pened my eyes that day, I realized I was staring up at a blinding light. My body was stiff, cold to the touch, and would not obey my commands to move. To my left, a man in white stood with his back slightly toward me. In his hands he held a clipboard with an array of papers. I strained my eyes to see what was written but it was no use. He was too far and definitely too engrossed in his work to notice that I was awake.
“It seems to have been strangulation that killed her. There are deep bruises around her neck that take the shape of large hands,” the doctor stated to what seemed like no one. I suppose he could be speaking to a recorder; however I found it more humorous to believe he was simply speaking to himself like a crazy old croon. It was fitting to believe so, his hair white with strands flying away and his hands shaking with age.
Something inside me screamed that I was in danger though, that something terrible was about to happen. The old man turned to face me and in his free hand he grasped a scalpel firmly. His face was wrinkled and his eyes showed a deep sadness and lonely disposition. Placing the clipboard on a table nearby, he lowered the scalpel to my chest and sliced me open, slow and precise. My skin flared with a great burning sensation as he pulled the layers of skin and muscle from my skeleton.
I desperately wanted to cry and curse the cruel man for subjecting me to this pain but alas, it seemed that I was dead. I was in a morgue with no memory as to how I got there or who I was. The doctor cruelly removed what made the body whole, carefully holding them into the light. I watched the doctor in horror as he examined my organs, removing them, holding them, and finally weighing the tissue.
“Stomach contents seem to include corn, meatloaf, and what appears to be cake.” The man paused for a moment, considering his words carefully before saying, “Not a very healthy meal for a young lady.”
Mentally, I frowned at his comment. I would like to assume I was once a healthy person, considering I put up enough of a fight to force the killer to cause bruising. Still, I listened to every word the doctor said, searching for even a notion as to who I am. Preferably, the man would say a name that I may call myself.
The doctor continued his examination, making small comments here and there. When he pulled his hands up from my insides at one point, he held my intestines and I could plainly see the blood staining his gloves. Panic rose that should have sped up my heart, had it not been removed and placed to the side with the rest of the organs.
My blood was a deep crimson, light reflecting off the repulsive liquid. It was slick, I could tell, as the doctor felt the strand of intestine. He ran his fingers down the outside tissue, searching for something else wrong. Satisfied that he found no anomalies, I watched as he bagged the squishy material and set it to the side.
He grabbed my hand and lowered his face, turning the meaty flesh over and stared, examining it. “Subject appears to have clawed at the attacker, traces of skin beneath the finger nails and the finger tips are raw from rough contact. I’ll have to take a sample to the lab for DNA.”
My mind reasoned that the fight must have recently happened if my hands were still raw. Then again, I didn’t know much about how the body reacts to being dead. For all I knew, the skirmish could have happened two weeks ago and they are just now examining the body. I suddenly realized that my throat was dry, rough from the lack of fluid in me and it felt as though it was about to crack. A nonexistent breath became caught in my throat as the doctor finished his examination and stitched me up, leaving me. I wanted to call out and beg him to explain to me who I once was.
“Don’t leave me!” I screamed as the door shut. My cry went unnoticed as I heard the click of a lock, trapping me in this dungeon. I was aware of the other bodies that lay next to me on either side, the putrid stench of their rotting flesh filling my nostrils. They were there much longer than I but it was easy to tell by their dull, lifeless eyes that they could not experience the afterlife like I was. Perhaps they have already had their chance and have moved on. It doesn’t really matter now though. I was still trapped in this rotting cell.
The light that hung above my head had been flipped off, the only light now radiating from the exit sign. The sign shielded the darkened room in red, reminding me of a horror movie right before someone was to be murdered. I guess it was appropriate since I have already been killed. The words sounded odd in my mind. For what reason would there be to kill me, a young girl?
What I could not fathom though was why my mind still wondered as if it was still alive and able to think rational thoughts or why I could feel without control of my body. I felt empty without my organs to fill my flesh and there was a dull pain stinging my skin where the stitches held me together. I could not believe the doctor left me with nothing but bone and muscle. If I were alive, I would be curled up on this cold, hard metal bed crying and biting my lower lip until it bled and stained the white sheet that covered me.
The exit light flickered and I could feel myself grow weary. It’s amazing that, even in death, I could still feel lethargic and ready to journey to dreamland. Closing my eyes, I pictured myself laying in what I had hoped was my bed. I’d wake up tomorrow and this would have all been a dream. I would be alive and breathing, my heart racing as I raced off to school.
A jolt of electricity fired through me, starting from my toes and crept up my spine, building in the neck. I couldn’t breathe, if you could believe it possible. Something was crushing my windpipes and all blood, metaphoric or not, rushed to my head. I was lightheaded and afraid but still, I forced my eyes to open. Towering over me, a woman with thin stature glared down, her hands stretched around my throat and applying pressure.
