It’s not until you notice her hands—the chipped nails painted a bright acidic red. A “going out on the town” red. An “I’m going to beat this” red. A red that shouts “hope” while the chips of flaking nail polish whisper, “I didn’t make it. So here I am lying on a sterile steel table instead of sitting in a cushy Naugahyde easy chair having a mani-pedi—a heavy steel table in the gross anatomy lab of a prestigious medical school.”

The smell of formaldehyde overwhelms as does the cadaver saturated in it—ravaged, in pieces, bloodless, age-less—dead, yet undead. You stare at this used-up body, its utility at an end. Chest cavity splayed open. Left leg missing. Headless.

And those hands. Those hands. Shriveled. Withered. And their color. Stained leather? Sludge? Premature death? Lost hopes and dreams? Surrender?    

On a nearby counter, framed slivers of gray matter, the thinnest pinked deli-slices encased in clear acrylic, opened like a children’s book. Close them, kiddo, and look! They make a brain!

Focus. Focus. This is not a person. This is a piece of meat. Corporeal. No soul. No tears. Its story at an end. Yet here she is in all her altruistic chipped red nail polish glory having left her body to science. Three months ago, she walked the sizzling sidewalks of the city, canvas espadrilles laced around slim ankles, skirt swishing, strides purposeful. Is she late? Meeting friends? A lover? Her husband or children? A birthday, perhaps? A going away party? Does she already know she’s sick, or will death surprise her? An accident? A suicide? A murder? Her nails are freshly painted. Smooth and perfect like the lustrous paint job on an expensive automobile.

Your professor gives you the gleaming scalpel. You turn it over in your hand.

About Gail Mackenzie-Smith

Gail Mackenzie-Smith is a screenwriter. Her flash fiction and CNF essays have been published in The Sun, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, BarBar and elsewhere.(And soon in Electric Lit. She lives in Los Angeles.

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