It’s funny when he sees me, he thinks I need saving, because he sees only the most tortured parts under the microscope, “sorry you hear voices, I hear them too, the voice is audible, sounds like something sinister, perhaps you might think of praying,” is what his slowly sinking gaze speaks inaudibly, and when the doctor asks, “has anyone here ever seen a cadaver?” Not one of the nursing students answers, and he, the only man with a credible soul utters, “yes,” all eyes are on him, all the freshly pricked virgin ears, point in cochlear attention. yada, yada, “I once knew a man who was a professor, who had access to a morgue,” the topic is rigor mortis, stiff corpses, as I sip my morning coffee, and take a bite out of my raisin tea biscuit, alone in the back of the classroom, because I came late, and knee boy took my seat. I mutter under soft tones as all in the class attempt to lift the heavy air with their superficial speak, and the doctor looks at me, walks closer, asks me to repeat my words, but no one is listening, or so I think, when I say, “a baby, I saw a dead baby,” -“oh what did it look like?”-” It was limp, it’s arms and legs dangled.” He walks away speechless, then the boy who dreams of blowing Adam in eden, whilst on his knees, writhing w/ a painful patella, turns my way, holds his gaze, and repeats that same sunken look of sympathy, as inside I smirk apathetically. No one dares to ask, choosing instead to stay silent, yet I hear their thoughts float through the air like disembodied voices, voices without flesh, stiff voices with rigor mortis tongues. If they’d have asked, I’d have told them, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, I saw flesh, in the places where her infancy bled through purple epidermis, and without asking, I knew why, why the paramedics kept her for over an hour in the ambulance, when she had already succumbed to “primary flaccidity” to save a young mother from the eminent shock that she was soon to feel, as PTSD leaked through her veins, like ink from squid, a thousand miles below sea level, where no voice could ever be heard.
There once was a cross-bridge, where thirty myosin heads could be seen bobbing on the surface of the river below, instead of help, they were screaming, “ATP, ATP, glycogen depleted.” There has been a deterioration of the sarcoplasmic reticulum.