Strap yourself in. Most will cringe . . .
"He began to lionize the beautiful bloodbath conquering his world."
Have you met Donald?
Suffering from a lifelong, atrocious misfortune, plastic surgeon Donald Martin advances in rank at Generation Medical Center, an acclaimed hospital in Boston. But his patients do not know what has become of him. Justus Washington, the character in Operating Room 3, describes himself as a truther who rejects systems of beliefs. Worshipping the root of all evil, Justus becomes a man on a missionâwhilst battling against his higher self: to love himself. With traumatic events culminating, Donaldâs privileged life and hundreds of millions are at stake if he does not conceal the botched surgery. Even murder is on the table in this seductive thriller by Michael K. Hicks, a debut novel by the author.
Strap yourself in. Most will cringe . . .
"He began to lionize the beautiful bloodbath conquering his world."
Have you met Donald?
Suffering from a lifelong, atrocious misfortune, plastic surgeon Donald Martin advances in rank at Generation Medical Center, an acclaimed hospital in Boston. But his patients do not know what has become of him. Justus Washington, the character in Operating Room 3, describes himself as a truther who rejects systems of beliefs. Worshipping the root of all evil, Justus becomes a man on a missionâwhilst battling against his higher self: to love himself. With traumatic events culminating, Donaldâs privileged life and hundreds of millions are at stake if he does not conceal the botched surgery. Even murder is on the table in this seductive thriller by Michael K. Hicks, a debut novel by the author.
 Should he receive justice in the spirit world, or should he seek it himself?
The Cathedral of Saint Gabriel the Archangel towered over ten-year-old Donald Martin as he snapped photos of the sun bathing him in gentle apricot light.
 Hanna, Donaldâs mother, tucked his 1970âs 35mm camera into her large handbag. She grabbed his left hand. âHurry, son. Weâre late for the ceremony.â
âOK. OK.â His sapphire eyes, bright and snappy, gazed at the unfamiliar red-carpeted aisle beneath him. The carpet ushered in memories of him being baptized at seven, which was required for todayâs ceremony. In other words, the purpose of this celebration is to bring him closer to Christ and guide him on the narrow path to salvation.
Seated on the front pew, he tapped his foot on the white-and-black marble as the cherry-flavored swish of a jolly rancher made its way through the room. To the right of him, the carpeted aisle exalted the white-haired priest as he mounted the three risers leading to the pulpit.
In the priestâs mysterious green eyes, he drew inspiration from the powerful magnetic influence fixed on the candidate. With his attention redirected to the microphone, the priest said, âImagine the initial monstrous pain of a knife piercing through flesh for over thirty-three years before itâs withdrawn.â
Goosebumps quivered on Donald. It wasnât the chilly air coming from the mega fans that provided a feeling of a cool summer breeze.Â
Half an hour later, while the celebration burned with energy, building to a crescendo, the priest let his gaze pass wonderingly over the tall, skinny boy standing in front of him. Then, invoked by the Holy Spirit, the priest traced the sign of the cross with chrism oil on the candidateâs forehead. âBe sealed with the Holy Spirit.â
The motherâs face lit up as she rushed over to her son. She smothered him with a giant bear hug. Gazed around, she gave the in-charge deacon the camera, who reeled off a photo of Donald, his mother, and the priest standing beside them. Priceless. MIGHT BE MEMORY LANE ONE DAY.
As the mother thanked the deacon, the youngster felt a strange feeling overcome him. His mother was motionless, for a time, which captured his attention. Yet he continued snapping photos as if he were flicking through a Rolodex.
The next moment, he stared at her, as usual, signifying to her that he wanted her to put his camera away. She snubbed him. He felt unloved. Did this prove to be a window into his future ordeal? Not even close. Not by a long shot. Not at all. Even so, the gold-paved pointed arch ceiling fascinated him as it always did. Without a doubt, it was a kinder gesture than his motherâs actions were.
His mother pointed at him. âI need to speak with the priest.
Now he snubbed her. He somehow identified as a grown-up, as most little boys do.
