"If you change your mind at any point before we begin, simply say so," I offered, opening another drawer containing suturing materials. "There would be no judgment."
Micah crossed to the other side of the table. "I won't change my mind."
I brought him a chair and laid out a surgical pad on the steel table, helping him position his fingers. Then I went to the sink to scrub up to my elbows.
When I turned around, he was clutching the moth tightly to his chest with one hand. “Have you…” He swallowed. “Have you done this before?”
"Yes," I answered, pulling on sterile gloves. "Trust me, Micah. I'll take care of you." I adjusted a surgical mask over my face.
He nodded, his breathing quickening as I prepared the anesthetic injection. "This will numb the area completely," I explained, swabbing his hand with iodine.
He flinched sharply, his fingers instinctively curling away from the cold brown liquid. "That stings," he murmured.
"Keep still," I said, steadying his hand with mine.
When the needle approached his skin, he winced visibly, turning his face away. The moth glowed brighter against his chest as his grip tightened around it.
"Look at me," I said. His eyes found mine, searching for reassurance. "Focus on my face, not the needle."
The anesthetic slid beneath his skin. His pupils contracted sharply, then expanded again as he exhaled.
"Good," I praised, setting the syringe aside. "Now we wait for it to take effect."
Ten minutes passed in silence. I used the time to arrange my instruments. Micah watched, his expression softening, eyes dulling.
"Can you feel this?" I asked, testing the area with a sterile needle under his fingernail.
"No," he answered, almost sleepily. "Nothing at all."
I positioned a tourniquet around his finger and carefully marked the location for amputation. Instrument in hand, I paused, hovering above his skin. I couldn’t say why. I’d cut into living flesh before. While unpleasant, it had never given me anxiety. Yet now, my heart was fluttering, my breathing fast, sweat beading on the back of my neck. There was a part of me, I realized, that didn’t want to hurt him.
"Daddy?" Micah’s brow creased. “Is everything okay?”
I forced a smile. “Yes, dear boy. Everything is perfect.”
He nodded, clutching the moth to his chest.
What followed was communion through violence. The serrated edge of the saw bit into flesh with a wet resistance that sent shivers down my spine. Blood welled, dark and viscous, catching the light like garnets.
Micah’s face paled, but he didn’t look away. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. He squeezed his moth so tight, I worried he might break it. Yet no sound escaped his lips. Only a single tear tracked down his cheek.
The wet tear of tissue, the snap of tendons giving way. These weren't medical procedures but sacraments. His blood baptized my gloved hands, marking me as his as surely as I was marking him. This wasn't mutilation but transformation, two souls witnessing each other's true nature across an altar of shared becoming.
When it was done, I sealed the wound with careful stitches. Micah had grown pale, his consciousness drifting in and out offocus. The endorphins and shock had taken their toll. His head rolled slightly, eyes unfocused.
"Stay with me," I murmured, checking his pulse. Strong, but rapid. "You're doing beautifully."
"Did you..." His words slurred significantly. "Did you save it?"
"Yes," I assured him, nodding toward the specimen jar where his sacrifice floated in preservation fluid. "It will become something extraordinary."
His lips curved into a weak smile before his eyes fluttered closed. Not unconscious, but drifting in the liminal space between awareness and surrender. I dressed the wound carefully, wrapping his hand in clean bandages. The procedure was complete, but the care had just begun.
"How are you?" I asked, supporting his drooping head with my hand.
"Float... floating," he managed, words soft and indistinct. "Not...here..."
"That's normal," I told him, stroking his hair. "Your body is processing what happened."
