Autopsis

The man opposite me is a troll. He is stone-coloured, a bland, inoffensive creature in grey and khaki. I imagine that he shuffles around the cafes as the sun goes down, stony skin safe in the half-light of candles on tables and mellow fairylights. In the morning he will slowly walk along the beach as the sky bleeds into pink and gold, and lie down amongst the pebbles and disappear between them.

I watch white crumbs collect in the sad corners of the troll’s mouth as I sit in the corner full of weary students tapping at Macbooks with steamed-up glasses from the freezing night outside. I feel like a breathing heap of clay, something dormant and Biblical, a little Golem rendered dumb and immobile by endless cups of soothing tea and watching people pass the window, so variable and yet so hypnotically the same. Clutching newspapers and little fingers in warning and restraint before crossing the road slick with rain…Thinking about sex and divorce and sucking in killer cigarettes, tapping at tiny squares of coloured light with aching thumbs.

I am glad my thoughts are secret, close to my chest, hidden behind the acid green padlocks of my eyes. I am imagining in exquisite detail performing a slow autopsy on my lover. Not because I do not love her, or because my brain is cruel and sparks sadistic neurons, but because I can hear things rattling the bone cage that keeps my heart pressed in, tied down with bruised, scarlet muscle. Our skeletons are burrowed deep and tangle together, and I must consider the inside of her skin my own simply because it is hers, and because I am terribly afraid of death.

Dead flesh does not bleed even when penetrated by knives and isn’t that funny? How the great gasping gush of red inside sinks to a thick stillness when the soul leaps out – doesn’t it thrill you, how alive blood is? Lungs are empty chapels of stained violet glass, where once a choir exhaled. I look at the rosy arms of the girl sitting next to me and imagine her thrumming skin pierced by an expert scalpel like teeth entering a crisp apple. I imagine pulling back the sheet covering a still, cold face and realising it is my lover. I flinch inside, a steel door shutting in my guts. I shiver in uncontrollable terror and excitement, and the girl looks at me as though I am a dangerous snake; madness coiled and about to strike.

Walking home is cold and loneIy. I cherish the silence and the reflection of the street lamps on the pavement. Great splashes of orange, like a row of suns dropped carelessly on the concrete. I count them all, but I am not certain that I have caught all the suns and so I count them again. When I open the door the smell of her crawls into my nostrils and wraps around my hair. We are about to eat together, her voice pierces my brain like a long, silver splinter.

The eggs are boiling. Thin little shells bubbling and jostling in the pan. The fish is cold and vaguely metallic on my tongue, it is the cool, thick texture that at once repulses and attracts me. She smiles shyly over the table and I feel invisible wires twitch and coruscate between us. She does not know that I am thinking of her skin under hard flourescent lights, waiting patiently for attention like a child striving to be good in a hallway full of motionless silhouettes. She would have turned a mottled blue-white, like the underbelly of something dreadful, and her face is set in a terrible calm, even as her long guts are pulled out like handkerchiefs from a magician’s sleeve. The steel trap closes quietly around my stomach; sharp, writhing, wonderful.

Every time I think of her like this I tap my left index finger on my heart three times to keep her safe. I know that if I have a thought about her dying I can knock on the door of my heart like this and her spirit will fly there, where nothing can touch her. It is by this ritual that I stop the angels of death and protect her within the great fortress of my white ribs. They tell me this kind of thinking is abnormal.

The eggs are ready. The shells are hot and steaming. Benign and smiling, I lay my hand upon her shoulder, and in my mind they carefully crack open the globe of her skull, precise and melodious. The sound of colossal hammers ringing a hundred temple bells.

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