The Schemer

The Warrior

The woman, who laid on top of the table, was young. Definitely younger than Clara herself, which made her question Miranda's future opportunities. She probably does not have any kids, not married or even engaged, based on her bare fingers and tight, toned core. Without ovaries, she still could get pregnant with medical intervention, as Clara will not remove her uterus, but it will disturb the production of estrogen, leading to decreased sex drive, which, as a result, will severely influence future decisions. It's almost like castrating a dog. He loses his liveness, joy, energy. If there was a choice, the surgeon would definitely go for a different route, saving those plum-sized, grey organs that made the woman a woman. Unfortunately, the majority of the human population would go for a quantity of years, and not quality. She couldn't blame them. At one point in her life, Clara would have chosen the same.

It didn't take too long to cut out the tumour-filled body parts. An hour, that's all it takes to permanently stop the production of someone's hormones. "Disinfect and sew. I'm done." Clara had two more surgeries on her schedule, therefore she entrusted the last steps for residents. The woman could trust them under a watchful eye of nurses. 

Clara exited the operating room, disposing of her medical clothing. She had to move quickly if she wanted to sleep at home today, as there were two more operations left. Thankfully, neither one of them were extremely serious. Clara made sure to perform the most important procedures as early as possible when the mind is still sharp and the body is strong. 

She made her way towards another room, performed exactly the same starting routine, and got one more body open. It was a man this time, middle-aged, his skin tattooed in various ornaments. A sailor, she presumed, taking in two swallows on his chest and an anchor on his bicep. A sailor with gangrene. Even the freest of us fall one day, Clara thought while sawing his dead, blackened leg off. The limb was infected, a 'wet' called gangrene and a tremendously inflamed part of the body. The surgeon couldn't even guarantee the man his life, as this type of gangrenes were absolutely unpredictable, spreading easily and invisibly. Just to be safe, she took samples of tissue from his upper body, biopsies to put under a microscope and check for the spreading of infected flesh.

Clara finished it quickly. There was only so much that Clara could do in this case. When she was younger, guilt usually used to come afterwards, drowning the woman in sorrow and culpability. Now, more than a decade later, it finally disappeared, dulling with each passing year, until nothing was left, except cold, rational logic behind. It was a medic's reality, to lose one's empathy and replace it with a sense of reality. She finished another one, the last surgery of the day, said her goodbyes and went outside. Clara's Mustang was parked in an underground parking lot which was reserved for staff and patients who had to stay for a longer amount of time. Sleep, the only thing on her mind was sleep. Deep slumber, hopefully, a dreamless one. The day was long, and the lack of rest from the previous day finally caught up with the woman. 

She got home quicker than usual. Either a lack of cars on the road that night, or it was Clara who drove like a maniac, she couldn't decide. Bed. Bed. Bed. Finally. She unlocked her door, climbed up the stairs, managed to open the door to her bedroom, and collapsed on top of the bed, still fully clothed, not caring about it one bit. Fatigue came suddenly and unexpectedly, out of nowhere. 

"Are you, uh, always sleeping like this? With full attire? Ready to, uh, jump and fight, and run?" A comical, nasal voice spoke, disturbing the upcoming oblivion. With a low groan, Clara managed to lift her upper body up, twisting so she could see what was behind her. In the corner, on a desk chair, sat no one else but the Joker, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, tie loosened up, hunched in his usual bad-for-your-back posture. The woman could make out only half of his face, a part that was lit by the moonlight. Those hooded bottomless eyes bore into her own, analyzing, like a predator following his prey.