Ch.10: The Harvest

He doesn't waste time.

He wheels the instrument cart over. The wheels squeak on the concrete—a cheerful, chirping sound that clashes violently with the dread pooling in my stomach.

He picks up a syringe.

It’s small. 2cc. The needle is fine, short, and wicked.

I know what's in it. Lidocaine with epinephrine. A local anesthetic.

My heart hammers against my ribs. *58 BPM.* I am on the edge of the sedation threshold. I have to keep it together. If I go under now, I wake up blind.

If I stay awake... I experience it.

He leans over me. He smells of antiseptic and expensive cologne.

"This is just a local block, El," he says, his voice conversational, as if he's explaining a root canal. "I'm not going to put you under general anesthesia."

He taps the syringe. A tiny bead of liquid appears at the tip of the needle.

"General anesthesia depresses the autonomic nervous system," he explains, lecturing to an audience of one terrified, paralyzed woman. "It suppresses tear production. And right now, I need your lacrimal glands firing on all cylinders. I need them hyperactive to define the dissection plane."

He isn't putting me under because he *wants* me to cry.

He wants the trauma. He wants the biological response to pain.

"Plus," he adds, leaning in close so his breath tickles the raw meat of my ear, "the risk of aspiration is too high with your current vitals. We wouldn't want you choking on your own vomit before the donation is complete, would we?"

He positions the needle over my right eye.

I try to look away. I try to roll my eyes back into my head. But the paralysis makes them sluggish.

He uses his thumb to pin my eyebrow—or where my eyebrow used to be—against the bone.

"Hold still."

He drives the needle into the soft tissue at the corner of my eye.

The sting is sharp, hot, and immediate. It feels like a bee sting right in the most sensitive part of the body.

I want to scream. I want to thrash. I want to bite his hand off.

But I am a statue. A meat doll.

He pushes the plunger. The lidocaine burns as it enters the tissue, a chemical fire spreading through the socket.

"Good," he murmurs. "That should numb the surface. But the deep tissue... you're still going to feel the pressure. You're going to feel the tug."

He pulls the needle out and moves to the left eye.

*Sting. Burn. Pressure.*

He sets the syringe down. He picks up a speculum—a metal device that looks like a medieval torture instrument.

"Okay," he says. "Let's open the windows."

He inserts the metal blades under my upper and lower lids. He turns the screw.

The blades expand. They force my eyelids apart, stretching the skin until it feels like it will tear. My eyes are popped wide open, exposed to the dry, cold air of the basement.

I can't blink. I can never blink again.

"Perfect exposure," he says, admiring his work.

He turns back to the cart. He picks up a scalpel. A #15 blade. Small. Precise. Used for delicate work.

He also picks up a pair of curved scissors and a metal clamp.

He turns back to me.

The light from his headlamp blinds me. I am staring into the sun.

"Isabella," he calls out without looking away from me. "Come here. I want you to see this. It’s important you understand the anatomy of your new eyes."

Isabella walks into my field of vision. She is clutching her silk robe tight around her throat. She looks pale. Nauseous.

"Do I have to?" she whispers.

"Yes," Aris says. "It's part of the process. You have to accept the gift."

He holds the scalpel over my right eye.

"The lacrimal sac is here," he points with the tip of the blade to the inner corner of my eye. "And the extraocular muscles attach here, here, and here. I'm going to excise the entire orbital content as a block."

He looks at me. He looks directly into my pupil.

"Can you hear me, Elena?" he asks softly.

I don't react. I can't.

"I know you can," he says. "I see the micro-tremors in the iris. The dilation of the pupil in response to stress. You're fully conscious."

He smiles. It is a terrifying, intimate smile.

"Good. I want you to remember this. I want you to know that even in the end, you served a purpose. You gave sight to the woman who deserves it."

He lowers the blade.

The steel tip touches the white of my eye.

I feel it. I feel the cold metal against the sclera.

He isn't cutting yet. He is teasing. He is savoring the moment.

He picks up the metal clamp with his other hand. He reaches for my lower eyelid.

He clamps the metal jaws onto the raw, numbed edge of the lid. He pulls down. Hard.

The pressure is immense. It feels like my eye is being squeezed out of my head like a grape.

He brings the scalpel closer. The blade fills my vision. It is the only thing in the world.

"Look at me, El," he whispers, his voice trembling with a sick, twisted excitement.

He leans in until his face is inches from mine. I can see the pores on his nose. I can see the madness dancing in his blue eyes.

"This is the last thing you'll ever see."