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[personal profile] agentorange
Title: Biology
Rating: PG-13 (I guess?)
Words: 1291
Note: Violent fantasies, descriptions not for the squeamish. Suggested by my 12 year old brother, of all people.



"And we make the ventral incision like so..."

Roman was only half paying attention to the biology instructor. He was far more interested in the partially dissected fetal pig before him. He sat at a lab table near the back of the classroom, a position afforded by alphabetical placement and blind luck: his usual partner was out, having recently suffered severe burns when their Etna had somehow malfunctioned. As such, he was enjoying the luxury of dissecting the fetus by himself.

So eager was he for the unit that he'd read ahead the previous night, and while the teacher droned on, and the rest of the class were squeamishly poking their cadavers with scalpels, Roman had begun disemboweling his fetus, spreading the intestines out on the dissection tray. The classmates at the table to his right glanced over, disgust written plainly on their faces.

"What are you doing?"

Roman looked up, startled at the hiss. He smiled apologetically like his mother had always insisted he do in public.

"It was an execution method in the old days," he whispered back. "The criminal was dragged by hooks, hanged, cut down before they were dead, and they had their belly cut open and their intestines taken out while still alive. They could feel the whole thing. Then they were beheaded and chopped into four pieces- hanged, drawn, and quartered, it was called. Pretty neat, huh?"

The two girls turned away from him, rolling their eyes. He heard one of them whisper to her partner "What a freak."

Shrugging, mostly to himself, he resumed his dissection. He thought of the great pleasure it was to use a scalpel, rather than the carving knife he'd smuggled from his parents' kitchen; he'd have to steal a few scalpels from the school stockroom for the vivisections he liked to perform on the small animals he caught.

"Now please locate the liver..."

Roman liked the acrid smell of formaldehyde the fetal cadavers gave off. Not as much as the metallic stench of hot blood, but the preserving fluid was pleasant too. He liked the plastic aprons the students were given to wear over school their neatly pressed school uniforms. It was better than ruining a good tie and having to claim he'd lost it, or that someone had stolen a white button-down. His parents were naive. They believed every lie he fed them about his afterschool activities, so long as he was punctual, presentable, and polite in public.

Once the instructor had looked over his fetus and had given him a check for correctly identifying the liver, Roman continued with his own dissection plan. He sliced decisively into the shriveled white tongue, absently wishing for a pair of scissors. He wondered if a pig could live without a tongue. He supposed so; people could, after all.

And some people should, he thought, giving a glance to the two giggling girls at the adjacent table. He could hold them down, separately, of course, and they would scream and scream and he would laugh, nailing one's tongue to the table while the other watched in horror, helpless to do anything but scream, and he would take the same scalpel used on the fetal pig and slowly cut out her tongue at its root and there'd be screams and lots of blood, all down the front of his apron, and the screams...

He felt eyes on him and looked up from his work. The two girls were staring at him, at the front of his apron. He realized he had an erection. Embarrassed, he ducked his head, hunching over the fetal pig. The tongue came loose and, disinterested by its pale lifelessness, he dropped it carelessly onto a length of uncoiled intestine.

The real problem, he mused, moving the scalpel to the pig's eyelid, was disposal. It was tedious. It was boring. He much preferred letting the housekeeper take care of picking up after him. He supposed eventually he could hire someone specifically for that. Last month, the housekeeper had discovered a box full of bones and fur tucked in the back of the linen closet. His father suspected rats, and his mother, ever fearful of scandal, demanded the issue be taken care of with the utmost delicacy. Traps were laid and remained unsprung. Roman went unnoticed to his parents.

He delicately sliced away the lids, not wanting to damage the cloudy, grey eyes. He considered how long it would take a lidless, living eye to dry up without an eyelid, if artificial tears were denied. He imagined it would be an annoyance, especially if the eye were exposed to irritants like dust. Or cayenne pepper. He'd have to try that the next time he caught a squirrel. He scraped one of the pig's eyes with the scalpel, and then sank the blade deep into it. He was inexplicably sad by the lack of blood and fluid that would otherwise be oozing from the eye. The reactions were his favorite part.

With a sigh, he moved from the mutilated eye back to the ventral incision, extending it up through the thorax to the throat. He would have liked to crack its ribcage, but he paced himself, carefully maneuvering under the breastbone and moving the tiny lungs aside to reveal the heart, thickened by preserving agents, its connecting veins and arteries stained with dye. In life, they'd be a deep, vibrant red, pulsing and then gushing when he severed the aorta. He knew it was possible for an animal to survive for a few moments after the heart was removed; it was brain death that finally ended the victim's struggle. It wasn't dramatic or exciting like ripping out a beating heart was, but it gave him a measure of satisfaction to see the light in its eyes fade.

He pulled the little heart free from the chest cavity, cradling it in his gloved hand. It was cold. It was long dead. Unfit for consumption. Useless. In a sudden flare of rage, he curled his fingers around it and squeezed. He wanted to throw it to the floor and grind it under the heel of his penny loafer. The heart squelched as it gave way under his vinyl crush. The sound did not please him as it might have, had it belonged to a different, living creature.

Flinging the now pulpy organ into a corner of the dissection tray, Roman again took up the scalpel, stabbing blindly. In his mind he envisioned the biology instructor, his classmates, the Waynes, his mother and father, hands before their faces in a futile attempt to block his devastating blows. He slashed through their hands, blood spattering his shirt. Their faces were unmarked and bland, hiding their true essence. The masks of horror were the real faces, not these rubbery, happy visages. With the blade of his knife, he released them from their masks, revealing the ugliness beneath. They were more satisfying and tolerable to look upon, without noses and with their eyes dangling on their bloody cheeks, now that they no longer bore the masks of hypocrisy.

A sharp pain in his hand startled him from his reverie; he had managed to stab through the glove of his left hand while holding the fetus in place. Crimson blood welled under the clear vinyl. He watched with fascination as it pooled against his palm and trickled down his wrists out of the glove, splashing life onto the cadaver. Without a word, he got up and left the classroom for the infirmary. The instructor frowned and continued his monotone lecture. The two girls adjacent sneaked a peek at Roman's abandoned dissection tray: the fetal pig was ripped open, partially flayed; its organs scattered around it.

The head had been mutilated beyond all recognition.
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May 2010

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