Spoiler! :
I will admit that it wasn't midnight, nor was it dark and stormy, when he awoke. However, the fetid smell of my patient was more than enough to cast a delightfully steamy...and decidedly rancid fog over my operating room. I fear that I have not been keeping my operating room as clean as I should be. I will have to devote some time tomorrow to collecting the discarded parts. I hate how they rot; I hate how their final, dying breath is wasted on the expulsion of thick, grey fluid and the colourless but no less pungent liquid seeping through the sloughage. Is that what life is given to us for? The blind, stumbling life that leads only to decay… To be born clean, red and fresh, to live a life where every day is one more day towards deterioration and to finally break down, to abandon the indelicate world, and leave behind only obsolete dirt, Stygian discharge, useless dust and this revolting gristle that simply refuses to remove itself from my dress? No matter, such distasteful frailties will soon vanish from this unfortunate place. Before I wash up however, I must examine my newly awakened patient. The patient is my husband.
My husband played the organ, a meretricious, off-putting instrument that soaked through my ears. The only thing that appealed to me about it was its breath. It’s wintry sighs that told me that this machine was alive. It’s metal glimmered brighter than the eyes of the most ebullient young girls. The fluid motions of the gears that responded to the slightest of touches promised such callous grace. This wickedly ravishing machine required next to nothing to fuel it; only a mindless marionette to set its fingers on its keys. And aren’t mindless marionettes the easiest toys to fabricate? My husband…in the beginning he was exhilarating. Every motion he made was so gruesomely unpredictable. However, I suppose even the most avant-garde toys grow tedious. He wasn’t entertaining to me any more; he was simply a nuisance, a dirigible that only flies in circles, showing me the same sights and sounds as it did the rotation before. I hate démodé beings and it was not difficult to lock him away to let him sour and fester out of my sight. When I went to check on him one afternoon, I was delighted with what I found. He was no longer a wearisome rag, but had ripened into something much more interesting. Though his boorish eyes no longer moved to meet mine and his leaky lips ceased to provide words that hopelessly strived to ensnare my attention, he suggested such animation that could only result from being recently dead. His limbs were snakes that weaved their way around my heart. I was in love once more. And as most any depraved soul can tell you, love inspires passion. This passion was exactly what roused me to change the world.
I am constantly in search of perfection. As I grew up, all I saw encircling me was dreary monotony. I was born into a silken crib and given my meals off the most heavily gilded platters that utterly emanated filth and desecration. They shoved me into shining shells of fabric that suffocated me and caused me cough up blood and pieces of my very soul onto the sickeningly begrimed marble. The appearance of the radiant red was the only thing that told me I was not dead and blanketed underneath the sympathetic earth. And the people…such empty animatrons that lived to split their smiles and offer their putrid fingers for others to hold. Such torpid movements and sticky lethargy adhered itself onto my skirts and dragged me under. I was living in a broken, defiled graveyard that was infected with the worst kind of virus…the living. As I was caught under the merciless feet of such masses, I vowed to cure the world of the walking blight.
It was just last week that I made my breakthrough. As my husband ripened in his magnificent death, I was constantly reminded of the organ. It was so alive…it possessed such otherworldly finesse that pumped out cacophony I had grown to love. Just recently some marionette had bravely turned against its master and invented an organ that breathed on its own, nobly making itself obsolete for the sake of true élan. Every day I would enter the church and see its machinery effortlessly fall into a rhythm, like a heartbeat, that created the truest form of life. I remembered my asinine husband serving this divinity, seeing him converge upon it and almost take part in its clandestine glory. That is when I began to imagine the cure: a cure that would bring to life even the most vacant of bodies and minds.
And here I am now. My darling’s eyes are reopening with mechanical elegance and the grace of his patchwork body distracts me from the luxurious stink, coming off in waves from his newly animated body. He begins to cry, such discordant and resonant tones I have heard only from his mother, the organ, who gave a part of herself to create this beautiful new creature. I can see the polished gold through his skin that is animated as well, harbouring its own bacterial life that causes it to dance along with the lively gears turning in his exposed skull. This is the future...this is the only life that is real. There is no blood to violate the harmony, only redeemed flesh that brilliantly flickers along with the glistening gold and keeps time with the throbbing wail of pure music.
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