Like a cookie-cutter, held with a firm grip, palms spread across the steel circle.
Slowly marking out the desired area, inching closer.
Then, as it touches the surface- the hand becomes steady, confident.
The cookie cutter plunges in, like a fist into a velvet pillow.
But instead of steel meeting the soft, elasticity of butter, sugar, eggs, and flour mixed evenly together-
Skin, giving the unfamiliar resistance. The hands on the cookie cutter draws back, perturbed, hesitant, but never letting the steel lose contact.
Again. Both hands.
Steel plunges into skin with renewed determination. Blood appears along the circumference, glistening in the light, then slowly flowing down; running down the left side of the body.
The body doesn’t flinch one bit.
The cookie cutter stops. Something was in the way. Breastbone? Ribcage?
The disembodied hands begin to turn the cookie cutter.
“Blunt steel, meet bone. I don’t believe you’ve met.”
The grinding of metal against bone, and the occasional shriek- not from the body, but from these two meeting- echoes through the room.
The shrieks conduct, through the bones; throughout the body.
But still it lay there, unmoving.
Turning, grinding, shrieking. For hours, for days.
But the progress it makes through bone only minute; only scratching the surface.
The heart stays safe, for now, beating regularly, behind the layer of bone.
But it knows it’s next.
That’s what it feels like.