I keep thinking about the concept of live dissection. Seeing how many organs you can remove before they start fading, making sure they’re hooked up to machines to keep them alive for as long as possible, using too little anesthetic to make sure they feel as much as possible without completely going into shock (can’t have them dissociating too hard, you want them to experience every sensation). Gloved hands prying apart their ribcage, lovingly tracing the inside of their chest. You’ll be gentle, of course, as you carefully remove each organ, cherishing each one as a trophy as you delicately place it aside. Whispering gentle praise and wiping their quiet tears as they become less and less coherent, while you keep blood pumping to the brain for as long as possible.
someone should come and dissect me I'd be such a good specimen. I'd be so nice and still while you restrained me, just to be sure. I wouldn't even cry out as you cut through my skin, maybe a gentle gasp as you reach in to peel it away. you could remove my organs so neatly one by one, and do whatever you like with them. and when you reach your hand inside me and can see where it protrudes through my flesh I'd be sooooo normal about it
Being a maid is an interesting job - becoming part of the furniture, looking after this grand old mansion, seeing pleasures and wonders I never would have experienced. You, the owner of the manor and my employer, gave me this opportunity some months ago, and I have worked hard to keep this position ever since.
When you hired me, you sat behind an ancient mahogany desk in your study, me standing before you trying not to tremble too obviously, I understood that there was something…different, about the job. Something that you were not telling me. But so far all it has been is cleaning, running around, occasionally fetching and carrying for you. The other maids don't speak to me, give me strange and pitying looks whenever I pass by them. But I ignore them, for now.
And then comes the day that I am called into the library. It is a towering expanse of books, neat and orderly on their shelves. I am quick to attend you - it wouldn't do to keep you waiting - but as I enter the room, my fingers twisting anxiously in the folds of my modest black dress, there is nobody to be seen. I take a few steps forward, peer around a shelf.
That's when I feel your hand clasping around my mouth, and a sharp prick in the side of my neck.
I gasp, involuntarily, my body freezing despite itself, but it is too late. I feel the soft slide of the chemicals into my veins, and my vision blurs. I try to scream, to shout, to bite the hand that muzzles me, but I can't seem to move my mouth. I try to raise my hands to wrench you away from me, and I can't even twitch a finger. My breathing is fast, uncontrolled, but it's the only part of me I can control - my eyes are wild, wide, and my body is not responding, and I fall. Backwards. Into your arms.
You catch me, of course. You are courteous like that. I feel your hand release from my mouth and watch as you hoist me upwards. Not into your arms, but slung over your shoulder, like a thing. An object you don't particularly care for. I try and move again, try and beat my fists against your back, kick my feet into your face, but I can't. All I can do is hang there, limp, as you carry me across the room.
My head is slung over your back, and I cannot see what you are doing, but I hear the sound of a book being pulled from the shelves, hear a soft click and a quiet scrape, then you are walking again - forwards, into the shelf? No. Into something beyond it, a passageway opened up. The comforting light of the library recedes behind me as darkness goes to swallow me again and I once more try and scream, but I just open and close my mouth, dumb.
I cannot see much, just cold stone hallways, the click of your shoes and my ragged breathing the only sounds. My mind is blank. The thousand panicked thoughts have blurred into a static mess of silence, and all I can do is anticipate what is to come - what I fear you know.
Eventually, you stop and turn, ducking through a door before depositing me on some sort of couch, stained and threadbare, before crossing to the other side of the room. I try and push my body up, but whatever you injected into me is still running fast through my bloodstream, and all I do is shift slightly, my hips rocking and elbows digging into the couch. You seem to notice this, turning to me with a smile, then pull across something veiled in a sheet. A large object, the same height as you, and thin. Pulling back the sheet, you reveal it - a mirror.
You go beside me and sit me up so that I am facing the mirror, eyes still wide. My hair has come unpinned from the neat chignon I tied it up in this morning, and hangs about my shoulders uselessly. My sober dress is rumpled, and my face is vacant, empty. I can see the whole length of my body, from the flyaway hair to the stocking that is making its way down my leg.
That's when I feel your hands snaking around me.
One presses to my face, while the other - delicate as though you are dressing an infant - starts to undo the buttons at the back of my dress. My breath hitches in my throat, and I whimper, but you just pause to stroke my hair, whisper comforting nothings in my ear. I am struggling again, but all my body can do is rock slightly back and forth, trembling in your grasp. You hold my chin, your breath hot in my ear. "Come now. Behave yourself." Your grip is just a little too tight, my skin white around your fingers. I take in another breath, and close my eyes.
Quick as a flash, you yank my hair back, my eyes shooting open involuntarily. "I want you to see this," you growl, and I squeak in protest, but I stare into the mirror regardless. With a murmur of approval, you resume your work, carefully undoing button after button with one hand while the other holds my face fast, pointed at the mirror.
Before too long, my dress begins to grow slack around my body. I feel it fall forwards, loosening around my arms - I know you can see my back on full display, goosebumps prickling across it in the sudden chill of the room. Carefully, you slide it forward over my arms, until the bodice hangs at my waist, my torso bare but for the loose chemise I wear underneath it. With a grunt of frustration, you pull me to my feet, standing me up and letting the dress fall down, puddling beneath me.
You lift me up again, to sit back on the couch, but this time you go to kneel before me. Taking one of my feet in your hand, you start to unbuckle the shoe - with less care, an abstract part of me notices, tearing frustratedly at buttons and buckles until it slides off my foot, followed by the other. It takes nothing to yank my stockings down, add them to the pile of clothes mounting on the floor.
