Innards of Jane Doe
By Georgia Bowan
A of cruel joke, a stomach ache, everlasting loneliness.
Like an ice pick to the shoulder blade, like a lesion dusted with salt. A scar will occur, it’s inevitable.
I prayed to Christ and all his admirers that I would not die alone. I looked up at the grey sky, blanketed by ash particles, forcing their way into my nostrils and gaping mouth. They find each tiny speck in my lungs when they open me up. I crossed my fingers and prayed to never feel so solitary, secluded, withering away. But I do, I am.
I am misshapen, struggling to come to terms with my deformity, with the enormity of being a human, torn apart by cyborgs. The enormity of awaiting the slaughter, praying my consumers don’t think my meat is too tough when I’m gone. Too gristly, even in death I aim to please my oppressors.
My body, nude. My face, blurred and unidentifiable. The morgue, a tag around my ankle, shaven head and neat butterfly stitches straight down my torso. I can see it so clear now.
I wanted to be cradled and smothered, all I got was a spine of cold, hard steel. I wanted to be embalmed next to him, all I got was eyes that roll back, corpse that bloats, cock going soft. A pit unfurling in my stomach, the desire to cause myself bodily harm.
Even in death, I’m consumed by the pointless fawning.
Eaten up by the loneliness, the inability to love or be loved, the inability to open up all the way, even with help from the scalpel.
I am suffering and unexcitable. I am fearful for the future, nihilistic, a non believer. But I don’t want to be. I just don’t want to die alone.
And more than that, I just don’t want to live forever. I think that eternal loneliness would be worse than the slaughter. Would be worse than his eyes on the back of my neck, would be worse than the ice pick, the blade down the abdomen, the peek inside. All of that, going on forever. This is what would annihilate me on impact, turns in my stomach, turns me immobile and cruel.
Lying on the table, I know my eyes will be open. They’ll say she died hard, but they won’t know the half of it.
