Procedure

"The worthy doctor replied to her, 'Margery, I would not have spoken against you, though you had cried until evening.'"
      -The Book of Margery Kempe

     He hovered near her, staring intently at the chart in his hands. He wasn't reading it—he had practically memorized it by now, just like he had memorized the beeps of her heart monitor. It was a distraction; read the chart, don’t look at her. Either read the chart or look at her.

     She was healing well. It was likely that there wouldn't even be a scar. He began to wonder if that at least would please her, then forced himself to focus on the chart again before he had the chance to answer himself honestly.

     If it were him, he would be fascinated. A procedure like this had never been done before, at least not successfully. It was revolutionary. The science alone was remarkable. But he would be forever changed. Everyone would know what he had done, what had happened.

     How was he supposed to explain to someone that their voice was no longer their own? That it had been changed, altered to fit the preferences of another? But she had disrupted the court so many times with her sobbing. So many times, the court had been forced to dismiss because of the sound. Wasn't it easier if she was given a new voice that wouldn't betray her, even if she hadn't given the courts permission? If she was given a voice that wouldn't hurt others as well as herself?

     He closed his eyes, hands shaking. “Oh, Margery,” he whispered to her chart, “if only you hadn't cried so much.”