The Anatomy Lesson
So I started this story for Spiritcharm's madness contest, but I didn't manage to finish it in time, so now it's for Devilish Aisha's Murder Story Competition. I'm not entirely clear on whether it counts, but she never got back to me with a clarification, so this is what she gets!
This is loosely based on a handful of the themes I did for Halloween last year, but it should not be considered in continuity with them any more than they're necessarily in continuity with each other, and you definitely don't have to read them to understand this.
And just so you know, uh, this gets pretty weird/uncomfortable. I'm not sure exactly what I could warn for that wouldn't be way too specific or spoilery, but, y'know, it's an M-rated horror fic that was partially written for a competition about madness.
Disclaimer: None of the characters used in this story belong to me, nor does Zarmina, which is a real exoplanet that probably isn't full of aliens named after desserts
I make my initial incision, careful not to press too hard and damage the tissue beneath the skin. Human flesh is unexpectedly fragile, as I discovered when I exsanguinated the body. I saved much of the resulting liquid for further testing; it was an unnerving shade of reddish-brown.
The subdermal fat peels away easily with the skin of the torso. I am able to break the ribs with my bare hands and without exerting undue effort. The human skeleton is thick, but it is not as durable as it looks. I make notes as I go. Occasionally, little ruminations on strategy or unwarranted, hastily-scribbled-out digressions mar my attempts to record my findings. I must learn to keep better control over myself.
I take samples of several kinds of tissue as I run across them. Skin, fat, bone, striated and unstriated muscular tissue, minuscule slices of several organs. Humans are very like Zarminians, but nearly always subtly off in ways that make me shudder with revulsion: the increased percentage of body fat that makes them look so warm and soft, the weird pinkness of their intestines (slippery under my hands, and I have the sudden urge to tie them around my neck and pull), the bone structure that looks Zarminian at first glance but is not, like someone you know suddenly being replaced by an exact duplicate.
I am only shivering because it is cold in the dissection room.
The heart, the organ which humans burden with so much metaphorical significance, weighs only 300 grams with all the blood removed. I weigh it in my hand, bring it up near my face, and squeeze, gently. Nothing happens, except that the sad little hunk of muscle squelches wetly. Upon reflection, I do not remember what I expected to happen.
Then the heart thumps in my hand like a war drum, and I nearly drop it in surprise. Cardiac muscle has been known to imitate life when struck with electricity, but I did no such thing. Now, the heart just lies helplessly in my grip, as though it had never moved at all. I squeeze it again, suspicious, but it continues to feign innocence. Well. I know better than to believe this heart: I throw it away from from me, more violently than I had intended. It hits the wall with a soft, satisfying squelch.
Zarminians are very like humans, after all. I must keep better control over myself.
As I get deeper into my work, a belief rises in me that I should hurry, since it is unlikely that the ship will remain peaceful for long. The thought strikes me like a gong until I am shaking. I can hear my world falling away.
This ship will remain quiet. There is no living thing here but me, and possibly Deep Blue, who is mourning in his own way. We have an unspoken agreement not to disturb one another in our mutual grief. Perhaps he has contacted Zarmina to inform them of our situation. I do not expect that we will need reinforcements. Deep Blue and I are soldiers; we are used to losing comrades.
I, at least, did not expect to lose anyone on this mission. Kish and Taruto, reckless though they were, were highly-trained warriors, and the adolescents that Earth mustered to oppose us hardly seemed worth taking seriously.
My research takes me farther down, and I begin to examine the body's reproductive organs. Like much of the rest of the human body, the outer fold of the reproductive organs are dusted with hair. If I had any interest in this body other than a purely scientific curiosity, I would be repulsed by the ubiquity of human hair.
The body under my hands is too warm. I did not give it time to cool properly before beginning my exploration, but nonetheless, it should have reached the ambient temperature by now. But it is so warm that, were its body cavities not spread and gaping, I could almost imagine that it was still alive.
I turn off the strong overhead light, in case it was keeping the body from cooling. Now, the lab is lit only by the various displays and dials on my equipment, but that is no matter. I have excellent night vision, and can see more than well enough to complete my dissection.
Except that I cannot find the body. The table itself is perfectly visible, but, as far as I can discern, it is empty. My first response is, I admit, an irrational one: I twist around, trying to find where the body has gone to. But of course, my confusion was a trick of the light. The body lies precisely where I left it.
Its torso jerks upright. It swings its legs off the edge of the table and lurches, unsteadily, to its feet. The bisected skin of its torso flops obscenely against exposed muscle and broken bones, and viscera trails from it like ribbons.
I am upset that the movement has ruined all my careful work.
The body closes the distance between us in a single slide, and, though it is smaller than me, it presses me bodily back against a rack of floral samples. With one hand, it holds its skin closed like a vest, and it grinds against me aggressively. I can feel, not the natural opening of its birth canal, but the opening I created to get a better look at the internal components of the reproductive system, rubbing damply against my pant leg. Its free hand snakes up around my neck and wrenches downward, ungently, until our lips meet.
It feels less like a kiss than like we are fighting to devour each other. I cannot imagine that this human would have kissed like this in life. I sift one hand through her exposed, jumbled organs, and then run my fingers through her hair, which glows an almost bioluminescent green in the dim light of the laboratory. She is an empty vessel. I pour my rage at her kind, my grief for my comrades, everything I have into her. She takes it all, and pays me back with sharp teeth and jagged nails scrabbling now at my chest.
I can barely feel it when she breaks the skin and digs her hands eagerly into my flesh. As ever, she holds my heart in her hands, and I watch glassily as it thuds to a halt.