The Cadaver

There is something about the bleached light that makes my head spin. The bright white scratches my eyeballs in the most agonizing way possible. So I lie here, in the cold morgue, lifeless and still. The metal table piercing my bare back, it would've sent chills down my spine- only if I could feel. My vulnerable body is shrinking in itself- how frail and small. I can barely feel the ends of my nerves, it's almost as if I've been broken into pieces. I'm like a wax model on the table, and my essence writhers in the dark corner, shying away from my state. And what led to my demise sits upon my throat. My neck bejeweled with a long rusty incision. I can almost taste the stubborn iron, spilling thick scarlet on the ground. I had read about this phenomena of witnessing the unsettling and the gruesome, and always carrying its memory. I think that is how I feel. Because I witnessed his actions against me, I witnessed my own murder. So, as I trace my wound with my swollen fingers, a hazy memory seeps in, like dampness emerging on the wall.

It was a hollow night. My footsteps escaping the dirt. I was barely catching my breath. The void that was the forest, it engulfed me. I felt smaller and smaller, and all I could do was fall to my knees as the blunt metal rod met my skull. The rocks scraped off my willingness to fight. A sense of dead calm rushed over me. The wind came to a halt. His rough hands searched the crevices of my body, derobing me. It felt revolting and vulgar. I twisted and turned in his grip, only to find that there was no way out. My strength meant nothing. So a lump accumulated in my throat, drowning my rage. Salt rained and snuck down my cheeks, dissolving in the soil. First came the rod, then the flesh. I could feel every inch in my abdomen, the penetrative motion was unbearably painful. I kept trying to find something to focus on. In my desperate attempt to distraction, my eyes fell on his face. It was hard to tell by his expressions if he was finding pleasure in his actions or at the sight of my protesting body. I was inches away from his pocket knife- inches away from my freedom. I could have slashed his throat and maybe that forest would've found its rhythm again. But how merciful of him to do it first- in a swift motion at that. As I choked on my simmering blood, I couldn't help but look at the scarred moon. My hand clasped my throat as I curled into a foetal position. The vultures sang a sweet lullaby. The wind rose again- rocking me to sleep.

So I lie here, awake but asleep all at once. But there is only a thin line that deviates my state from that night. I'm still derobed, still vulnerable. But I'm displayed like an art for every eye to peer at- it is as if I'm not human anymore. The gloved hands exploring me do not seem as repulsive. The incisions on me are calculated, almost as if the person is trying to conjure a sense of understanding of what happened to me. But there is no absolute way to get a hold of why I was the chosen one. Why, despite my running, my feet gave away to the overwhelming feeling. And why, the idea of being inches away from rescuing myself could not satisfy my will to actually do something. But my spectators look at me- some with hope, some with disgust. They comment on my body in medical jargon, making it easier for me to drown in my regretful sorrow and bury myself in the grieving earth.

But I move away from the dust held rotten corner to get a closer look at my open bone cased center. It is so uncanny to find a body so violated, look so normal on the inside. I wish I was more recognizable. My tattered lips, discolored cheeks, my tangled hair- they took away my very essence. An essence that can never be brought back. The morticians can return borrowed colour to my canvas. They can adorn me in the most appealing attire, and comb my hair till it's pure silk. But I will always be that cadaver lying on the harsh soil, lying in the cold morgue. They can never bring back my departed empty shell. And they certainly cannot bring back the life in the bearer of sight- my sweet macabre eyes.