“Hey, do you still have that power drill?”

“Sure, it’s in the garage. Why?”

“I wanted to use it for a few minutes.”

“What for? Putting something up?”

“Nah, I got a headache and I figured it would help.”

Ted was perplexed.

“So I’m just gonna go out there and pick it up, ok?”

“Um, sure.”

Simon walked out the front door and around to the outside through the open garage and into the corner where most of the tools were piled. Ted walked in behind him attempting to figure out why he needed the drill.

“So the drill helps your headaches?”

“Well, I don’t really know, but I think it will. Is it under this stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s blue. It’s right over there.”

“Ah, cool. Thanks.” Simon picked up the drill and looked it over. A little dusty, but it ought to do the trick. “It works?” he asked looking at Ted.

“Yeah, it should. I don’t really use it that much.”

“Nice,” he said examining the bit and blowing out some excess dust. “I’ll probably have to sterilize it first.”

“It doesn’t really matter if you’re drilling through wood, Sy,” he said sarcastically.

“No, I’m going to drill a hole in my head, Ted. So I think it’d better be sterile. Thanks again for the lender.”

Ted laughed a bit and let Simon get back home. Simon usually got sarcastic when he didn’t want to answer questions, although it struck Ted as odd that he didn’t mention what he really wanted to use the drill for. But it didn’t matter anyway. It was Sunday, the game was on, and his frozen Swanson was almost ready.

“I’ll bring this back later on today,” Simon said shaking the drill in his hand and walking back to his house, “I should be done with it soon.”

It was about one o’clock in the afternoon by the time Simon had sterilized the drill bit to his liking. It was a typical spur point bit, 5mm in size. This kind of bit was usually used for making dowels in wood and he hoped that it was enough to carve a neat hole through his skull. Human bone and wood were both fibrous and reacted in a similar fashion when enough pressure was applied. The tool itself was a simple, Bosch, twelve-volt drill. There was a faded sticker that noted its use of Dura-Shield Housing to “withstand real world conditions” – a pleasant addition, but one that didn’t seem to apply today. The drill was powerful and could produce approximately 300 pounds of torque and operate at 1200 RPMs. An ergonomic handle design made holding the drill all the more enjoyable.

“This should do it,” Simon said to himself while getting up from his chair.

Although he would have preferred to drill somewhere away from his face, his problems stemmed from his frontal lobe and the location could not be altered. He walked over to his refrigerator and removed a cube of ice from a tray, and laid the ice on his head. The feeling became painful after the first minute, but the sensitivity in his head soon grew dull and he felt ready to begin.

He touched the spur point to the upper left of his forehead, where the thinnest amount of skin was present and the greatest numbness occurred, and gently pushed the drill’s red button. The sudden whir of the drill made him jump a bit, but he did not stop drilling. The noise of the drill became duller and more insistent as it bore through skin, sinew, and skull. Almost too soon, the drill point sunk into Simon’s soft brain tissue. The sensation made his vision disappear for a moment, but it regained quickly as he continued to swirl the drill in concentric circles. After a few seconds more, he was finished and slowly slid the drill from his head, its bit still slowly spinning.

Simon expected some blood but not nearly as much as came pouring from his brow. He grabbed a nearby towel and promptly blocked the bleeding. He looked down and noticed the pink powder of bone that lay on his left leg. He brushed it off. Tired of holding the towel for so long, he eventually stuffed some Kleenex into the hole and tied a new towel around his head. Although the bleeding had not stopped, the blood was being absorbed by the towel and no longer bothered Simon from getting on with his day.

After he cleaned up the area and changed his clothing, Simon decided to wash out the drill bit and return the tool to Ted. After all, he was kind enough to let him borrow it, and since Simon didn’t need it anymore, returning it gave him something to do.

He knocked on Ted’s door and, when the door opened, Ted stood in shock. “What happened? Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” Simon told him. “I think my headache’s going away.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your head, it’s bleeding!”

“Is it still?” he asked attempting to look up at his wound. “Damnit.”

“Did you have an accident? Do you want me to take you to the hospital? We’ll go right now.”

“No, I’m fine. Really. I told you what I needed the drill for.”

“No, you didn’t. You made some crack about…oh Christ.”

“Right, that wasn’t a crack,” Simon said trying to hand Ted’s drill back to him. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

“Holy shit. You are genuinely fucked up.”

“No, I told you. The headache,” tapping on his head, “all gone.”

“Shit, don’t touch your head.”

“I’m fine. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you. Your left eye is drooping and looking who knows where, and the left half of your face is red with coagulated blood. You’re not fine.”

“Look, why can’t you just let me do what I want to do and keep your opinions to yourself?”

“Because you’re a fucking idiot. Now we’re going to the hospital before you die on my front porch.”

“Alright, maybe they can get me some gauze.”

Although Simon was rushed to the hospital shortly thereafter, most of the surgeons and specialists didn’t know what to make of what they saw. Simon Auger lasted a good week before the damage he made to the anterior portion of his frontal lobe (the area containing higher cognitive functions) took its toll. He slipped into a coma and before long was dead. Although Simon’s decision was not the best he could have come up with, or the one anyone else may have come up with, it can’t be denied that, in the very end, Simon’s headache did go away.

Unpublished Short Story