She firmly said, âAlone, son.â
Evil-eyed her, he tore away, joined in with chasing the other candidates. He stalked his mother as if he were her bodyguard. Was he pierced to the heart with guilt?
Turning around to face the priest, she said, âFather, I enjoyed the sermon, a little nerve-racking but straightforward and unconventional. Nowadays, itâs impossible to find a man speaking honestly from his convictions.â
âSister Martin, the pope blesses me to speak in that manner.â
âI come to you most humbly.â
âSpeak your mind.â
âGeneration Medical Centerâs co-founder attends Mass every third Sunday. Please make him aware my son has mastered every subject, biology his favorite. Ever since I gave him that toy surgeon, he canât stop asking me about surgeons. I feel he should follow in his fatherâs footsteps who served as a police officer, a hailed hero. However, I understand the co-founder mentors talented Catholic boys.â What bothered her so much that anxiety cropped up in her posture? âFather, our last name means god of Mars, warriors. I witnessed ungodliness.â
This took her back three days ago.
Â
She witnessed Donald shirtless, his head cradled on the latterâs bare chest of his male friend when sheâd entered their home. Later that day, she shockingly discovered a letter she assumed to be intimate to the male friend. The name had been ripped through, making it illegible.
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The priest placed his hand ever so lightly on her shoulder, which snapped her back to reality.
Camera protectively in Donaldâs hand, he jutted over to her while capturing more timeless moments.
As his mother pulled him in closer to her, she said, âEnough, son. I mean, enough.â She continued, âThe priest needs to speak with you. A ride has been arranged. Do not try to convince the deacon that you can walk home alone.â
He swung his backside to her. Besides, to outright complain, he guaranteed his own punishment.
###
At the popeâs beck and call, the Society of JesusâJesuitsâhad educated Father Michael OâMalley.
Father O'Malley led the adolescent to the clergy's residence over by the walnut confessional boxes. The child stopped dead in his tracks. âRemember, after Mass last week you stroked your lovable dog. What did I say?â the priest asked with no intention of waiting for an answer. âGod loves animals as much as he does humans.â
Days ahead of the event, Donaldâs dog had been hastily sprawled across the ground, his sides barely rising and falling, and the dogâs breathing was unnatural. Pneumonia ended the petâs life. Donald still mourned the loss, but his anger at his mother, his indecision at going with the priest, fizzled out.
The priest said, âGot a surprise for you.â
In a charcoal double-breasted suit, a bald man introduced himself as the co-founder of Generation Medical Center. It was the third Sunday. The co-founder compared Donald to a fearless panther. He scheduled him for one-on-one mentoring.
Under the boy's puffed-out cheeks, gratitude carved creases of admiration. As the priest led, the boy followed.
An ordinary but imposing handcrafted marble mosaic introduced itself. The shadowy wall of the meditation room decorated Leonardo DaVinci Last Supper mural. Gaudy. The youngster glanced at the mesmerizing picture of the twelve apostles, trying to take in the gaudiness of the room, without the bizarreness overcoming him. Suddenly, the disciples vanished. Paranoia seized him into isolation from civilization. Did Father OâMalley welcome a vibe too?
âI hope the tour is exciting.â
The youngster eyed the chocolate cookies and a pitcher of frothy milk in a bucket of ice on a white-clothed table. âCan I, please?â
âOf course, son.â
The boy took a bite of the cookie, white liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth. Tugged at his robe as though it tightened, the priest ruffled the boyâs jet-black hair, some cropped, some dangling. The gesture reminded the boy how his dad tangled his hair once upon a time.
This reminded Donald of three years ago.
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His dad investigated a drug kingpin. His dadâs partner had been taxing the scumbag and his rivals. Gunfire ensued, and the partner shot his dad dead.
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Leading the boy into the priestâs quarters, the priest eyed the bottle of coconut rum decorating the nightstand. Would an occasional alcoholic beverage ease the priestâs daily stresses? Into a glass, the priest poured a stiff one over ice cubes. At the crystal jingle, curiosity swished in the boyâs mouth.
âCare for juice, my son? Youâll love the sweetness.â
Initially, the boy hesitated. The next second, he said he liked it. The one after that, he asked for more.
