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It was sad to see the doctor beg.


He was on his knees, babbling and crying to the Board. He must’ve been bruising by now by the way all his weight was balanced on the pristine white tiles of the House. They all looked down at him from their high table, frowning in disgust. The Board wasn’t having any of it. They rarely take too kindly to emotional and pathetic cases like this. They had to review a plethora of these cases a day, and listening to people sob takes up too much time.


The room was very big, and very white. It was set up as a standard courtroom, but instead of one judge, there was the Board of Eight; the Head, the Secretary, and the Counsellors. At the far end, two security officers stood on guard, ready to attack if needed. Defendants don’t usually beg this long, and by this time should be gone.


But the doctor wasn’t leaving.


“Dr. Pitch, don’t do this. Please don’t do this.” pled the Head.


It wasn’t too clear if the doctor heard that, for he continued with his sobbing and slobbering on the ground. His hands were above his head, laced together in plead.


“Dr. Pitch…” the Secretary started in a warning  tone. He didn’t stop slobbering. “DR. PITCH,” She boomed, and all at once, the crying stopped.


“Have some respect for yourself! Get up off the ground and get out of this building, for your sake, and ours. At least you still have your PhD, and I suggest you leave before we strip you of that as well.” the Secretary threatened.


It was at last, he spoke. “You don’t understand! I need my license. I need to practice my art!”


“Medicine is not art, let alone murder.”


Dr. Pitch finally stood up, yet stood cowardly in front of the Board. His suit was all disheveled for lying against the ground, and his eyes were a deep crimson. The doctor hugged himself tightly, though his frail arms don’t offer much comfort to anyone. He looked down at the ground, not daring to make eye contact with anyone else.


“I wasn’t murdering anyone. I never performed any procedures with malicious intent.”  He says, talking to the ground.


“People died at the hands of you, Dr. Pitch. If it’s not murder, then what is that?” asked the Head rhetorically.


“It’s the studies and experiments of a successful doctor!”


“Of a quack doctor.”


“I am not a quack!”


“You have no idea what you’re doing. We don’t just revoke licenses with no cause.”


Dr. Pitch began to pace the tiles. He looked wonderously up at the florescent lights until his vision obstructed by light spots. The Board stared him down expectantly. He was wasting so much time.


“I know exactly what I’m doing.” He stated finally.


“Is that so? Then explain the case of -” the Head opened the file in front of him and read the top of it. “-Miss. Eleanor Major to me.”


“Major was an unfortunate accident.” The doctor retorts defensively. “Poor little thing. If she had known what the whole thing meant…”


“That’s exactly the point. Eleanor Major was only 12 years old! She couldn’t consent to having an - illegal - procedure done to her. You cut off her limbs, for Christ’s sake! You let her bleed to death!”

“I DID NOT!” The doctor roared, stomping his feet on the porcelain. “That wasn’t the point of the surgery! You don’t understand!” He subconsciously made fists with his hands, holding so tightly his knuckles were turning white.


“Then enlighten us.” snapped the Secretary.


Dr. Pitch, now red in the face, took a couple breaths in an attempt to steady his breath. He pocketed his balled fists into his white lab coat.


“I was trying to test a theory that I had made. I hypothesized that if you were to cut off a limb at a major joint, it’d have the potential to grow back if injected with a compound I had made. It was sure to work.” He explained slowly.


“That is the most flawed theory we have ever been presented with. The human race are not a bunch of starfish, Dr. Pitch.” Counsellor 1 argues, being the third of the eight to speak up.


“There is so much the human race could be. Do you have any idea what we could find out by taking risks?”


“How many risks? How many Eleanor Majors and -” He looked at the file again. “Thomas Wagners and Alexander Castles do we need for you to be satisfied?”


“I’m doing this for you guys!” He took his hands out of his pockets and raised them in exasperation. “This can be a medical miracle! Don’t you see how well patient Castle was doing until you stripped me of my equipment? I’d say his recovery was going rather nicely.”


“Rather nicely?” The Secretary restated in disbelief. On impulse, she grabs a picture from the folder the Head was holding and presented it to Dr. Pitch. “Does this look nice to you?”


The picture was of Mr. Alexander Castle, lying in Dr. Pitch’s bloody cot. His arms and legs were cut off at the elbow and knee, but the stubs were wrapped in old gauze. He wasn’t wearing any clothes and was scratched, and bruised, and all in all in awful shape. His eyes were closed in deep despair.


Dr. Pitch didn’t even flinch when looking at the photo.


“It’s not a pretty procedure. I need to develop it more. Which is why I need my license back. I don’t know what to do to make you people see the wonders I can do.”


“You’re sick.” Counsellor 2 and 3 say at the same time.


“I am not sick! I’m a doctor that’s asking for his license back! We are on the same side!” He argues.


“You are not one of us. To the eyes of the Board of Eight, you are a murderer. You cannot take the lives of others for your own twisted games. Especially if they don’t consent.” the Head booms.


“They aren’t games!” He starts to sob again. “You don’t know anything!”


“Enough of this constant blubbering!” the Head said. “You do not deserve redemption. Leave immediately or you will be escorted to a jail cell!”


But the doctor kept crying. He eventually fell back down onto his knees, with his folded hands above his head in plea.


“Get this man out of our courtroom!” the Secretary cried, which alerted the security guards standing post by the door. Instantaneously, they sprung onto Dr. Pitch, who barely resisted. He kept weeping as they dragged him out of the room, and into a contrasting black cell in another part of the building, where he was to stay, indefinitely.


And who’s to say he ever saw the sin in pure malpractice?


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