It was a happy and holy occasion with the family gathering to celebrate the success of the eldest son. He’d just that day graduated a doctor, and his elevation brought great joy and pride to the family.
They were from a poor part of town, and in the eyes of most townsfolk, they were bottom of the social ladder. Now with a doctor in the family, they could hold their heads high.
The son had a propensity for the dead. He saw himself as specialising in the art of taxidermy.
His practice flourished among the poor, they came in droves to be treated by a doctor who was one of their own.
Many of his patients were too far gone in illness to allow a lot of hope, and so he found a growing number of bodies flooded into his practice.
He built a room for the dead, as he called it, a shine in which he could practice his macabre interests.
It was a room in which one whole wall was covered in shelves, shelves containing bottles, bottles containing body parts, body parts that were once living.
He wheeled in his latest deceased patient and with a smile selected his sharpest scalpel. He uncovered the body, looked at it and remembered the first time the patient had called to see him and inside he had lusted for this day.
As he pierced the skin, the thrill through his body reached a crescendo of stimulation, and he gasped at the thought of what a happy and holy occasion this was.