I can’t wash you off of me

Your absence won’t drink away

Bottoms of bottles speak with silent plea

Tales of my dormant dying decay




I’m not exactly sure what I’ve written here, and it is a little out of my usual style. Way more halting, and I usually love commas. Like, a lot. I only began with a vague idea about an obsessive-compulsive Pathologist. Only after did I hit on trying to impress the idea of a guy more comfortable with the dead than the living. Not that original I guess, but felt like writing tonight, so here it is. Only short, but hey, I don’t get paid much. Or at all.

I glanced at the clock. 2 pm. Time to begin. I approached the bench, counting each step as I went. Five steps. Chart clenched stiffly in my hands, the deceased’s information was typed in black, standing prominent against the sterile page. Aseptic. Lifeless and unchanging. Thirty years of age. Massive cerebral hemorrhage. But the particulars didn’t concern me much. An autopsy had to be performed. I had a job to do, and it was routine. It had to be routine. It was the only way to cope, really. Due to this, I had to start now. Muted tinges of anxiety began to grab, as the seconds marched forward to 2.01 pm. I couldn’t start at 2.01. That just wouldn’t work. No one starts at times like that. It was very stressful sometimes. Life has so many variables, a chaotic unplanned disaster that pained me at every moment I couldn’t ignore. Here, I had my routine. It had to be the same. I rushed through my preparation. Tools laid out, descending in particular order, metal shining and edges grinning. Superiority dictated by usefulness. Life was not as simple, but death could be. The gloves were speckled with dust. Catastrophe. A big deal. I couldn’t continue. Yet, I couldn’t restart as much as I could reverse time. That power was beyond me, even here. I had fifteen seconds. I can’t explain why I had to change them. A vague, all-powerful compulsion, a maddening, itching, burning desire to eliminate a variable, the outlying, the line outside a stone-set column. I rushed over to the supplies. Fifteen seconds, as I grabbed desperately for fresh gloves. Sweat dripped down my face. Acid rivers stung in my eyes, panic mounting, driven into my head like a spike. The gloves caught in the box. Blind anguish now. Breathing ragged, heart straining in petrol-driven tachycardia, bursting, sputtering. The gloves pulled free, and I snapped them on. I hurried back to my position. Two seconds to spare. Relief, joyous and flooding, poured over me. Deescalation, tranquil as water. Normality and routine. I made my incision, and began. Blood spilled bright over my gloves. I smiled. I was home.