J King: Angel of Death

I lift my spirit hands before me and curve them inward. The fingertips sink through flesh as though it were only shadow. They sink until they surround my heart. I can feel the wild, determined flailing of that angry muscle. It is strong, very strong. It wants to live. But what if I squeeze it like this? What if I suffocate my own heart with my very fingers?

Ah, even I can hear that beeping alarm as my pulse goes wild – even I, who have no external ears, but only holes in my head like the ears of a lizard. They will come running soon. They will shock me with those pads, never knowing that electricity can do nothing to this adamantine grip of mine. They will stick a needle into my heart and pump it full of adrenaline, which will only make the thing tear itself to pieces. They will crack me open like a turkey and massage the muscle by hand.

The heart machine is buzzing in flatline. My body is bucking atop the table. It’s quite a show. The doctor who did my grafts is here. He stares despairingly at the two triangles of flesh that he calls my face.

“No response. Nothing. BP dropping. We’re losing him.”

They’re losing me. I’m gaining them.

I do not feel the scalpel carve into my chest, so sharp it is, but I see the hot red line and hear the ratchet sound of rib spreaders cracking the bone. Then one of them darts a gloved hand into the space and grabs the still hunk of meat. It doesn’t matter to me. I can already feel necrosis setting in. My touch is a touch of death. Rarely has it erred – once, with a certain police officer, but it will not err now.

My death must be perfect.

I am rising above my body. Cameras start going off from the hallway. There is an orderly pushing reporters and photographers back – ah, Blake Gaines. It is good to see you again! You want more pictures of me? Color shots of puddling blood and wide-eyed surgeons and orderlies forming human chains and Right to Lifers in a round-the-clock prayer vigil?

Perfect. It is as though I had orchestrated this death at the height of my powers rather than the depths. Too bad I cannot stay. My spirit body is complete now. I am angel once more. This mound of hamburger can no longer hold me to the world.

But there is other flesh – skin the color of clouds and eyes as pink as a rabbit’s – he would bind me here. He would witness to my physical presence in the world. His name in the Book of Life would seal my fate forever. Hello, Donna. It is good to see that your travail is done. This is our son, then, yes? He is ghastly, wouldn’t you say? The color of paper. I know, to you he is precious, but to me he is unfinished business. Ah, yes, let me touch my son. He frowns in his sleep and arches his back. Good. He recognizes me after all.

Hush my child and death attend thee,

All through the night.

I, your killing angel send thee,

All through the night.

While the weary world is creeping,

Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,

I your lovely soul am keeping

All through the night.

Ah, there, Son, your breath ceases, your struggle ceases, your flesh gives up the ghost.

I watch you flee through the ceiling and heavenward like a rocket. All is right. Once again, all is right.

Glory to God in the Highest.

When Detective Leland awoke, she felt the cold stillness in her arms. She struggled to her feet, clutching the child tight beneath breasts that had not yet even fed it.

“My baby! My baby! Mother of God! He’s dead!”

I know you, Mrs Billings, you with your splendid lawyers bought by splendid money and your splendid not-guilty verdict bought the same way, and the bag of splendid cashmere under your arm. I know you. You have worked hard this year, endured much. You deserve an easy descent. Take the escalator, my beautiful lady. Take the escalator. I have been preparing it for you. Do not mind the slight tugging on your dress. Do not mind the way the teeth separate there at the bottom and give enough space for one masticated human body to be yanked, living, down among the gear work. Do not fear, my sweet Mrs Billings, for this thirty-three seconds of grinding and spattering and thrashing is not nearly as much woe as the store management will have when folk begin to talk of the butcher-turned maintenance-man who lives beneath the floors.