shaped incision in the trunk of the body. She first carefully forced the blade through the cauterized skin then into what remained of the softer flesh beneath. With three smooth strokes, she exhibited skill gained by years in the profession and it became instantly apparent to me why Ben called her “the best of the best.”
The arms of the Y curved upward below the breasts and to the shoulders. The tail extended downward to the pubic area. With the deep incision made, still using the scalpel, she proceeded to peel back the burned tissues and muscle. She displayed nowhere near the cold, unfeeling demeanor of the M.E. we had met in this room earlier in the day. However, her professional detachment was evident as she pulled the “chest flap” upward to expose the front of the ribcage.
In a fleeting thought, I was reminded of what a perverted killer had done to his victims those few months ago. Mercilessly skinning each of them for a purpose I was happier not knowing. One primary difference was that his victims had been among the living and conscious when he began cutting.
“In case you are interested, Mister Gant, what I am preparing to do is remove the chest plate. This will allow me to extract the internal organs in one block. This is something we medical examiners refer to as the ‘Rokitansky Method.’”
She glanced quickly over at my motionless form before proceeding. The scalpel clattered noisily against the metal tray where she dropped it. Then she wrapped her gloved hand, smeared with blood, around a somewhat larger device.
“I’m not exactly sure how you do what it is that you do, Mister Gant.” She had returned her attention to the corpse as she spoke to me. “Or, how it is that you know the things you know…but, if it would help at all, please feel free to come closer. Just don’t touch anything.”
I didn’t move. My eyes were still fixed in the direction of the autopsy table even though the clarity of focus had long since fled. The macabre scene had taken on the blurred, grainy appearance of a poorly received image on an old television. Colors were hastily blooming and collapsing-bleeding into one another in a palette gone berserk as rushing noises filled my ears. Doctor Sanders continued speaking for the recorder, and her words became thick mouthfuls of gibberish joining with the mutated cadence of the background music. My vision tunneled and fire danced across my skin as I realized too late what was happening.
The angry, high-pitched cry of a Stryker saw meeting bone neatly pierced the roaring in my ears. Physical reality spun uncontrollably into formless void as I joined with the young woman on the metal table. Her recent pain was no longer confined solely to somewhere in the back of my thoughts.
Everywhere in my mind, I heard her screaming.
My mouth tastes tinny.
Metallic.
Electric.
Blistered.
Raw.
My chest is shrieking in protest. I can feel my flesh being smoothly peeled back, as though I am being violently wrenched inside out. With each passing second, I become aware of more nerve endings being delivered naked and screaming into the cold antiseptic air.
“Why is she doing that?” a weeping feminine voice asks.
I search through slitted eyes while gritting my teeth against the pain.
I try to turn and suddenly I find myself slowly spinning.
Twisting lazily on an unfelt breeze.
Floating.
“Why is she doing that to me?” the voice asks again.
“Where are you?” I ask as I continue to turn lethargically in a formless void.
I can see no one.
I can see nothing.
“Who are you?” I call out through my agony.
“Why is she cutting me like that?” The voice is beyond weeping. She is sobbing now. Her words break off in hard bewildered pieces between each breath, tumbling forth and shattering in my ears, “Haven’t I been through enough?”
A violent sensation, making agony seem a mere discomfort, bites into my side, gnashing at my bones with countless glittering metal teeth.
My body stiffens.
A tortured cry fills the void.
An angry crimson wail explodes inside my skull.
I’m falling.
Spiraling downward.
Faster.
Faster.
I crash into nothing and splinter into a thousand obsidian shards reflecting the inky darkness. Absorbing and smothering all that is light.
“Mister Gant?” Doctor Sanders’ voice mimics itself in a grotesque parody of speech, casually piercing the ethereal veil. “Did you want to come closer?”
Gradually, I open my eyes.
The black formless void still envelops me.
I can’t see.
Where am I?
Who am I?
Something is tightly stretched across my mouth.
Between my teeth.
It bites into the corners of my lips, abrading them roughly before continuing its constriction around my head.
My mouth tastes of plastic.
Of sweat.
Of blood.
I cannot speak.
I cannot scream.
I can only cry.
“Mister Gant?”
I’m nude.
I’m cold.
I cannot move.
My arms are extended above me, and something rigidly encircles my wrists. I can feel my flesh being torn. I can feel the trickles of my own blood running along my skin from the wounds, mixing with sweat and forming rivulets from the headwaters of my pain.
My mind is numbed by the agony. My muscles are stretched beyond their limits.
Something cold and hard cinches my ankles.
It pulls stiffly downward, unyielding.
The stress threatens to tear me in half.
Sharp spasms rack the muscles along my back, and I arch against it. Bucking against my bonds as best I can.
If it weren’t for the pain, I would swear I was already dead.
A soft-edged whimper escapes my throat.
Hoarse but distinctly feminine.
Who am I?
I cannot remember.
I only know that I am not who I am supposed to be.
It’s dark.
