How does it feel, now that he’s taken you apart? Making precise, neat incisions, perfect like a surgeon’s. No wait, more like a pathologist’s, the exact same precision, while he performs autopsies.
Only you’re not quite dead.
You’re a quarter to dead o’ clock.
You can still feel the nerve endings. In your fingertips. In your limbs. In your shoulders. You can feel the each of the several muscles. You are groggy, from all the pain and anesthesia, that hasn’t quite set in. You still feel pain.
There goes the Y-shaped incision. Right over your naked skin. On the cold metallic table in the morgue, in your head, you still feel goosebumps. You feel him pull down the incision. Almost till your belly button. And he scrapes the fat away, to get to your viscera.
There’s your heart. Your liver. Lungs. Faintly filling in and out. In and out. Little popping noises. Unnatural. He frowns. Wondering why your heart won’t stop beating. Why this resolute. He gets to your sternum, he loses professionalism, in his hurry to get to your heart. Grabs it in his white latex-gloved hand, rips, snips, chops, hacks it out. Plops it into the viscera tray. And he wonders what your brains must look like. Now that your heart is gone and you’re in some sort of coma. Still alive. Kept alive by the brain stem.
He gets out one of those circular saw things, you can’t quite recall it, your memories clouded over by the thoughts of his dimples, his hands, his lips on your skin, his stubble agianst your bare neck – memories of what used to be, before this autopsy became a necessity.
You see, you were infected. You were poisoned, you were slowly wasting away. Atrophied. Blackened. You nauseated him. He needed closure. He needed you fixed. He needed to get to the bottom of your disorders, needed to know why your imperfections stood out like scars on your personality. He needed some answers. It was already too late.
He shaves your head. Hack job. You feel the cold spine of the little bone saw in on your skull. Deftly he slices your skull like you’d slice an egg. He gets your brains out. He needs to see why you acted so crazy.
As he frowns in concentration, you can hear the hate cogs in his brain working, as he thinks, “F*cking b*tch needed to get laid.”
He drops your brains into the viscera tray, with unnecessary force, your heart plops out onto the shiny wet (from formalin?) floor: he stamps on it and walks away.
And all this time you still wonder why.