He came home early that day. He knew no one would be around. Not that it mattered: it was a shabby apartment he shared with three other guys, and they were not particularly friends.
He locked himself in his room and turned the stereo to full blast. Wagner and his Ring Cycle would be companions again. He turned towards the collection of broken action figures that stood like decorated war veterans on the shelf. Tears clouded his eyes even as a smile lit up his face. He would finally be one of them today.
The feeling of mismatch was as old as he was. Gnawing, biting, breaking — it made every waking moment miserable.
Its omnipresence was a torturous, unceasing reminder that he was flawed. Its very existence an invincible grotesqueness disrupting his life, health, and happiness.
This is what he wanted. He was only going to do what he needed.
To make sure he wasn't disturbed, he locked himself in the bathroom. Even if someone did come early, they couldn't bother him now. Anyway, he couldn't care less now.
A “wannabe”, the desire to excise burned fierce in him. Today he “needed to be”. Today it would end.
Today he would be rid of it once and for all; and he would do this himself, with his own two hands.
“Autonomy through autotomy”, he mumbled to himself.
He fished inside the bags he carried. Out came bandages, a bottle of the strongest vodka, an iron rod, garbage bags, a slab of dry ice, and a stainless steel bone saw. A hammer was handy to smash its existence away. The essential painkillers he dropped in his shirt pocket: without them he knew he would never succeed.
Nonetheless, he prided on his elegant choice: the saw would more efficient, less time consuming. This wasn't going to be easy, but it was certainly going to set him free.
He prepared himself one last time.
He swigged some vodka from the bottle. His taste-buds exploded and he reeled under its effect; slowly he felt his nerves steeling.
He emptied bags of ice in the tub and let the water run for a bit. The garbage bags he cut open and lay them out to cover the tiled floor. The bandages he arrayed on the floor. For cauterisation he set a small gas stove and the iron rod beside it. He plugged in the electric saw and its noiseless whir thrilled him. The diamond-edged steel glinted in the feeble light.
He reached for the vodka again and noticed his hands were shaking. It wasn't too late, but he convinced himself that this was just another DIY project. A splash of cold water helped strengthen the resolve.
He filled the tub with dry ice and sat on a stool with his leg immersed. The ice and cold water enveloped it just above the knee. This was going to be “at the knee”. The leg needed to be submerged.
Then he waited. Cigarette stubs burned small holes on the plastic bags. The ash scattered dully. Outside, a familiar crescendo was fading out.
He tested the leg: it needed to be numbed by the cold water before the cold steel kissed it. He took a scalpel and ran it over the leg. The skin yielded under its sharp edge and opened up, as did the underlying muscles. Blood from the broken vessels rushed out, but he felt nothing.
It was time. He tied a tourniquet high up his thigh and switched on the excellent bone saw.
He began sawing and soon began pulled the saw through the strongest bone in the body. The bone resisted; the steel grunted, but he kept at it. Heavy streams of blood now ran down his numb leg. Muscle sliced away, blood vessels burst like fountains and he stuffed a rag in his mouth resisting the urge to scream. Outside, the artful layers of Siegfried spoke of the romantic notion to live in an operatic world.
The bone yielded finally; the saw had broken through the energised, powerful muscles. His blood ran thick and fast on the black plastic below his feet. His hands were slick and the saw wet and hungry as muscle dripped off it in pieces.
He then attended to the blood vessels, nerves, muscle, and skin on the underside of the bone, until the leg was finally detached. A ghoulish cry escaped his lips as he yanked it free and threw it in the tub now sanguine thick.
It was time to clean up the mess. He struggled to get up and slipped on the slimy plastic. As the broken bone crashed into the floor below, it sent lightning pain surging through him. He would have to be careful, he thought.
“Don’t land on the stub”, he said to himself.
Gasping, he reached out and pulled himself up. The ceramic of the tub bore his weight and a red palm imprinted itself on the lime-green wall as he pushed himself back to sitting.
He popped in a few painkillers from his pocket and lit the gas stove. The iron rod he stationed to receive the full blast of the dancing flames. Even as he waited, he chipped away the bone broken and fragmented that jutted out vulgar.
The hammer proved useful, but the pain was nightmarish. His head swam. He was losing too much blood, he needed to be quicker and stay awake long enough to see this through.
Finally, he took the hot rod and poured the precious vodka on it before he pushed it on the wound. The fascia singed and he let out a blood-curdling cry. His brain told him to stop, but wouldn't. He pressed the rod again, the strong fibrous tissue and surrounding muscles burned away in smoke. Again and again the red iron pressed against warm blood and torn muscle until he was sure he’d burned everything.
Desperately he poured the last of the vodka on the wound. It stung, but he failed to register it. Then, just as quickly, and surprisingly efficiently, he bandaged the stub.
It was the single longest day of his life yet. When he regained consciousness he was ecstatic. He looked at the mess he lay in: the stench of blood and chunks of muscle gagged him.
The amputated leg lay lifeless in the red stagnant water, his tools of independence around him blood-red and emotionless.
He looked down: where once there was a leg only a stump remained.
He smiled. He was now comfortable with his own body. Alone, he had transgressed the boundary between what was his and everything else.
The leg had plagued him for life. Unable and helpless to do anything about it all this time, he now felt freer.
He felt whole.
There was no more mismatch.
Based on Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) or Amputee Identity Disorder - a psychological disorder wherein sufferers feel they would be happier living as an amputee. It is typically accompanied by the desire to amputate one or more healthy limbs to achieve that end. Originally published October 6, 2014. Mismatch Image: Public Domain CC0 Image
Male nude sculpture, Marble torso of a youth (ca. AD 118-161). Original from The MET Museum. Digitally enhanced by rawpixel.