The Cartography of Pain

By the time Silas Veyr was 41 years old, 37 surgeons had left their signatures on him. Some had been neat. Some had not. The cleanest scar ran down the center of his chest, a pale vertical line from the hollow of his throat to the bottom of his sternum. A surgeon in Grand Rapids had made that one when Silas was 26 and his heart had decided, for reasons nobody ever fully explained, to become an enemy of the body carrying it.

               The ugliest crossed his abdomen. That one had been opened three times. Once to remove something diseased. Once to repair what the first operation damaged. Once more because the repair failed. His right shoulder carried two thick white seams. His left knee looked stitched together from spare parts. A crescent disappeared beneath his hairline. Smaller scars dotted his ribs, groin, wrists, stomach, and back: drains, ports, tubes, scopes, lines, biopsies, repairs.

               Thirty-seven surgeries.

               Silas remembered every one. Not the operations themselves, mostly. The before and after. The antiseptic smell. The fluorescent lights. The moment someone asked him to count backward from 10. The dry mouth when he woke. The pain. Always the pain. People liked to say pain was temporary. Scars were the proof that sometimes pain merely changed its address.

               Silas worked nights at the Lake Crown Hotel in Marquette, Michigan, an aging 12-story building overlooking Lake Superior. In winter, the wind struck the windows hard enough to make guests ask whether the glass was safe. Silas liked those nights best. Snow buried the parking lot. The lake disappeared into blackness. The entire Upper Peninsula seemed cut away from the rest of the world. Isolation comforted him. People did not.

               He maintained boilers, electrical panels, elevators, plumbing, and whatever else broke while respectable people slept. Most guests barely noticed him. That suited Silas. Until the insurance convention. There were nearly 200 of them. Claims adjusters, regional managers, brokers, executives. Men and women with plastic badges hanging around their necks, drinking in the hotel bar until midnight and discussing catastrophes in percentages.

               Silas was replacing a heating-register cover beside the lounge when his shirt pulled loose from his waistband. He heard laughter. Not unusual. Then somebody said, "Jesus Christ." Silas continued tightening the screw. Five men sat at a table behind him. Late thirties or early forties. Expensive watches. Quarter-zips embroidered with company logos. Whiskey glasses crowded around the remains of dinner.

               "Hey, buddy," one called. Silas ignored him. "Buddy."

               Silas stood. "What?"

               The man nearest him was broad-faced and red-cheeked, the kind of man who had spent his entire life mistaking confidence for permission. "Nothing, man. We were just wondering what happened to you."

               Silas looked down. His shirt had ridden high enough to reveal the lower abdominal scars. "Surgery."

               "No shit."

               The others laughed. Silas tucked his shirt in. Another man said, "How many?"

               Silas picked up his toolbox. "Enough."

               "Frankenstein's got jokes." More laughter.

               Silas walked away. The camera shutter stopped him. He turned. The broad-faced man held up his phone. "What are you doing?"

               The man grinned. "Relax."

               "Delete it."

               "Oh, come on."

               "Delete the picture."

               The man looked at his friends, enjoying himself now. "Guy's shy."

               Silas stepped closer. "Delete it."

               Instead, the man reached out, hooked two fingers beneath the bottom of Silas's shirt, and pulled it upward. The laughter changed. Not louder. Worse. Silas's torso had an effect on people when they saw all of it at once. The sternotomy. The abdominal seams. The drain scars. The jagged incision curving along his ribs. For half a second, even the drunk men fell silent. Then one whispered, "Holy shit."

               The broad-faced man laughed again. "Come on, Frankenstein. Let us see the whole collection."

               Silas seized his wrist. Hard. The man's smile disappeared. Silas held him for perhaps two seconds. Skin against skin. Then he let go. "You should not touch people without permission," Silas said.

               The man rubbed his wrist. "Go fuck yourself."

               Silas picked up his toolbox and left. He found the photograph online 20 minutes later. The man had posted it publicly. Silas knew his name from the convention badge.

               Gavin Holt.

               Regional something. The photograph showed Silas half-turned, shirt lifted, scars visible across his stomach. The caption read:

               WHEN YOUR HEALTH INSURANCE HAS A PUNCH CARD.

               There were already 63 reactions. Twenty-one comments. Silas read them all.

               Bro got assembled at Harbor Freight.

               Looks like somebody practiced surgery on a Thanksgiving turkey.

               Imagine taking your shirt off on a first date.

               A woman had written:

               This is awful. Delete this.

               Gavin replied:

               Relax Karen, he laughed too.

               Silas had not laughed. He closed the page. That night, he dreamed of the Theatre.

               It had no ceiling. That was the first thing Silas understood. Black stone terraces climbed forever into darkness, thousands upon thousands of empty seats circling a single iron table beneath a cone of white light. Silas stood beside it. He was barefoot. His shirt was gone. Every scar on his body seemed brighter there. Across the table stood a surgeon. At least Silas thought it was a surgeon.

               The figure wore a dark leather apron over black armor. Its face was hidden behind a smooth porcelain mask without holes for eyes or mouth. Its hands rested at its sides. Seven fingers on each. Gavin Holt lay strapped to the table. He was naked. Awake. "Silas?" Silas stared. Gavin began pulling against the restraints. "What the fuck is this?"

