I slipped on my mask, turned off the latest police news on my phone, and gloved up to begin my work. On the operating table lay five bodies, the victims of the two particularly heinous cases reported in the news. Before me, they were broken and waiting to be pieced back together with the utmost care and respect.
What kind of hatred could lead to such cruelty, not even sparing a child of eight or nine? Two families, five lives brutally snatched away. I stood before the operating table, my hands trembling slightly. Edward Cullen, my colleague, gently patted my shoulder, signaling me not to be nervous as he began to carefully reassemble the remains. I steadied myself and started my work with the reverence the deceased deserved.
The body I was assigned was that of an elderly man. His face was not peaceful but rather a canvas of terror, his eyes wide open, showcasing the fear he experienced before his death. A deep wound stretched from his forehead to his jawline, and his nose was brutally severed. Before me on the operating table were over thirty pieces of his body, varying in size. I carefully placed the bloodied neck and the more identifiable torso in their respective positions and began to deal with the smaller, more fragmented pieces. The brutality of the scene made it difficult to discern the body parts, so I relied on the exposed fat and the cut ends to guide me.
In places where the pieces didnt fit neatly, I crafted prosthetics for implantation. As I began toSuture, the operating room fell into a silence that felt as if I were alone.
I wanted to make the old man look as intact as possible, doing my best to make the stitches even and delicate. However, the damage was too extensive, and I had no choice but to let the brown thread crawl across his body.
At the end, I noticed that the old mans left index and thumb were missing. I immediately reported this to Edward Cullen, who was working at the next operating table. He looked at me, walked to the door of the operating room, and pressed the call button: "Confirmed?"
"Head, its confirmed. The fingers found in the stomach of the child from B-Family indeed belong to the old man from A-Family. The two cases have been approved for joint investigation," the voice from the other end of the call button responded.
"Alright, I understand," Edward replied, looking at me. "Claire, the old mans fingers are currently being processed. WellSuture them last."
"Okay," I responded, pondering to myself: Two families were found dead, B-Family was a family of three, and A-Family consisted of a grandfather and his grandson. How could the old mans fingers from A-Family be found in the childs stomach from B-Family? Didnt the old man die in his own home?
Although puzzled, I was well aware that some things were not my place to question as a mere mortician. My job was to diligently work with the identification center to handle the deceaseds remains, which would be the greatest comfort to the families.
As I continued toSuture the old mans body, the delicate sound of the needle piercing the skin filled my ears. Lost in the gruesome sight of the fragmented corpse, I unintentionally got distracted, and the sharp needle pierced through my glove and into the middle finger of my hand. I quickly pulled out the needle; perhaps due to the tension, my finger was cut by the needle tip, and I let out a soft cry as blood began to flow, merging with the old mans blood and flesh.
Hearing my sound, Edward Cullen came over, frowned, and said sternly, "So careless, go get it taken care of right away!"
I didnt dare to retort and discarded the glove, walking towards the sink with my hand outstretched. I turned on the faucet, but no water came out.
"Edward, the water is cut off," I said, looking down at my blood dripping onto the floor, blossoming like an unopened dahlia.
"Go check the bathroom. Youre so clumsy in your work!" Edwards tone conveyed a hint of concern.
"Okay," I opened the door to the operating room and walked towards the bathroom at the end of the hallway, thinking to myself that it wasnt intentional.
I checked the time on my phone; it was almost 2:30 AM. The lights in the hallway occasionally emitted a buzzing sound, and the window of the bathroom was shrouded in darkness. I bent down to tend to the wound on my middle finger. Besides the sound of running water, the surroundings were eerily quiet. Of course, at this hour, aside from the duty room where someone was on night shift, no one should be around.
As I was lost in thought, the door to the stall behind me suddenly creaked, startling me. I looked back, but everything was calm. Perhaps it was just my imagination; after dealing with such a brutal dismemberment, it was natural for my nerves to be on edge.
I continued to clean my wound, and as I turned off the faucet, the light in the bathroom flickered. I glanced up at the mirror in front of me. Just one glimpse sent a shiver down my spine because standing in the second-to-last stall behind me was an old man dressed in a dark blue, collarless gown. His gown was open, revealing a grayish-white chest, and his cloudy eyes were staring straight at me through the mirror.
I was startled and turned to look into the stall, but everything was quiet, and there was no old man there. I reassured myself that it must have been my nerves, frazzled from the gruesome work of stitching up the dismembered body.
I composed myself, and the light in the bathroom flickered again. I looked back into the mirror, and the terrifying old man was not only still there but also closer. The light flickered once more, and the old man in the mirror was even closer to me.
Watching the old man getting closer and closer, I could almost see the neat row of sutures on his body, like centipedes. I wanted to run but found myself unable to move, my eyes fixed, and my voice trapped in my throat.
I watched as the old man drew nearer, until he stood shoulder to shoulder with me in the mirror. He began to tear at the threads on his body, and one by one, the threads started to snap. Then, the old man in the mirror shoved both hands into the freshly torn abdomen and dug deep inside.
I felt my cold sweat trickling down my nose, dripping onto my chest, and Winding down. But I couldnt move, watching as the old man pulled out a bloody mass from his abdomen and presented it to me. My eyes followed the object to the old mans hands, and to my horror, I realized that the old mans left index and thumb were missing!
I stared intently at the old man, the crack from his forehead to his jawline, and the position of the prosthetic sutures. It was none other than the victim from Group A I was working on, the old man on my operating table!
I watched as the bloody mass in his hands turned out to be a bamboo scroll and a cloth bag. The bag was embroidered with strange characters, or rather, more like talismans.
Then, with a sinister grin, the old man grabbed my hand and pulled out three bone-white, long needles from the cloth bag, viciously driving them into my left hands middle, ring, and little fingernails. I watched as the bone-white needles inch by inch disappeared into my nails. The pain was overwhelming, and I finally screamed out loud!
"Claire Randall? Claire Randall?" Edward Cullen gently patted my face, "Wake up, why did you have a nightmare?"
I opened my eyes, drenched in cold sweat, the sharp pain in my fingers still lingering. The injured middle finger had been bandaged by Edward, but the purplish-red blood spots under the nails of my left hand indicated that everything I had just experienced was not a dream.
Looking around, I found myself sitting by the sink in the operating room, having fallen asleep?
No, what I just went through was definitely not a dream.
Back at the operating table, looking at the A-Family elder who was still partially unstitched, I was haunted by his terrifying appearance and the gruesome image of him driving needles into my nails. My hands trembled, and I could no longer continue the stitching.