Her hair was a disheveled mess and a murderous grin danced across her purple lips. Her brown eyes stared into my blue ones and I could see the hatred and loathing pouring into them. This woman wanted to kill someone that was clearly already dead. She was whispering under her breath but my mind was already fading away, too far gone to listen.
My hands, though they did not move, felt as though they were clawing at her arms. My nails felt as if they were shredding the frail layer of skin. I could smell the blood emerge and begin to trickle down the length of her arms, feel the blood flow around my neck. I could just imagine it being sticky and red. I am going to be murdered a second time, again by strangulation. Eyes rolling back, I gave up my struggle as I was forced to go under as she continued to steal away my life once more.
My dead body continued to lay on that bed, the woman sitting on top of me. Her hands, large for her size, squeezed tighter around my throat. She knew I was dead, she had to have or else she would not be in a morgue. I could not fight against her anymore, not since my body wouldn’t respond to my pleas of compliance. I couldn’t protect myself as she stole my life a second time. If it wasn’t for her, I could have stayed in that rotting corpse until I at least knew my name.
When I came too once more, I was now out of my body completely. I realized that my time trapped merely meant I had a small amount of soul left inside. I saw my lungs, cut open and spread out, on the table to the right of my bed, my heart, kidneys, and liver there as well. It was odd, seeing myself from the outside when only moments before I had been laying where my body now solely did.
A growl of frustration caught my attention and I returned my gaze back to the woman. Tears streamed down her cheeks like waterfalls as she shuttered and howled, as if an animal in pain. Removing her hands from my neck, she hugged herself and rocked back and forth quickly. She bit her lips, explaining the purple tint as they were bruised like my neck, as she lashed out, grabbing a stitched fold and tearing it open.
Pain tore through my abdomen and I screamed, falling to my knees in agony. The woman cried and yelled, cursing me for everything. Waves of pain crashed over my and drowned
my senses. She ripped apart my muscles, flinging them across the room in repulsion. Bones broke under her weight and she gripped a cracked rib so tightly her knuckles turned white before yanking it from my open torso. Never had I wanted to throw up so much.
Her own anger and grief had thrown this woman into insanity. I wouldn’t have put it past her to resort to cannibalism if she wanted. This woman could have done anything as long as it seemed right in her mind. Hair stuck to her cheeks and arms, drenched in sweat and tears. Her hands continued to tear apart my corpse as she screamed at it, expecting me to hear.
I did hear that time, my ears tuning into what she was saying. “I watched the life fade from your eyes with my own hands wrapped around that fragile neck. Yet, you’re still everywhere I turn. You’re in the stores, outside my house, in my room, and around every corner. Just disappear!” The woman paused as she let out a choked sob. “Leave me alone! Annoying little...” Instead of continuing the sentence, the woman screamed and drove one of my ribs in to my left eye.
I cried out and held my eye, knowing it would not bleed, but still feeling the pain. Yanking the bone out and moving to get better leverage, the woman continued to stab at my face, mutilating my corpse until it was indistinguishable. Flakes of flesh hung loosely on my head, blood pooling under it and in my hair. Without my heart there to beat and pump the blood, it pooled slowly and continued to do so until the blood ran dry.
The woman stopped abruptly, arm hoisted high above her head with a bone in hand. The muscle in her cheek twitched as her grin faded to something calmer. Clearing her throat, she lowered her arm and climbed off the body. Dropping the bone, she leaned over my choppy face and smirked, happy with her handiwork.
“This is why you don’t talk back to your mother, Brittany. I have always told you to be careful of what you do. Be thankful I’m not one of the crazy ones. I love you sweetheart,” she hissed, spit splattering across my face.
Raising her hand, she reared back and a smack echoed through the room as her palm made contact with my flesh and muscle. I winced at the pain as it spread through my cheek, small compared to the rest of the damage she did. Smoothing her hair, the insane woman I once called mom exited the morgue, walking over the broken lock she had gotten through to get inside.
I watched as she left, shocked by the immense pain soaring through every fiber of my soul. It wasn’t the pain that shocked my mind though. I knew my name now and, more importantly, my murderer. I shook and curled into myself as I lay on the floor, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.
I was alone once again, more trapped than ever. Closing my eyes, I relived the moments that just happened in my head as I began to fade into oblivion. Before letting go of my time, I stated those few words that I could only hope would linger long enough for someone to hear and learn the truth about my death. It is those words that I would have to accept and would make the newspaper and force the world to know.
“My mother murdered me.”