               Silas looked toward the masked figure. It extended one hand. A scalpel rested across its palm. Silas did not take it. "What is this?" The figure remained silent.

               Gavin twisted his head. "Hey. Silas. Come on, man."

               Silas looked at the scalpel. Then at his own abdomen. A six-inch scar ran diagonally beneath his ribs. He had received that one at 19. Emergency surgery. Perforation. Infection. Three days of vomiting before anyone took him seriously. He remembered waking afterward and asking a nurse why it hurt so much. The nurse had said:

               You had surgery.

               As though that explained pain. As though pain required explanation. Silas took the scalpel. The masked surgeon bowed. Gavin started screaming before Silas touched him.

               "I'M SORRY!!!!"

               Silas placed the blade against Gavin's abdomen. "I didn't ask you to apologize."

               "Please."

               Silas drew the scalpel across the skin. Blood opened beneath it. Gavin screamed. Silas woke smiling.

               Across Marquette, Gavin Holt woke screaming too. His wife found him beside the hotel bed with both hands pressed against his stomach. Blood soaked his pajama pants. An incision six inches long crossed his abdomen. Perfectly sutured. Clean. Fresh. Doctors found no internal damage. No explanation. Silas read about it on a local news site while drinking coffee before work. He felt something he had not expected. Not guilt.

               Relief.

               He told himself they were even. Then he looked at the comments beneath Gavin's photograph again. The post had spread. Five hundred shares. Someone had created a meme. Someone else had zoomed in on Silas's scars and labeled them.

               CHAINSAW ACCIDENT

               ALIEN AUTOPSY

               FAILED SEX CHANGE

               Silas stared at the screen until the letters blurred. That night, the Theatre was waiting. So was another man. One of Gavin's friends. Silas remembered his name from the badge.

               Brent Larkin.

               Brent lay strapped to the table. The masked surgeon held out the scalpel. Silas shook his head. "No." The creature lowered its hand. Silas looked at Brent. Brent looked terrified.

               "I never touched you."

               Silas agreed. "You didn't."

               "I barely said anything."

               "You laughed."

               Brent began crying. Silas studied his own left knee. Two long scars. One replacement. One revision. He remembered waking from the first operation with fire running from hip to ankle. He remembered three months of physical therapy. He remembered a physical therapist telling him he needed to push harder while Silas vomited into a trash can from pain. Silas took the blade. When Brent woke, his healthy left knee contained a metal joint manufactured by no company on Earth.

               After that, the rules revealed themselves quickly. Touch helped. Blood helped more. Hair worked. Photographs sometimes worked. But cruelty worked best. Cruelty created a connection. Hatred was a bridge. Mockery was permission.

               Within 11 days, all five men from the hotel table had been marked.

               One woke with a sternotomy scar and a breastbone that had somehow been split and rewired while he slept. Another awoke missing 13 inches of healthy colon. The fifth received the crescent beneath Silas's hairline. He survived. But afterward he complained of something moving beneath his skull. Doctors found nothing.

               He eventually took a cordless drill into his garage.

               Silas read that article twice. He felt nothing. That should have frightened him. Instead, he slept beautifully.

               The Theatre changed. At first, the seats had been empty. Then silhouettes began appearing. One here. Three there. Dozens by the end of the month. They watched silently from the black terraces. Silas never saw their faces. The masked surgeon never spoke. One night, after Silas marked a woman who had commented “I would kill myself if my body looked like that,” the creature gestured toward a doorway Silas had never noticed.

               Stone stairs descended beneath the Theatre. Silas followed. The chamber below was enormous. Rows of iron tables vanished into darkness. People lay upon them. Hundreds. Thousands. Some were sleeping. Some stared upward. Every body was damaged. Burn scars. Amputations. Surgical seams. Skin grafts. Ports. Missing breasts. Missing limbs. Faces reconstructed and reconstructed again. A child with a scar from temple to jaw. An old woman whose abdomen looked like Silas's. A man without either leg. Silas whispered, "What is this?"

               The masked creature touched two fingers to Silas's chest. Images poured into him. Hospitals. Wars. Burn wards. Operating rooms. People staring. Whispering. Laughing. Children being told not to look. Adults being told to cover themselves. Survivors learning that survival did not make them beautiful enough to spare them cruelty.

               Silas understood. Pain accumulated somewhere. Every scream swallowed under anesthesia.

               Every joke.

               Every stare.

               Every humiliating question asked by someone who had no right to ask.

               The Theatre had collected it. The Chirurgeon had collected it. Silas looked at the masked creature. "You want me to punish them." The creature tilted its head. Silas smiled. "I can do that."

               By January, people in Marquette had a name for it.

               The Scarring.

               Emergency rooms filled with impossible cases. A healthy college student woke with a 12-inch abdominal incision. A bartender developed surgical staples across his chest overnight. A woman shopping at Meijer collapsed when an old appendectomy scar appeared across her stomach despite her appendix remaining intact.

