Disassemble Me

Disassemble Me

By Z. Luna Eligos

I gaze upon the woman in the bathroom, her scared eyes flicking desperately. In her heart of hearts, she must already know what is to come. Maybe she’s even accepted it. It doesn't matter. I begin by forcing pills down her throat before I inject the needle into her arm, just for variety. It is the spice of life, after all, and you can never be too careful. I’m not sure what the drugs are, exactly, only that my guy assured me it should work for my purposes. Mostly. I wasn't exactly forthcoming about the particulars, and he didn't ask. That's why I trust him.

Now, the real fun begins. I start by carving part of her love handles out. Getting them symmetrical is a difficult task, but I do my best. You see, she’s always been self conscious about her lack of curves. This is my attempt to give her that hourglass figure she so desires. The meat of the severed flesh is squishy and dripping with blood, so I discard the jiggling flesh in the trash can.

Next, I switch over to her belly. She’s gained weight in recent years. Not that it matters, really, but I know how sad it makes her. Never forget that what I am doing, I am doing for her. Honestly, I figured I could just sort of slit her belly open and pull out the fat, but it doesn't seem to work and time is of the essence, so I wrap her up in tight bandages. It simply wouldn't do if she bled out.

Possessed by a sort of macabre inquiry, I decide to pull out a fingernail. She screams. At least, I think she does. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes run over with tears. The ringing in my ears has grown to a cacophony, and I’m not sure I can hear anything but. That’s when I do a curious thing, and take up my knife and slip it between the join of the metacarpophalangeal joint and the proximal phalange. There’s a sick sort of pop as the finger comes free. Perhaps it’s the feral state of mind that this whole ordeal has me in, but when I lift the severed finger to inspect it, I find myself biting off the meat like a twisted chicken wing. The flesh is stringy and a little bitter, but so, so juicy. I gnaw upon the thing and suck the marrow from the bone. This process tickles an untapped part of my brain. Perhaps this has awakened some form of primordial hunger within me.

Before I finish my work, I bring my phone into the bedroom and dial emergency services. I say nothing, of course, but I need to ensure the woman lives. My family would never forgive me if she died. It may take quite some time for them to understand my work here today, but they'll come around eventually. I cannot say that I don't want to kill her. If it were up to me, I’d have put her out of her misery long ago. Alas, the girl must live, and so I shall make sure of it. Anyways, I leave the phone on the bed and make my way back to my work. I do note all the blood I’ve tracked onto the carpet and sheets. A shame, but it will come clean eventually.

Now, for the most important part: her eyes. She's always complaining about them, you see. They've given her nothing but trouble. The pain, the alleged squeezing sensation, the alien feel of them. How many times I have asked her to stop talking about them, I cannot recall. But she never stops. It’s as though her eyes have consumed her, cursed to bring up their maladies constantly. I very tenderly slip my finger and thumb into her orbit. This is such delicate work, and I don't want to make a mess of it. Sadly, with the pressure I apply, the eye squishes in my hand and begins to ooze the vitreous humor. Undeterred, I pull until it snaps out. I consider the dangling optic nerve, the ruined eye. Instinct tells me to swallow it, and so I do. It’s a wretched sort of sensation as it squishes and squirms down my throat. It takes a few times before it goes all the way down, and I feel the optic nerve slither the entire way. With her other eye, I’m more careful, pulling it free without squishing it too badly. Much to my chagrin, it too must be interred in my stomach. Can't separate the eyes, you see. Well, she won't.

How I long to gaze upon my handiwork, but alas, I am simply unable. With my eyes condemned to my stomach, my body shall take from them what nutrients it can, and in a way, they'll be with me always. Unable to vex me anymore. I have no doubt emergency services will be perplexed with my work, so too will my family. Though I will not, they’ll soon see. It had to be done. This body simply had to be reforged. Disassembled so that it might be reassembled in all its splendor. Near perfection. A shame about the belly fat, but I did my best. When they fix me up at the hospital, I’ll be right as rain. Better than ever. A happy ending, even if it was paved in blood and agony. But is not all great art the product of suffering?