The coffee was cold. Made two hours, 32 minutes, and 20 seconds ago.
The caffeine will remain potent for another 21 hours, 27 minutes, and 36 seconds.
Right hand, clad in black surgical gloves, gripped the mug, downing the tepid, oil-colored liquid before setting it behind her. Her eyes, much like her left hand, remained on task. The pipes above her, behind her, took quick breaths. The generator at her feet shuddered and gasped, galvanic mechanisms pumping electric currents. The glass flutes bubbled with clear liquid, flexible tubes pumping cooling fluid through the needles piercing the body underneath the sheet.
Though it would be imprecise to consider it a single body. The heavily oiled sheet rested over the large silhouette, but what was underneath was the whole of disparate parts, specifically chosen by her precise exact standards.
She never examined those standards; why that jaw, why that left eye versus that right eye, why were those legs chosen to carry that broad chest. The multitude of questions, the "why"…it’s uncomfortable. Meaningless.
The only thing that mattered was the result.
She lowered the sheet further, tugging the silver silk taut. She almost finished the sutures that began at the clavicle and ended just before the sternum. The thread caught the light, prismatic where serum had touched it, silver wire against ivory skin. She cut the stitch, wiping away the serum weeping from the tissue. "I’m still working." She let out a murmur to the hum and hisses of gas seeping from the copper fixtures behind her, "I’ll be up in an hour."
To be honest, she was not sure when she would be done. She pinned the skin from the midpoint of the forearms to the wrists open like wings, and bare wrists awaited suitable hands to attach. The grimy humidity that seeped from the smog outside caused the skin to warm and expand, the seams along the temple stretching. They would have to be redone before she could apply liquid nitrogen and turn on the vents.
Only then could she stop. Maybe.
"You don’t like the smell down here. You’ll get used to it. At least copper has a pleasant tang." She lifted her head from her work, closing her eyes and taking a slow breath. Her hands were shaking. Inefficient movement that would only slow her down.
She pulled off one glove, her hand pressing on the top of her sternum. "I’m almost done." She turned her head to the side. "Then I’ll go upstairs and sleep."
That motivation, the promise of rest after an unfortunate absence, brought back focus. She put the glove back on, picking up a clean needle. She lowered her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose; the loupe attached to the lens following before threading the surgical silk through the eye. She needed a fresh needle; the flesh did not resist the point as it pierced through, making a clean closure. Once the sternum seam was closed, she went back to the temple.
To his face.
High cheekbones, full lips, a square jaw. Aesthetic reasons guided the choice of facial features, contrasting with the functional choices made for his broad chest and rip-corded legs.
She tightened and cleaned the sutures and seams. She stood up, taking off the glasses and turning the vents; the humidity sucked away into the brass hood. She covered the assembled body with the sheet, before resting her palms on the edge of the table.
Almost.
Her hand pressed against her belly, eyes closing tightly again.
Almost done.
She turned off the generators and the bright lights; the heat quickly dissipated, the temperature lowering in the Oratory. There would be no light or heat here until the next day. "Yes, I’m heading up to bed. I’m tired of the smell too."
She walked up the stairs to the upper level, opening then closing the door behind her, locking it. Though she shut the metal window panels, she also kept the curtains closed. She had grown tired of the outside light and all of Aurenveil’s distractions. She stepped over the letters by the door, barely registering the addresses. She took one step away from the coat on the hook, walking down the hall before turning sharply to the Master wing.
No matter how fast she moved, the door was always there first; it was at the end of the hall, always just in front of her.
A door painted pale blue, like the sky she last saw three years ago.
She sat down at her desk, adjusting the amber lamp to a letterhead she had left that morning, blank except for the current date. Her hand shook again as she picked up the pen. Once she pressed it against the paper, it stilled.
Everything was still.
Dear Emile,
It has been one thousand and ninety five days since I last saw you. You would have been three by now. If you were anything like me, you would have snuck down to the basement and dismantled the clock on the shelf. Your father’s clock. He wouldn’t want you down there.
I wonder how long the pain stays. Does it stay in the same place, or does it move? It still hurts me. I don’t think it will ever stop hurting.
