He'd cleaned up really good-not a speck of blood remained. Used the surgical scissors from the case and cut up what was left of the body into little pieces, wrapped them up in newspaper, and dropped different parts in different sewer drains all over the neighbourhood. Doing it at night when it was fresh and cool, the summer flowers blooming and giving out this really sweet smell that lasted forever.
An adventure.
She went out, too-the first time he'd ever seen her out i of the house. Put on this satin robe that looked ridiculous on the street and actually made it halfway down the block singing, 'Snow-ball, come-a-here, bad boy, naughty lover before having to rush back all scared and pale and locking herself in her room and throwing up so loud you could her heaving through the door.
When she finally realized the little fucker was gone for good, she started to get paranoid, certain that someone had killed it, convincing herself it had been Doctor, catching him in the library and accusing him of it.
Doctor ignored her, and she kept screaming that he was a murderer, had murdered Snowball for some kike blood ritual, using the blood for his fucking matzo.
Finally Doctor got mad and said, 'Maybe it ran away because it was sick of you, Christina. Couldn't stand watching you drink and puke yourself to death.'
After that it became just another fight, and he climbed down the stairs and took his regular seat on number six. Lis-ng and stroking himself and filing sex-pictures for future jack-off sessions.
The next morning she called the Humane Society, told them her husband was an animal murderer, had killed her prize Persian and taken it to the hospital for experiments.
Then she phoned the hospital and the Medical Board and reported Doctor for cruelty to animals.
The minute she opened her mouth everyone could tell she was crazy. No one paid any attention to her.
During surgery, the roaring had stopped. He'd felt about eight feel tall; everything had gone great.
A success, real science. Cutting carefully and peeling back all the layers, seeing all the colors: yellow fat, meat-red muscle, purple liver, tannish-pinkish intestines, all those blu-ish membranes covered with a network of blood vessels that looked like roads on a map.
The little heart pumping, kind of leaking around the edges.
It made him like the cat, feel that it was his pet.
The insides of animals were beautiful, just like the charts he'd seen in one of Doctor's books. The Atlas of Human
Anatomy-plastic sheets, layers of them, with different stuff printed on each one. They lay in a pile, one on top of the other. You peeled them off one by one, starting with a whole person-naked-and then peeling and getting the muscles, kind of a striped, red muscle man. Then off came the muscles and you got the organs, then a fringey- looking man made only of nerves and a brain, then a skeleton.
Two of them, actually. A plastic man and a plastic woman.
He liked the woman better, liked learning that inside, tits were mostly fat.
Funny.
Insides were beautiful, all the colors, really complicated.
School was fruit flies and words, not reality, nothing like this.
Not science.
When he was finished with the cat, he cut its diaphragm and it stopped breathing.
Then he cleaned up, took his time doing it, being super-careful.
That was the key, to clean up really good. You'd never get caught.
Without the cat she got worse, crazier. Spent a lot of time in her room talking to herself and barfing her meals-she was definitely losing it. The maids called her Senora Loca, didn't even bother to hide the fact that they thought she was nuts.
He wondered why she and Doctor stayed together, why Doctor didn't just kick her ass out. Then he heard them fighting once, she accusing doctor of fucking candy-stripers at the hospital, saying that he better not pull the shit he'd pulled on Lillian-she'd take him to the cleaners if he ever tried that shit on her. He'd be taking the bus to work, eating beans for dinner before she was finished with him.
Doctor didn't answer, so he figured there was something to the threat.
Not that the fights happened too often anymore, 'cause they didn't. Because Doctor was almost never home. But when he was, the shit really hit the fan.
He missed going down and listening. Even though his mind was working good, he had plenty of mental pictures and kill-sex memories to work with, there was nothing like actually hearing it, actually peeking through the door and seeing it.
They had a real good one when he was fifteen. A week after his fifteenth birthday, which no one had celebrated. He hadn't expected anything-she was too drunk and Doctor had ignored his birthdays since he'd refused to have a Bar Mitzvah.
Fuckbrain never did anything religious-why the fuck should he learn all that Jewish shit?
He'd waited for it to feel like a birthday. When it didn't, said fuckit, fuck them, and went out for a night walk. He found the dog a couple of blocks away-a ragged-looking ter-with no collar-choked it out, then brought it home hidden under his coat. Up in his room he anesthetized it and set up a terrific anatomy session, using the big Liston amputating knife and really enjoying the weight of it. The power.
Later that night he had terrific dreams, bunches of animals and girls all dancing and screaming and begging him to do it to them; he was sitting on this throne-type chair looking down on this pit that was half fire, half blood.