               Silas's standards changed. At first, he marked only people who mocked him. Then he marked people who stared. Then people who asked questions. A teenage boy at a gas station looked at Silas's hand too long.

               Marked.

               A woman in an elevator said, "You've really been through it."

               Marked.

               A cashier asked whether the scar on his neck hurt.

               Marked.

               Every night the Theatre filled. Every morning Marquette woke with another patient. Silas began looking forward to sleep more than waking.

               Gavin Holt returned during a blizzard. Silas was alone in the hotel mechanical room when the door opened. Gavin stood there wearing a heavy coat. He looked thinner. Older. His face had lost the arrogance Silas remembered. "You."

               Silas tightened a valve. "You are not supposed to be down here."

               Gavin shut the door. "I know it's you."

               Silas continued working. "No, you don't."

               "My friends." Silas said nothing. "Brent's knee. Michael's chest. Colin’s abdomen. Eric's fucking head."

               Silas wiped his hands on a rag. "You should call the police."

               "I did."

               "And?"

               "They think I'm insane." Silas smiled faintly. Gavin stepped closer. "I came to apologize." That surprised him. Gavin opened his coat. Then lifted his shirt. The scar Silas had given him crossed his stomach. "I was an asshole." Silas looked at him. "I took that picture because I thought it was funny. Then people shared it, and I thought that was funny too." Gavin's voice broke. "It wasn't." Snow hammered the windows somewhere above them. "I regret what I did. I had no idea what you'd been through."

               Silas said, "No."

               "I understand now."

               Silas stared at him. Gavin lowered his shirt. "I am sorry."

               Silas almost believed him. Almost. Then Gavin said:

               “You didn’t deserve what we did.”

               Silas looked at his hand. "No." Gavin nodded. Silas stepped closer. "But you still don't understand." He grabbed Gavin's wrist.

               The Theatre was full. Thousands of figures watched from the terraces. Gavin lay on the table. Silas stood beside him. The Chirurgeon presented the scalpel. Gavin began to cry. "No." Silas touched the sternotomy scar on his chest. "No, Silas." Then the shoulder. "Please." Then the knee. "I apologized."

               Silas selected the first incision. Gavin screamed. Silas gave him all 37. One after another.

               Sternum.

               Abdomen.

               Shoulder.

               Knee.

               Scalp.

               Ribs.

               Ports.

               Drains.

               Every surgical memory returned as Silas cut.

               The panic.

               The waking.

               The nausea.

               The pain.

               By the twenty-third scar, Gavin stopped screaming. By the thirty-first, he stopped begging. By the thirty-seventh, he simply stared. Silas finished the last incision. Gavin whispered:

               “I apologized.”

               Silas wiped the blade against the leather apron. "I know." Gavin died before morning.

               Silas returned to the Theatre the next night expecting approval. Instead, the Chirurgeon removed its mask. Silas stumbled backward. The face beneath it was his own.

               Older.

               Ancient.

               Scarred beyond recognition.

               Hundreds of surgical lines crossed the creature's cheeks, forehead, throat. Silas stared. "No." The creature extended its seven-fingered hand. A new scar opened across Silas's stomach. Gavin's scar. Then another appeared. Brent's knee. Then another. And another. Silas screamed. Every wound he had given returned. Not replacing his old scars. Joining them.

               38.

               39.

               40.

               50.

               70.

               100.

               His skin opened and closed, healed and scarred, faster than he could count. "What are you doing?" The Chirurgeon offered him the scalpel. Silas understood. Every servant became the surgeon. Every victim became the audience. Every act of vengeance marked the one who delivered it. Silas looked at the blade. He could stop. Wake. Carry them all. Or remain. Continue. Give them away forever. Silas took the scalpel. The ancient version of himself placed a hand upon his shoulder. Then the Theatre went dark.

               The Marquette Scarring stopped two days later. Silas Veyr disappeared. Police found his apartment intact. His truck remained parked behind the Lake Crown beneath 18 inches of snow. His boots were missing. Authorities assumed he had walked onto frozen Lake Superior during the storm. No body was recovered.

               By spring, people stopped talking about him. By summer, the online photograph had been buried beneath newer jokes. But dreams began spreading across Michigan.

               Detroit.

               Flint.

               Traverse City.

               Kalamazoo.

               People described the same place. Black stone terraces. An iron table. A masked surgeon. And beside him, another man. A man whose body contained almost no untouched skin. The masked surgeon held the victims down. The scarred man chose the instrument. One autumn night, a 23-year-old man in Detroit dreamed that he awoke on the table. He recognized Silas immediately.

               Months earlier, he had shared Gavin Holt's photograph. He barely remembered doing it. Silas remembered. The young man began crying. "Please." Silas opened a tray of instruments. "It was just a joke." Silas looked upward. Thousands of figures watched from the darkness. Every one of them carried something he had given them.

               A scar.

               A memory.

               A piece of pain.

               Silas chose the bone saw. The Chirurgeon placed a seven-fingered hand upon his shoulder. Silas smiled. "That's what they always say."

               Somewhere in Detroit, the young man woke screaming. Across his chest ran a fresh scar. And beneath it, something had begun to knock.