1
The Demise of Abigail Adams
“Hi, My name is Abby, Mr. John Doe. I’ll be your mortician this evening. It’s a pleasure to meet your dead body. If I may be so bold, I think I'm infatuated with you. May I make a confession? I love the taste of formaldehyde air in the morning. It’s the only perfume I’ll ever wear. I love the scent of Clorox stained linoleum tiled floors and the luminous gaze from the plastic lights above me when I'm working. The vibrant shine coupled with rotting flesh almost brings me to an orgasm. Almost. There’s nothing quite like carving up dead bodies. Nothing beats it. Not binge eating. Not shopping. Not even sex. I love what I do. I’d do it for free if I didn’t have to make a living. It’s an art form. And I'm the budding artist with a scalpel. A lot of people think I'm sick because I chose this profession. They say with my looks that I could be a super model and make baskets of money. Money? Money can’t buy this. Money can’t buy what I do. Money can’t buy being a mortician. I’m a blonde Swede, in case you didn’t know. Blonde Swedes are notorious for having a great time. I’m not like most Swedes and most Swedes don’t like me. In fact, no one likes me…not even my psychiatrist. He thinks I have a problem. He says I enjoy my work too much and that it’s sick that a gorgeous gal like me would enjoy what I do. He’s just biased. When in the world was it a crime to enjoy a legitimate occupation? Rose-colored coagulated blood, desecrated intestines, and the puncture and incision of virginal flesh is poetry-the only kind of poetry I’ll ever read. I love reading
2 dead bodies. I touch your cold, bluish flesh and it excites me. It entrances me. Whoever said dissection was technical work was a moron. It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful to dislodge an eye member from its orbital socket. It’s beautiful to extract a limp, diseased heart from the chest cavity. It’s beautiful cracking open the sternum. It’s beautiful being in the morgue alone at night with you. And it’s steady, immortal work, too. It’ll never go out of fashion. It’ll never go out of business. It’ll never go away. Maybe, one day we might be buried together. I hope so. I genuinely love you when you’re dead. I'm about to cut you up. You’ve been through a lot and I want to make myself feel better. I want to make myself love you. I’m about to cut you open in the chest. The scalpel is right on the edge of your skin. I'm almost there. Now this is the fun part!”
I’m lying on something cold and hard when I feel something sharp and pointed on my chest. My mind is a blurry fog and I don’t know where I am. Streams of bright light pierce my hazy eyes and as I lift them, I see you. You’re blonde and gorgeous. You grow very pale, let out a terrifying scream, and faint before me. I hear something like porcelain glass crack on the floor. I bolt upright and spin my head around in stupefied amazement. I am appalled to see various rotting, brown figures of human cadavers and dusty jars filled with milky fluid. My heart pounds and reverberates against my chest like well-oiled machine pistons. Eyelids flutter and dart to various spots of kaleidoscope color that veil my vision. My head feels light and dizzy. It starts to roll, where I see circles of maroon, thick liquid spilling from your cranium. Ivory pieces of textured skull are scattered in fragments and starts congealing with your blood. Everything around me begins to go pale, bright and the last thing I see is your petrified, gaping mouth in awe
3 pointed towards a luminous waxy ceiling.