At the foot of the bed, grinning, the man retrieved his satchel while the cocktail churned in Donaldâs stomach, rising, hot, pulsating in his bloodstream as he bounced from the floor as if it were a trampoline.
He clutched the stethoscope the priest was holding. âWicked pissa! Let me listen to your heartbeat.â
The youngster pressed the cold metal against the manâs white-haired chest. Both appeared pleased, his organ accelerating in an elegant rhythm, like an organ. Not only did it delight the boy, but he also championed his aspiration to study human anatomy at the collegiate level.
Patience escaped the man. His motive grew as he shuffled back multiple steps, praying. Not one minute expired when magnetism drew the man back into the candidateâs personal space.
The man pointed his shaky finger at him. âSon, your one of my children. I rebuke homosexuals.â
The child quaked. In free fall, the instrument rattled on the hard surface. âHomosexual?â The blistering inferno of the underworld petrified the courageous panther cub.
The man pulled on the childâs shirt collar. âBoys like you will burn forever.â
Released him, the man sipped more of the rum, then pivoted to the door. At the sound of the click of the deadbolt, the child flinched. The room became ghostly quiet, apart from the thudding of footsteps and the gasps of horror. This reminded him of his fatherâs murder, at the hands of his partnerâs betrayal.Â
The boyâs situation turned a thousand times more horrifying at each thought. As he rushed to the door, the predator gripped his arm.
The child faced a corner, his foot tapping, as he stuttered, âI-I canât, please!â He pissed his pants. A wounded sound escaped from him.
Did the pedophile dwell on this moment for over a quarter-century? Did both the minutes he lived for but not yet through, which, once he reflects on what heâd committed, against staggering odds, or would guilt kill his evil spirit? Should Satanâs angels snatch the pedophile to the unfathomable depths, for thirty-three years, while the knife pierces his flesh, for eternity? Would living with himself possibly result in reprehensible consequences? Perhaps he viewed this as stealing the innocence of a child, a crime, even if the judgment of the public unfilled him with dread. Only the pope could do that.
The wolf in sleepâs clothing said, âDonât ever engage in sex with another boy. Do you understand?â
Fragile and frantic, the child tore away, a raging shame with no explanation, to no end. He secured his stare on the lock, fumbled with it until he stumbled out, and ran away. Away from that dreadful existence. Away from perdition.
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When the story opens something horrible is happening to young Donald Martin, His mother is bringing the ten-year-old closer to Christ. They attend the cathedral where Father O'Malley traps his victims. His mother has delivered him to the priest for one-on-one mentoring because she thinks he's a homosexual. The pedophile gives him a cocktail and steals his innocence. Religious fanatic Aunt Elizabeth raises Justus . He's hefty and devours desserts. He wishes to be free of the flab and his copper-colored skin.
Mental is based on a true story. Now I don't know what parts are imagination to fill in the gaps but Hicks manages it well.
Hicks writes from multiple POVs of those associated with Generation Health. They're survivors who have successful careers but are trying to forget their trauma. Justus sees a therapist but he dismisses her. The real ghost of the priest haunts Donald Martin's daily thoughts.
Mental is brutal, cruel, and fractured. It refuses to stay on the path and questions everythingâfull disclosure: the end of Chapter 18 is hard to stomach.
It was challenging for me to engage because the female characters had no agency. But I realize this is the ugly truth for men suffering from rage. The author succeeded in telling a story. I understand it as a book that tackles sexual abuse and addiction. Donald Martin uses drugs and alcohol to dull his memories.
I believe Dr. Martinelli explained it best about Justus,
Resentment seethes in him as pus in a wound.
Justus had the misfortune to be on Dr. Donald's table. And the aftermath when he is trying again to escape his reality:
Mr. Washington's anger and guilt has climaxed. Abnormal as it may be he hides his guilt. His overeating has brought him unimaginable pain. Drinking more indicates deeper self-esteem issues .
Tracking the repercussions of lies, botched surgeries, and government conspiracies, readers who want to make sense of PTSD should read this book.