Autopsy Report

Laughter rings nervously from her throat, laughter suffocated by gasps and sobs. She looks down at the specimen lying on the autopsy table. Such a wonderful example of masculinity. Tall, smooth mocha skin, tightly braided hair, beautiful grey eyes. What a waste of a life, but it must be done.

“Why is it such a big deal where we go?” You run your hand over your braids, a gesture I normally find cute.

“Because,” I whine, “we need to know where we’re going. Summer break is coming up soon. And with finals we’re not going to have time to talk about it.”

“Nira,”--again your hand roams across your scalp-- “break isn’t for another month. We have plenty of time to decide. I mean, if nothing else we can spend it half and half. Part at your parents’ and part at mine.”

Thinking over your suggestion I smile, “Of course! That would work perfectly. You’re so smart, hun.” I wrap my arms around your neck, stand on my toes and place a kiss on your cheek. You smile and encircle my waist with your arms.

“And you are so beautiful,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against mine, “I love you.”

She makes the first incision, a long narrow line starting from his groin reaching to his sternum. Another bout of nervous laughter followed by tears, but this time both are drowned by the specimen’s screams. Long, painful tones bellow from his mouth. She deepens the cut. Deeper, deeper, deeper. His ribs exposed.

“I’ll be right back, Nira. Okay?” You leave your room. Leave me sitting on your bed with nothing to amuse myself with. Canvases litter the room. You’re such a great artist.

Scanning the room, I stop and gaze at one acrylic painting. A nude woman lies on her back, head turned away from the artist. Who is she? Her olive skin stretches over her full frame; lush black hair curls over one shoulder and hides her breasts. Who is she?

“Hey, baby, whatcha looking at?”

I look away from her exposed body and focus on your grey eyes, holding them with my brown ones. “Who is this woman?”

“What woman?” As if you didn’t know.

“The woman in this painting. The naked one? Who is she? Why do you have a painting of her?” Is she your lover? She must be.

You cross over to me and peer down at the painting. “Oh, that’s Amelia. She’s one of the models for my acrylic class. You’ve met her before, baby.”

“You haven’t said why you have a painting of her.” Remembering those nights spent with her?

“It was for class, baby girl. Look, Nira, if you don’t like that painting I’ll take it out and throw it away. Or I’ll give it to Amelia.”

You smooth one hand down my hair, the other placed under my chin. “I love you, Nira.”
Slightly arched back, long legs, an olive toned stomach. Was that painting really for a class? The background didn’t look like the paint studio.

She exchanges the scalpel for chest cutters, laying the blood soaked tool on a tray. Crack! The sound causes her to jump. Laughter, nervous laughter, sobs, gasps, laughter. The specimen makes no noise. Tired of his screaming, crying, and moaning, she cut a hole into his windpipe. Separating the ribs she finds her prize. His heart. Barely beating.

You crush me against the wall; your mouth hungrily devours mine. Wrapping my arms around your waist I bring you closer to me. I want to melt into your body. Your hands roughly explore me. Mm, you know just what I want. I pull back from you and smile coyly.

“What’s wrong, baby girl?”

“I just thought we’d try something new. Come on, I have the perfect place for us to play.”

You follow me out of my room, out of the building, across the dark campus, into the science building. I can feel your desire radiating off of you; that desire isn’t for me though, it’s for her. Amelia. We find our way into one of the biology labs and shut the door firmly behind us.

“Ready?”

You renew explorations, backing me into a table. Again, I pull away. Confusion litters your eyes.

“Lay down, papi. I’m gonna give you what you deserve tonight.”

You lie on the metal table watching as I slowly strip away your clothing. You watch as I rummage around through the cabinets on the wall. “What are you looking for, baby girl?”

I stand up with surgical tubing in my hands and a smile on my lips. You look at the tubing, an eyebrow cocked uncertainly.

“Stretch out, papi.” I tie your wrists and ankles to the table, making sure you can’t move them. “We’re going to play a game. It’s called autopsy.”

Taking up the scalpel again she stares into his dead eyes. So cold, she thinks to herself. She freed his heart from its bodily restraints. Holding it in her hands, she thinks about how light it feels. It must be empty. That explains why he did it. Nervous laughter. Sobs. She looked at her arms, they were covered in blood. Turning around she saw her reflection in the metal tray beside her. Blood covered her face, her clothes, her everything. She sits on the floor, cradling his heart and begins writing a report. Have to write a report on every autopsy, her professor taught her. This one is no different.

Screaming, who’s screaming? She looks up from her report, Professor Casey stands in the door way. Oh, that’s who’s screaming. She continues with her report, cradling the heart, whispering to herself, “His blood, so warm. His eyes, so cold. His heart, so empty.”