Word Count: 250
Notes: Gen. Deals with death and bodies and such so a bit squicky, and involves those A2A spoilers. Don't know which of those things is worse.
Dead men do tell tales, though it takes a skilled interpreter to hear their words. Dead women too of course. And children. They’re the worst. Even now, after all these years, they’re still the worst.
But the man who weeps at night for innocence lost is not the one who eviscerates them upon the slab. No, the man who does that is the one I become each morning when I put on the white coat. He is the one who takes each corpse for what it is, from those seemingly just slipped into sleep to the bloated and rotting, the one who uncovers their tales and tells their stories to those who wait.
I’m intimately acquainted with muscle and sinew, with blood and bone, skin and organs, everything they teach you at college. The one thing they don’t explain is how to cope with that most treacherous organ of all, how to harden your own heart. That’s something you have to learn for yourself.
Thought I’d passed that test years ago, thought I was a master of the craft.
But when I heard the news, when I thought I’d have to take him to pieces here in this cold, anonymous, aseptic room of porcelain and steel, knives and scales and drains, where emotion is drowned by whiteness, that’s when my heart failed me.
I don’t believe that any of them truly understood why I laughed as well as cried when they told me that his body couldn’t be found.