Hunger Pangs

I am filled with regret about last night. I regret grinding on smelly men, drinking strange mixed drinks, and I mostly regret being born. How I got to work this morning, I don't even know. My headache is starting to dwindle; it no longer feels like something is clawing out the backs of my eyeballs. All I want right now is something fatty, something greasy, something salty and bloody rare. Hunger is gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Food, I need to eat something soon.

Thank God for scrubs. You can sleep in them and still look presentable for the next day. Looks like I chose a coordinating set, but nothing really matches these neon purple surgical gloves. My hands are running on autopilot. Rinse, soak, scrub, dry, pack for autoclave. My reflection in the chromed steel of the sink fixtures looks bad. Not just hungover, but drawn thin. The skin of my face is too tightly stretched over my skull and I have dark circles and bags taking up residence beneath my eyes. Luckily, I have extended wear contacts or I'd be in a lot of discomfort right now. My stomach's growl is loud enough to startle myself from staring at my reflection.

"I heard that one! Do you need a granola bar?" says Zola, my bleached blond co-worker in the sterilization department, chirpy as always. She is the reason that I feel like warmed-over crap. If she hadn't forced me into going to that horrible bar where her boyfriend's band was playing, then I wouldn't be shaking like a leaf. I need to learn how to say no even if it means listening to her whining at me for a week.

"You really had a great time at the concert. We should do that again! Maybe they'll get a weekend gig instead of open mic Tuesday. That would be really fun. I think that he's really coming into his own artistically, and the world will start to notice that he has this beautiful soul, and the clips that we put on the net will give him so many opportunities to make wonderful music, and you look like you're going to throw up. You really can't hold your liquor, can you? That's really sad. If you throw up in there we'll have to replace all the enzymatic cleaner."

I wasn't thinking about puking, but now I am.

Thanks again, Zola.

"Zola, I don't remember last night." Deep breaths. "Did I do anything... stupid?"

"Naaaaaaaaah."

I'm flooded with relief, but then she continues.

"You bit this guy's lip when you were making out with him, but he was into it, so you're okay. I hope you got his number."

Crap.

I snap off my gloves and grab a dental floss pick from my scrub pocket. Must floss any part of that guy out of my teeth, I just have to. Gloving up again, I lean against the sink, woozy with hunger.

Zola rolls her eyes at me. "Do you need the mouthwash too? Look I'm going to go clean op room 4. Get yourself together."

She leaves and I carefully look around the red plastic biohazard bins. Oh sweet Jesus thank you, they did a lipoma excision and it hadn't gone to the incinerator yet. Carefully and casually as I can, I swipe the acorn-sized chunk of blood-streaked human fat from the bin, invert my glove and stash it in my pants pocket.

"Zola! I need to get some fresh air for a moment. I'll be back in a bit!" Hollering down the hallway to room four, I walk to my car, trying not to sprint to the door.

Slipping into my car, I sit parked under the shadows of the overgrown oaks planted around the rundown self-storage lot, and fish the glove from my pocket. I pop the morsel of human fat into my mouth and it is better than the most succulent seasoned steak. Rolling it around in my mouth, I suck on it like a lozenge before chewing it 35 times exactly. It runs down my throat with one indulgent swallow and my hand tremors stop. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I see my dark circles are fading. I want more, I want to bury my face in the biohazard vat and eat human flesh until I make myself bloated and sick.

I can stop. I can stop at any time.

Too late, I notice that there is a man sitting in the overgrown hedges and shadows behind my car. Probably just a transient going through the dumpsters. The medical complex was built as part of a gentrification program and isn't in the best part of town. I get called out to remove used needles and syringes from the landscaping all the time.

The bloody syringes beckon me to suck on them from time to time, but I don't want to ingest the random drugs too. Booze or drugs affect me so much faster than anyone else I've known; I think I'm the cheapest date ever. No, it's much safer to sneak a few bits here and there from the bio-bins. Generally they've done a pretty good tox screen prior to surgery.

Heading back into the building, I make sure I have my pepper spray key chain in my hand. Never hurts to be safe, right? Zola is in room four.

"Puke much?" She asks me.

Nodding, I run my tongue over my teeth, hunting for any leftover tidbits.

"I always feel better after throwing up too."

She takes a breath and I zone out while she starts talking about her boyfriend again. I should be good for another 48 hours or so, but I still have to restrain myself from drooling at the blood stained drapes.

"Mirri!"

"What?" Honestly I wasn't listening at all. I was thinking about licking the droplets of dried blood spattered on the surgical tray. No more drinking, never again.

"Did you hear that there was another death?"

"What? Another one? Was it post-surgical or during?"

Usually I'd have heard about anyone expiring during a procedure, that's some major gossip right there. Deaths in the clinic were really rare because we mostly did cosmetic surgery, colonoscopies, and other outpatient procedures. Most hangpeople don't croak during plastic surgery unless something went horribly wrong.

"Died at home. Massive infection after an excess skin removal. It's really sad. They had to get bariatric surgery and recover from that, then change their diet permanently and give up cheeseburgers and then when they lost all that weight, " she clucks her tongue, "poof! They die getting the extra floppy, flappy skin cut off them. It's really sad." Zola sighs and starts talking again about her man.

That is really sad, I have to admit. I squash my sensual daydream about hunks of pale flabby skin excised from fleshy limbs and the texture of that taut membrane squeaking between my teeth.

Thinking about what I will make for dinner tonight, I decide on a very rare pork chop. It won't be the same but I'm used to making compromises. I can't just steal a cadaver and store it in the freezer like leftover pot-roast. I'd probably get bored of the same person anyways.