What could you touch of her, in that pale horror of dead? Head wound lacerations. Contusions, they said. Brain swelling. Pop. Part of her skull was just a shattered window. He saw her eyes roll back, blood leaking out the lower lid. The impact had taken her blondie bounce, turned it into matted mud spreading over her neck. They all screamed, but it was over. They left her. He left her too. Nothing but a corpsesicle, the mortuary man said. She was a sexy little number too, all but the back of that head. Tomorrow, tomorrow, they’d make a Y incision. Tonight it was beer at Mulligan’s and a choice hooker if he won at pool.
One burning light kept on, then silence. “AH” she moans, knowing not where she lay. Only hearing tomorrow, Y cut tomorrow, autopsy. Up, she sits, with the blades all around, for certain uses, with special edges. She grabs a familiar tool and oh peaches, she’s so pretty as she starts at the wrist. Blue and icy blood, must be frozen solid, she thinks, as she runs the straight razor up the length. At the top she makes a T cross and slides her fingers underneath arctic skin, detaching fibers and vein matter which hold the epidermal outer casing in place. Like a glove she removes the flesh of her own lower arm. Blood, muscle and bone shine in the flinching single bulb illumination of the dim meat locker. There was no pain anymore.
She loved the way her naked arm looked next to the perfectly clothed one. Her knuckles protruded through tendon and she brought her tongue down to lap the fluid of all other existence. What was invincibility but knowing you were nothing more than sinew? She was goddess. She was hungry goddess.