As far as I can remember, I had had it. And for as long as I had had it, I had hated it. The hideous deformity that had shadowed my childhood, my adolescence, and now, my life. A disfiguration so gruesome, so grotesque, that not even I could bear to look at it.
I had no doubt in my mind that I was a handsome man, as many had commented on my face. But that handsome face did not matter; nor did anything, as long as that was there. My legs went down normally, perfectly identical in shape and size, beautiful legs. However, at the ankle, that all changed.
My right foot was short for my body, but that was not wholly it. Upon my birth, the doctor had dismissed it as a severe case of clubfoot; my "foot", if that is what it even was, was more like a large, lumpy, potato of skin. I could not walk on that foot, and so instead used a crutch to move around. My movements were awkward, and since I had to lean over to walk; gave me the appearance of being a humpback.
The foot had only worsened in appearance as I aged. It had been smooth in my infancy, yet was now covered in calluses, warts, blisters, and infections. What trace I had of toenails had rotted away, into yellowish hard stubs, which resembled teeth sticking out of my foot.
As long as the foot existed, I was in agony. The sheer hideousness of it frightened even me, its bearer.
The foot would not have burdened me so had I not had a man of perfection living next to me. Lawrence Henderson was exquisite, in both form and personality. He was popular with the female folk, something that I had never had.
Henderson had an odd habit of walking around barefoot. I never paid much attention, until the day I saw how beautiful his feet were. Perfectly formed, not a hair on them.
Those feet occupied my thoughts for several days. I wanted them, as my own. How could it be that Henderson had been born of such exquisiteness, while I had been so incredulously disfigured?
It was not fair. It was not fair at all.
By his face and demeanor, I calculated that Henderson was similar in age to myself; and height as well, had I not had to hunch over to move. His foot could easily pass as a twin to my normal one. I was certain it would work.
He was a kind man, and he had certainly acted so towards me, although doubtlessly he was aware of my deformity. He would often come for visits, making tea and conversing with me, like men should, on worldly issues. In many ways, he was a friend to me, my only.
Yet, my desire for normalcy overwhelmed my caring for him. In order to be free, sacrifices must be made, and Henderson was one such sacrifice.
My house had been previously owned by a doctor, who had no family, and upon nearing his death, sold off his belongings along with the abode. Flasks of unknown chemicals and various medical equipment were strewn about various cabinets, all at my disposal.
It was clear in my mind that what I was doing was unacceptable, and inhumane. But I didn't care. I had what I wanted within my reach, and nothing would stop me from achieving it.
I prepared the back of my house for that night when my plan would come into action- twin operating tables, knives and equipment all ready. It was my luck that soon, Henderson dropped by for a drink. We conversed amiably for several minutes, discussing current events, as two men should. He really was a friend, and I would hate to see him go.
Upon reaching our thirst, I told Henderson that I would make the tea tonight, and limped off into the kitchen to do so.
The tea was chamomile, a favourite of Henderson's. I had chosen my potion carefully, a simple sleeping tonic that would relieve him of all his senses. I wanted him to still be alive when I took the foot, in order for the re-connection to properly work.
On myself, I would use no anesthetic. I needed to be able to perform the operation on myself, which required sitting myself up. I needed the feeling in order to do that.
Henderson sat quietly in the gathering room, with no idea of what was too befall him. He was such a nice man, and again I questioned what I was about to do, soon shaking the idea from my head. No, I had been awaiting this too long.
Finished with the tea, I set it neatly on a tray, serving it in two cups beforehand. To Henderson's cup, I added the potion; to mine, nothing. I had tested the potion on myself earlier, and it had not affected the taste of the tea at all. Henderson would not know what was happening to him.
He smiled as I hobbled out with the tea; smiled! Was he amused to see a cripple such as myself, struggling to carry tea? Was he proud for me, that even in my condition, that I had managed to prepare and serve tea?
I set the tea down on a table, then limped around it, setting myself down on the couch. I was careful to take the teacup nearest to me, that without the potion. Henderson reached for his, smiling back at me. He took a sip, and then, setting the cup down, smiled at me again. "Excellent."
I returned his smile, and drank my own tea. Henderson continued to drink unsuspectingly from his cup, his thirst being satisfied.
Soon, without failure, Henderson's head tilted to the side, and he lulled off in slumber. I waited several minutes, making sure he was firmly asleep. When I was assured that he was, carefully, very carefully, I made my way behind his chair, hooking my arms under his, and dragging him towards my operating room.
I laid him on one of the tables, strapping him in incase he did wake; and then positioned myself on the other, my supplies on the opposite side of me.
I sat up, positioning own leg next to Henderson's. I had my needle and thread ready. Slowly, I raised the handle of the knife, steadying my shaking hands. With one swift sweep, I brought it down on the twin legs of myself and Henderson; one beautiful, one hideous; cutting through skin, flesh, and bone.
The pain was unimaginable. Never in my life had I felt something like that, and never again would I want to. I paused, panting for breath, then, realizing I had no time to hesitate, grabbed the severed right foot of Henderson. I shoved it onto my stump, pressing bone to bone, flesh to flesh. I dug the needle into Henderson's foot first, then pushed it into my own leg. This pain was bearable, almost sweet. I relished it, knowing what the result would be. In no time, I had stitched my leg to its new foot, feeling the bone of the stump grind against the bone of the foot.
Wiping the excess blood from my foot, I covered it in a cast, to support the foot that would soon bind to my own leg.
Beside me, Henderson lay, clueless to the fact that he was bleeding to his death. I smiled, then raising my operating knife, and plunged it into his chest. I had done what no one else would, something most would dream of, yet few would attempt and succeed at. My work finished, I lay back, closing my eyes to sleep.
Written for English, in the style of Edgar Allen Poe. And yes, it grosses me out, too.