyes.
I don't believe in the Devil, nor his devilish counterpart for that matter - the one who you so lustfully call God…
Then take 'im.
I will not.
Karl shook his head and watched mutely as Sal gave a strained hack and spat into the wooden barrel again. He had wanted to ask Sal what he knew about Miranda and the odd fixation that he suspected she had for him and his brother. If anything, he just needed something - anything, really - to prove to him that his dreams about her weren't really dreams at all.
But his paranoid insecurities about the matter stilled his tongue, and the moment was soon lost. Sal straightened up, retrieved a pair of metal pincers, and made quick work of the desecrated sternum. The factory worker gave a gargle but otherwise remained unconscious, leading Karl to suspect that Sal had drugged him. As he watched with a stony face, Sal took a metal clamp, wedged it in the meaty gash, and cranked the cavity open in a rather indelicate manner. Though the procedure was sickening, Karl found himself mesmerized by the centralized pulsations within. He leaned closer with bated breath as Sal wiped his hands together and smiled.
"And that, m'boy, is the human heart…see the, ah, bulbous ventricle and the…atriums and aorta."
"Fascinating," Karl muttered beneath his breath. "What's all that yellow stuff?"
Sal gave a genuine laugh at this. "That's the, ah, fat. Go on. You can touch it, if you'd like. But best make it quick. The man will go into shock any moment now."
Karl hesitated. Then, much against his own wishes, he leveraged his finger against the moist tissues and pressed deep. The feel of the warm pulsations made him take a breath in. He suddenly felt so powerful - more powerful than he had ever felt in his life - knowing that, at any moment, he could curl his fingers in and crush the factory worker's very heart.
Such a lust for complete dominance over his fellow man would forever stay with him.
"You think this is what your God felt like when he formed Adam from the dust of the earth?" Sal asked, watching Karl carefully from behind. At forty years old, Sal was wise enough to understand that this was a right of passage that Karl Heisenberg would never return from. "Do you think that he derived pleasure in knowing that he could destroy that which looked upon him with so much love, with a clench of his fist?"
"I, um…" Karl had spread his fingers out along the still-beating heart. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't've been able to pull his fingers away from the silky bulbousness of the sensuously pulsing ball of muscle beneath him. "I'm not God…I wouldn't know."
"So you think. Hmph." Sal put his hand on Karl's wrist and guided his hand away. "Go now, m'boy. I have much work to do upon this poor, unfortunate soul."
"What are you going to do?" Karl asked and Sal perked up slightly.
"Why, study him, of course!"
"Is that why all of the factory's injured workers never come back when we send them to you?" Karl asked with a small smile. There was blood on his hands. He could hear it dripping from his fingers onto the floor. "You study them? You sly bastard…"
"Everything that has been done - and will be done - is for the greater good. Go, now, Karl. But remember! You are always welcome to come back and, ah, study with me. A young man like you deserves an education, after all!" The words on Sal's tongue died down as they both glanced down at his hand upon Karl's wrist. It could have been his imagination, but Karl could have sworn that he saw a small gray worm wriggling its way along the back of Sal's hand. Sal quickly pulled his hand away as simultaneously his green-tinged cheeks ballooned out. Karl had a feeling he knew what was coming next. He was quick to turn away and step outside just as Sal retched noisily into the wooden bucket.
An icy gust had picked up across the land, hailing from the murky waters stretching beyond the dock. Karl popped his collar and stuffed his hands in his raggedy coat, feeling a sense of subdued euphoria buzzing through his body. What he had partaken in that afternoon had definitely been sinful, and yet regret and horror were slow in coming. And maybe it never would. Maybe it was God's will - maybe God wanted his creations to share in a bit of his glory.
After all, feeling the factory worker's heart beat desperately beneath his tightening palm had been quite glorious.
His boots crunched along the snow as he strolled across the dock. By chance, he paused and glanced up at the small wooden plaque hanging at a broken angle across the stone shack. Moreau's Clinic, it read in sloppy black paint. He'd be back, he decided, if only to keep tabs on ol' Salvatore Moreau. After all, something about the space felt much more homely than anything else that he had ever experienced before.