The first incision began at her sternum and traveled between her breasts and down into her lower left side. Then I retraced the incision, cutting into her right. The scalpel was an old one, smelling of an old trombone let out of its case to be played after being dormant in a closet. The oxidation engulfing the instrument was substantial. The thought of using such an instrument under sanitary conditions was appalling. But due to the quality and emergency of this surgery, I began hacking at her tissue like a mountain man sawing through lumber. The incision, in the end, made for a comfortable procedure. Both sides seemed to flap over the breasts and, with a little stretching, onto the dinette table, where I nailed them to secure the surgery would commence uninterrupted. Her body looked tremendous as it ripened.
I began labeling the organs accordingly with painted pins. The colored pencil sketches and diagrams were of no use, however. Her heart wasn’t exactly sky blue when I finally found it. I went at the body with a hose in hopes of simplifying the task at hand. All her insides turned a fleshy tan, with tiny burgundy puddles in the crevices. Each resembled the next, throwing me into a violent rage in which I unplugged every organ that could be unplugged. Some started bleeding, others just leaked out crimson water. The rage that overcame my insides set anchor until Jessica’s corpse rested in pieces among the wine cellar turned operating room. I stood in the vertex of the semi circle of sin I had created, winded and physically exhausted.
In my final wicked chapter, I paraded on her disentangled organs and marrow-splintered bones. I walked all over her like she walked all over me for so long. Her head still looked down upon the scene.