​Justice In A Kidney Tray

The little girl had been brutalised and flung into the gutter where she died within the hour.

Nevertheless, before the night had been out, the town’s folk had caught the perpetrator, had beaten him up within an inch of his life and had taken him to the police. From there they conveyed him to a nearby hospital, a mass of blood, sweat, spittle and dirt.

As dawn broke and the body of the little girl was conveyed to the same hospital for analysis, the town’s folk gathered in a mass before the building, demanding justice. Back at her home, her half-demented mother wailed, and her father stared vacantly at the ceiling.

While the little girl lay in her dark, silent mortuary, her rapist was handcuffed to a bed within a special ward and a policeman was placed outside the door on guard. He moved aside as a lady doctor walked brusquely into the room to check on the man. She was young and pretty, with a smile that shone right through her eyes. The rapist stared at her as she checked his wounds, his pulse and then his heart-rate

Then she rummaged around a table, and returned with a scalpel in her gloved hand. She smiled at him, ruffled his matted hair and calmly reached under the sheets and beyond his midriff. He looked once more at her, stunned.

“Relax,” she whispered and smiled warmly at his gaping face. “This won’t take long.”

He felt a sudden sharp pain in his crotch and the warmth of blood against his thighs. Then, agony spread across his body, and he passed out. As blood from his groin reddened the sheets under him, the doctor silently left the room with a kidney tray of cotton, concealing the body part she had just amputated.

© Cindy Pereira