The Pruning of the West Wing

Fiction

The West Wing was pushing three inches of new growth a day. By the time I arrived, the corridor had narrowed to a crawl space, the walls sweating a thick, amber resin that smelled like old pennies and wet wool. I set my kit on the hardwood, which was pulsing in a slow, rhythmic thrum. The owners were shaking in the foyer, talking about the soul of the home and the tragedy of the growth. I didn't have time for the poetry of it. A malignant room is just a plumbing failure with an appetite. I pulled out the heavy-gauge bone shears and the cautery torch. The room started talking then. It sounded exactly like the mistress of the house, calling from behind the drywall, pleading for help. It is a standard lure; the house just echoes the frequencies it has absorbed from the residents to keep the pruner from cutting. I ignored the voice and located the primary vascular node. I drove the stabilizer spike into the floorboards to keep the room from shifting during the excision. The wood shrieked, a high, whistling sound that vibrated in my teeth. The first cut is always the messiest. I sliced through the connective tissue of the doorframe, the wallpaper peeling back like skin to reveal the red, fibrous bundles beneath. Sap sprayed across my visor, hot and sticky. I didn't pause. I worked the shears in a precise, circular motion, severing the nutrient lines that fed the room's expansion. As the node died, the voices stopped. The mimicry faded into a wet, rattling sigh. I torched the open wound to seal the sap, the smell of burnt sugar filling the hall. I stepped back, wiped my blade on a rag, and told the owners the room was gone. They looked devastated. I just asked for the check.