Loss of Face

Loss of Face.



I’m told it was weeks before I surfaced back to consciousness, drifting in a soup of darkness and pain. The explosion, so I was informed had blown up underneath me catching me somehow in my groin and face–go figure. I lay there racked with pain trying to remember what happened but I couldn’t. All I could remember was flames and pain and the sense of flying before everything went black and stayed that way for a long time.

The pain gave way to depression as I realised I no longer had a crotch or a face. All the pleasure I’d planned to have with my left hand’s best friend was now a distant memory and my face a patchwork of scarring and pain.

Somehow my eyes had been saved–I haven’t a clue how, but I could see the bandages and the damage to my face. Okay, so before I wasn’t the most handsome guy around but at fourteen I had a chance to grow into it. Now, I wouldn’t, the doctors just spoke of years of plastic surgery as they tried to rebuild my face taking the skin from my arse of all places, but not until I was feeling stronger.

The damage to my nether bits, well, the least said the soonest mended. I was attached to a catheter and my dangly bits were possibly still dangling–but from a tree somewhere, along with the skin that held them to me. I’m told I was lucky I didn’t bleed to death–I think I might beg to differ.

All knew was that I felt strange, yeah okay, I felt strange all the time, wouldn’t you with your balls in orbit somewhere round the sun for all I knew, but this night I felt even stranger–I was drifting in and out of consciousness again and I could make the door to my room disappear just by thinking it. Something was wrong, I was burning up all over and my face and groin were on fire. I tried to reach for the nurse call thingy but I guess I didn’t make it.

A week later with my parents standing over me, I learned my kidneys had gone looking for balls–well, they might as well have–they stopped pumping pee into my bladder succumbing to some massive infection I got. I was on a machine for eight days, so I’ve got some more holes in me. Jeez, why can’t I just die and have done with it? What have I got to live for? Now they tell me, they can’t do any plastic surgery on my burns because of the infection–the bug ate some of the underlying tissues away. Why don’t they just shoot me?

The main surgeon has just left me–nice guy, reminds me of that good looking American actor, George Clooney or whatever his name is–anyway he said he had a proposition to put to me. I listened when the pain let me.

He’d already spoken to my ‘rents and they’d consented but he didn’t want to do anything until I also agreed. Like I said I sort of listened. Something about a donor, some poor bugger with less luck than I had–he wants to give me his face and crotch. Why not? You never know, I might have a pudding to pull yet–I’m not holding my breath–well only to scare the nurses, but then one glance at my face would do that. Would I have much of a career starring in zombie movies?

About a week after I consented–I even got to sign the form under my parent’s signatures. Apparently this was all a bit experimental, no one had ever transplanted a whole meat and two veg before–least I guessed that’s what he meant, and face transplants are hardly two a penny are they? Not just my face but my whole scalp as well. I wonder who the poor bugger who previously owned it was–but they’ll never tell me.

The surgeon was so excited–so was I, not. I was almost crapping myself until I realised that my face and nether bits couldn’t hurt anymore than they currently do. If they give me much more morphine, I’ll be an addict in a couple more months.

The premed–I floated off into pure bliss–there was no pain as I felt them run something into the cannula in the back of my hand. I was in a medically induced coma following fourteen hours of surgery by at last three teams of surgeons–so they told me when I could listen. I was told by the sister on the ward that the lead surgeon, yeah the George Clooney lookalike, was a total genius.

My parents echoed that sentiment and they said they’d been told that everything was healing really well, except I got the feeling that there was something I wasn’t being told. Like, why did I have a dressing from my belly button down to my new pudding?

When I asked the sister said something about how they had to connect everything up including nerves and blood vessels and of course my bladder unless I wanted to be on a bag for life. Don’t they do those at Tesco?

It’s now a month since they did my face and my new dongle, in an hour I get to see them, I am crapping myself–what if the guy who previously owned it was like a gorilla–or maybe he was hung like a horse–all the feedback I get is discomfort and when I asked about sexual function they seemed to suggest I just wait and see.

I don’t believe this–I’d be better off fucking dead. I can’t believe they did this to me, the bastards. I really don’t believe it–the fucking donor was some chick–I look like a fucking girl and I don’t have a prick to pull, they transplanted her twat complete with fucking ovaries, the works and apparently it all works according to the blood tests.

I told my parents to piss off, how could they do this to me? I thought they loved me? They’ve turned me into a fucking girl–I hate them and that bastard surgeon Mister what’s his fucking name. I’ll bet he wouldn’t swap his dick for a fucking twat. I wanna die, just let me die.

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This story is 1113 words long.