Fragile Little Things ✓

01 indigo

There are so many fragile things. After all, people break so easily, and so do hearts and dreams.

— Neil Gaiman

THE CADAVER in front of me made me uncomfortable in more ways than one. First came the nauseating stench. Then the sickly, zombie-like appearance. It made wonder if it had ever really been human.

And perhaps the worst of it all: the idea that a once living, breathing human could suddenly just...die, and leave their body behind.

Or in this charitable person’s case, donate it to NYU’s Medical Science department. It was a middle-aged man. A dull, lifeless husk of what he used to be.

Yesterday was our first day seeing the corpse. It had been easier. We didn’t have to look for too long before flipping our cadaver onto his stomach. We learned some surface anatomy before sealing the bag back up, and quickly leaving.

Everyone in the room was trying their best to feign nonchalance. That was, of course, after Mae Nakamura, my best friend and co-worker, had fainted. 

Poor girl had taken once glance at the dead body on the stretcher and dropped to the ground faster than Kanye West could say “Imma let you finish.”

Today was different.

Today we’d have to begin the cutting.

The lab was blinding white, and cold. I supposed the constant current of cool air was to stave the smells from stagnating. Even so, the formalin used to preserve the body was so strong it was beginning to sting my eyes.

Our list of muscles, nerves, and blood vessels to find and identify had been printed and laminated to prevent oil from body fat from soaking through it. I took charge of holding this very laminated sheet, in the hopes that I’d have less of the hands-on stuff to do.

It worked.

Chad Shields, resident sociopath, was delighted at the sight of the cadaver. A natural born leader (cough, Hitler, cough) he proceeded to stick his gloved hands into the guts and dive straight into his sadistic little perusal.

The squelching sounds were probably enough to turn even a cannibal off.

 “Great work Chad,” our Prof murmured, as he sauntered around our table. “The rest of you, don’t be shy! This is a special opportunity for you to gain a practical understanding of the human body. Don’t waste it.”

Swallowing, I followed as the group edged closer to the body. There were six of us in the team. I watched as each person took turns to cut, and I had to actively hold back my gag reflex.

You signed up for this, I reminded myself. I wanted to become a doctor. I was almost halfway there. Yes.  And I’d have to get used to this sooner or later, because we were going to work on this cadaver for six months.

Turned out my empowering revelation was short-lived, because the laminated sheet was snatched out of my hands less than a second later.

By some universal hex, Scarlett Vasquez, my roommate from hell, had also ended up in our dissection team. With her blue mask covering most of her features, her midnight blue eyes and brow piercing were the only intimidating things about her.

“I think we should have turns with the sheet,” she said.

Heart beating fast, I looked to the team for help, but they were too bored or distracted to care. The few who had heard Scarlett merely hummed in accordance.

I swallowed. Scarlett ushered me closer to the dissection table, shoving her scalpel into my hands. It was hard to keep my hands from shaking, to keep my breathing steady.