RED CRIMES

Morbid Desires

I have been a forensic pathologist for most of my lives. There is a strange parallel between a pathologist, and a hungry cheetah. The pathologist dissects, mutilates and designs the blade too magnificently, it's a bloody art. The cheetah loves to prey slowly, lick and munch on each tiny parts, savor the blood, create it's hunt design.

We both love mutilation.

I have named myself. The morbidity of my place, filled with the sodium propionate, bit of the ugly scent of formaldehyde.

Once I vomitted alot, when I saw a rotten vagina being the nest of worms. The worms coiled in a circumference and laid eggs in the rotten muscles of the hole.

I thought to leave my job, many times. I couldn't stand the strong odor. It is bitter, pungent, blood and a terrible loss all is in it, it corrodes my fingers. My head, my eyes, my skin. The blood I collect is dry, black and is devoid of the passion of a human. I'm a bat who loves his red knife with a strong black coffee. I cut the bodies, and look at the mutilated eyes-slit-a face broken. All the vanity has been lost, all the desires have eroded, a human, rotting in ethanol at 2°C.

I received the body of ROC in a rainy night I remember. My computer recorded his body in a time I was busy cleaning my under garments, when a man in blue black suit came and said, here's ROC's skin.

ROC has been the most famous person in American history, in the travelling route to the Brazilian forests to the Himalayas. He has been hated by liberals and neo-marxists as a fraud, and protected by the drunkards, sex lovers, lost and broken humans as an enlightened soul. I never had an interest in his voice and his talks, my freezing room only entertained cold bodies, black coffee, En Vogue album and few pornograhpic magazines.

"Dude got killed?" I asked.

"Yeah. His girlfriend gave him arsenic. You'd find out that in his balls doc."
And saying that, the supplier went off. I was now alone with a remarkable old man's body and shits, and..thirsty.

I had my soda.

"Do you know who killed me?" I saw ROC watching me from side, his dead eyes tearing the blood of a decaying fish gallbladder.

"Who?"

"You killed me." ROC laughed. His mouth opened with light gasp, and his tongue came out, choking, slit and pinned by little pins.

I got up. I was dreaming, and this hadn't been my single night. I always have dreamt, and all of my dreams had the bodies laugh, moving, carrying their dead beats inside them.

I got back to ROC's body. His thin naked hand, his open mouth, it all felt like a decayed old plastic model, filled with a nest of knowledge and a hollowness of care. I checked under his eyes, no blood, and no violent marks anywhere. I got to my job.

I recieved a call from Stuart around 4 am. I was still working, cleaning the blood washed table. ROC is empty, all of his organs had been now test subjects, smelling of acids and toxins.

Stuart called, "any reports? was he murdered?"

I sounded suspicious on the phone. I said, "something odd Stewy. This guy was not killed. I found this by my stitching his organs."

"What you mean on this, doc?"

"There is a light dose of Dimethylmercury in the intestine, dosed over a week."

"It's a toxin?"

"It's badly lethal Stewy. But none got it to him. He had that."

Stewart got bit silent, and asked impatiently, "Had? He ate those infected foods?"

I said, "there are no traces of food with Dimethylmercury. He had that on his nails. He rubbed his nails on some surface that had strains of that compound, and later he chewed his nails. This was wholly self-created."

"But why he'd kill himself?" he asked.

Stewart knew that I'm incapable of being Sherlock here, I'm the pathologist freak. I saw this great spiritually evolved man tasting poison everyday, for something I don't understand.

Few days after I was chilling on, I received a mail. Stewart had it delivered to me, which he often does, not trusting digital system of writing over servers.

He wrote, ROC was a fool. He could conspire his own death, design and make it look large, be a forever martyr for saying bad truth, but he wanted his legacy to be guilty of having a murderer in them. He just didn't ate his nails that night doc.