I feel a tear form at the corner of my eye, sitting there in just my chemise, nothing else. Swallowing, I try and control the awful trembling of my limbs, push myself away from the couch, but all I succeed in doing is arching my back slightly. You stand and, seeing me there, lick your lips. But with a shake of your head, you just lean forwards and readjust my head, so that I can definitely see myself once more. With one rough hand, you pull my chemise up over my head. I can hear the tear of fabric as it rips, slightly, under your touch; the chill rush of air on my skin makes goosebumps rise once more to the surface.
My instinct is to cover myself, to hide my nakedness from you, but I still cannot move. You stand there before me, eyes skirting me, hunger behind them. Your gaze pierces my body, a smirk curling your lips. Your eyes pointedly do not meet my own. My breath hitches, a tear forming at the corner of my eye.
Next thing I know, your arms are around me once more, and you lift me onto your back again. I yelp, but this time I don't even try and struggle.
The journey is not far. Just the length of a room, and we are in another dark chamber. I blink a few times, try and let my eyes adjust to the gloom, but it is no use. It is dark, too dark for you to make anything out. As you carry me through to the centre, your strides are purposeful, businesslike.
You lay me down; there is something hard beneath me, a table? My limbs are starting to work again, pinprickles running up and down them, but all I can manage is a slight curl of the fingers and toes. So when I hear the clatter of metal, when I feel leather bindings sliding around my wrists and ankles, that is when I begin to panic. My tongue is loose enough to let out a soft yelp; I feel your hand clamp down over my mouth, driving my head painfully into the table. I try and cry out again, but the sound is muffled - you smirk again, and continue your task.
Removing your hand, you snap the leather straps into place. One on each ankle, one on each wrist. One across my forehead. Each tight, so tight I can feel my pulse hammering through them. One on each shin. One on each thigh. One just under each shoulder. I can move my limbs enough to strain against them, the leather cutting into my skin. A bead of blood wells up against my ankle, dripping slowly onto the table. In the silence, I can practically hear the plink.
You step backwards, and clap your hands once. A bulb comes on over my head; bright, almost blinding, enough to make me squint instinctively against the sudden burst of light. In the blind panic that jolts through me, I realise for the first time just how vulnerable I am - naked, strapped to a table, alone beneath the house with you.
Except I am not alone. Because as my eyes readjust to the light, I can see them. Shadowy shapes around me, on raise benches looking down at me. Just like I am in a-
Dear God, no.
An operating theatre. That's what it reminds me of. An operating theatre, and I am the subject. My lungs heave; nausea hits the back of my throat, and I retch, my breath coming in a short gasp. Above me, you roll your eyes, delicately reaching below the table I am on. When you bring your hand up, you are holding a strip of dirty cloth; grabbing my lower jaw, you force my mouth open and stuff the cloth inside. I choke out a sob - the fabric tastes of dust and grime and is that dried blood? My tongue, sandwiched behind it, fights to expel it from my mouth, but you are already tying another cloth around my face, gagging me tight.
And that is when I see the scalpel, gleaming in your other hand. And I know that you have found out my secret.
I cannot be killed. I can't explain it - it happens to so few people, and I am one of them. Cut me, and I bleed. But no matter what you do to me, I will heal. I have spent my whole life trying to live normally, trying to keep this secret inside. But somehow, you have discovered it. And now, the worst thing that could happen is about to take place.
You address the people gathered, explaining who I am. The words burble in my ears, indistinct. I am gasping around the gag, straining to let air into my lungs, trying to ignore the noxious taste, bucking my legs to find some slack, any slack in my bindings, but they are tight, too tight, and I feel another sob choke from my throat.
And because I am not paying attention to you, it comes as a surprise when I feel the first incision.
The pain slices through me as cleanly as your scalpel - I howl, the sound caught by the gag but still clear. The circle of indistinct faces draws closer, each person leaning forth in their seat. Blood wells at each side of the scalpel, a thin red line down my body. And you are taking your time with it. Slowly, slowly, slowly slitting me open, from just under my collarbone to the base of my stomach. I gulp in another breath, my vision blurring - but that is when you straighten up, pull another syringe from your pocket and, without warning, inject it into my neck.
My vision clears. The pain is still there - sharp, distinct, a burning line down my body - but I know instinctively that I am not going to pass out, not going to be swallowed by a blessed darkness while you do unspeakable things to my body. No, I am going to be awake, conscious.
As if reading my thoughts, I feel your blood-spattered hands loosening the strap across my forehead and sliding something underneath my head, propping it up. I can see down my entire body now, see the thin red line that marks me, see my chest heaving and my blood trickling down the sides of my skin. See you circling around me, flexing your fingers. See when you touch the point of the scalpel back into the incision, gentle as a kiss, and press down hard.
I howl beneath the gag, my arms and legs tensing as the scalpel plunges deep through layers of skin, muscle, and fat. You drag it backwards, across my body, slicing me open and pulling back the skin. I can see my lungs heave through my ribcage, see my intestines squirm within my belly, see...
Oh God. I retch around the gag again, saliva coating the fabric forced into my mouth, choking slightly as it slips further into my throat. I can see my heart, thumping and thudding in time with the pulse I can feel against the too-tight bindings.
You have noticed this too. You lean forwards, saying something to the crowd - I can't hear, the blood is pounding in my ears too loudly. You touch just above it, the centre of the rib cage, and my blood coats your fingers, slick and thick. Slowly, gently, you touch your fingertips to your lips, tongue flicking out to lick one clean. Involuntarily, I shudder; waves of pain are coursing down my body, but my eyes are completely focused on you. You meet them, just for a second, and the hunger I see there sends a shudder down my spine.
Leaning forwards, you carefully bring your head down to meet mine, and this time I hear you as you growl into my ear. "Don't you understand yet?" you say. "You're mine."
As you stand back up again, you turn to a table beside me, gleaming with knives and saws and scalpels. And I know that my ordeal is only just beginning.
