Free Flesh Failure by Sèphera Girón Page B

When he opened the bottle a strong smell filled the room and immediately I grew lightheaded.
    â€œA few drops should do it,” he said as he stroked the hat gently with the brush. He took the netting and pressed the edging of it to the adhesive. It stuck.
    â€œI should have found scissors first,” he sighed as he gently placed the hat on the table. He returned to his study. The smell of the adhesive was strong, rendering me dizzy. I sat down on my chaise lounge.
    He returned with scissors and held up the hat.
    â€œAren’t you feeling well?”
    â€œThe smell…”
    He chuckled. I knew what he was thinking. That the smell of the adhesive was worse than the smell of me.
    â€œIt’s making my head dizzy,” I said.
    â€œAnother reason you should come with me, the place can air out while we’re gone. And we can stop at the tailor on the way home to have you measured for some new dresses, yes?”
    â€œYes, you’re right. I can.”
    The screams of the damned leached out from the lunatic wing as we crossed into the hospital. The smells of death and medicine were familiar; I knew I had been here before.
    The halls were filled with people, the hospital staff rushing around, patients moaning and wandering or just lying against a wall, waiting.
    I tried not to look at any of them, though they wouldn’t have seen me looking from my black-veiled barrier. We walked slowly, my feet unsure on the slippery floors.
    We pushed through several sets of doors, winding through a labyrinth of hallways until we reached a new set of strong oaken doors. A sign on the door informed us that this was private with no trespassing.
    The mood of the hospital changed. It was dark and quiet. No, quiet wasn’t the word as moans and screams filled the air. But the atmosphere didn’t have the same hustle and bustle of urgency. Here time was slow, torturous. My senses tingled as pain of the people behind the closed doors we passed reached through and gripped me in the heart. My stomach clenched and several times senses overwhelmed me. The emotions of the patients whirled and swirled, their sobbing laments causing me to wonder at my own fate.
    We reached a door and Dr. Rueben produced a set of keys.
    â€œMy office,” he said as he led me in. I looked at the pictures on the walls, at the horrific renderings of barbaric surgical instruments. One painting in particular intrigued me. It was of a body lying on a slab with several men sewing through it with long needles and threads. From buckets around them, body parts hung out; an arm, a foot, a leg.
    I continued to stare at the bloody, garish painting.
    â€œIs this me?” I asked.
    â€œHow could it be you? This picture is decades old.”
    â€œI mean, is this the type of creature that I am? Sewn together from pieces in pails?” I looked down at the faint scars on my wrists, my fingers, all down my arms. Patches sewn here and there. Scars of needle and thread, there was no denial. The hideous marks in my face that never wanted to completely heal were proof of that.
    â€œI don’t know your origin, Agatha. I don’t know how you were created.”
    â€œI’m sure I do.” I continued to stare at the picture while he busied himself at his desk. I studied the picture so long that he had written several pieces of correspondence and was eager to begin whatever it was I was to experience.
    We walked down the long, cold corridor until we arrived at a very large white room. There were beds everywhere. Most of the beds were covered with sheets that had the outlines of human bodies beneath.
    â€œThis is where we store the newly dead. Wrapped up so that their disease won’t infect others.”
    I nodded.
    â€œRemove your hat, your dress. We need to examine you for the notes.”
    I stripped naked, modesty not being part of this new self, and watched his face as he laid eyes on the horror of my body. He gulped as he