Imitating Imperfection

By Laurie Nguyen

Paul’s mother called him her “special little boy”, so special his teachers diagnosed him with an emotional disturbance disorder, autism, attention-hyperactivity-deficit disorder, and the occasional antisocial personal disorder without any medical knowledge whatsoever. His doctors disagreed. They were helpful, but his mother was always fiercely independent of the healthcare system; she hated the pushy opinions and judgemental stares that came with her walking into the clinic. Would rather listen to his teachers than doctors saying “he’s normal” or “behaviors are socially appropriate.” His doctors very much disliked his mother, and frankly, he did too to some degree.

As Paul overlooked the corpses his mother used to gloat over, he shifted the relics in hand. He made sure to preserve the eyes, the nose, the teeth. He stitched up infected old wounds and bandaged forgotten bruises. He didn’t want to engrave smiles on them; thought it was too forceful that way. However bittersweet it was, those precious artifacts deserved to experience everything.

The first one came in the form of the doctor that used to have an office. A beautiful, white, empty one. There was a long steel bed in the middle of that room, with skeletons and plastic body parts neatly splayed across a countertop. He’d wear a really cold stethoscope around his neck he’d always put on Paul’s chest. A nurse would sometimes come in and stick a needle in his arm, and she’d put a cuff on his upper arm that would squeeze him real tight. The doctor was cold, calculating sometimes, especially with how he’d humiliate his mother repeatedly, but he was kind. He had a soft voice. He showed him how to operate in a world that shut him out. Evidently, his mother disagreed with his approach.

The second was a woman. She had a lot of toys in her room he liked playing with them. There were pillows and blankets and forts in her office, and she had sparkling, crimson hair, the smell of apples and caramel wafting from her.  She was blunt with her opinions, and when she hugged him, she hugged him fiercely, like he would of her teddy bears. He especially enjoyed when she helped him paint, cooing his imagination and drawing out a magic that he’d hidden for so long. He heard her heartbeat through a worn out cardigan that felt more comforting than his mother’s embraces. She saw something in his fractured mind, and she wanted to know more. He loved her. Again, his mother hated her. 

The last was another man. He was a big man with dark chocolate skin that made him stand out in a sea of pale ghosts, ghosts that included his mother. He treated his hands compassionately, hands that helped him with all kinds of tasks, disciplined him when he needed to be disciplined, and provided stability in the midst of an overwhelming ocean of jumbled communication. A quiet sentinel to remind him of the courage he needed, and a stable presence; it was for that Paul would hold it every time he took those hands out. Paul knew that if he couldn’t handle something, all he needed to do was grab hold of those hands, and he’d be okay. Although he couldn’t replicate the man’s voice, he’d remember his touch. He’d always remember. Looking back, his mother wasn’t fond of him either. 

For all his efforts though, he was struggling with preserving his treatment team’s most important parts. Brains surrounded by mold and flies and worms, all of whom desperate to see if their offspring surface. Hearts would desiccate, the formaldehyde evaporating much too quick, and when he looked closer, he would long for the vitality the organ was struggling to maintain. Then there was the stitching on the fingers; it was shoddy work. Parasites would munch on everything around them, no matter how hard he tried to stop them. He doused everything with insect repellant, and scoured through old YouTube videos, try to learn everything he can about odd organ preservation techniques that no reputable taxidermist would bother with. But his efforts proved useless, and in the end the invaders were still there, mutilating their memory. 

Regardless, Paul pressed on. He wasn’t going to allow change to decay the efforts he’s put into maintaining his treasures. He needed to honor them. He needed to embrace their legacies. It was all he had. 

And for that, he decided to venture out.

The end of the world came as quickly as it went, a total of three days after his 18th birthday. An infection that ravaged the body and left a beautiful corpse in their wake; first came the coughs, and then sepsis, and then finally, the victim passes on with nary a warning. Sometimes, it doesn’t happen like that. Sometimes they’d rot from the inside out and decimate their faces, but it really depended on the person’s immune system. Or at least, that’s what he believed. 

It was shame his mother was infected. If he took time to go to the dilapidated hospital where her body lay, in those hollow halls surrounded by cards and withered flowers, he’d be better able to understand her condition. Perhaps the disease prevented rigor mortis from moving on, amplifying it, and preserving her as if she were some precious goddess, forgotten in the depths of a remnant dream. Oh, if Paul could see her now, gouge out those disdainful eyes, memorize those gorgeous blood vessels, try to map them so neatly he dedicated entire networks of vein systems to them, all the way to her cold, decadent heart; what he’d give to learn more of those intricacies. What he’d give to see that goddess wallow in pain.

Humming a familiar lullaby to himself, he grabbed his gas mask and threw on a heavy, verdant trench coat. He looked over the supplies in his backpack. His mother was quite distrustful of any government entity, and the neighbors weren’t necessarily safe to go to either. He was fine with the water supply, and the wood protecting the windows was holding, what with the crowds either dead, quarantined, or having long since abandoned their homes. He nodded to himself, then carefully stepped outside his townhome. Quietly, he locked the door, then trekked onwards into the fog.

The hospital wasn’t far from here, a ten minute walk at the most. Cars neatly parked alongside the neighborhood streets. Vines grew along power lines, wrapping around them lovingly, adoringly, suffocatingly. The houses along ruined streets were similar to his own, with shattered windows and open doors sinisterly inviting him in. The sun did little to warm him through the frigid air, the mist once again covering any remnants of sunlight. He huddled his coat close.

He saw a building looming in the distance. It was just as he remembered; white, overlooking an entire city with a cool indifference he couldn’t help but feel intimidated by. He remembered when his mother first brought him here. He hated the antiseptic odors that assaulted his nose, the curious smiles that graced his way, and the ice the nurses caressed him with when they tried to hug him. It was off putting. Everything in this place was.

He went around the side, and entered through one of the broken panels. The front door was filled with bodies and chairs and all sorts of other unhygienic specimens. He stole a glance at them. Of course, some have already deteriorated, their skin broken down for their organs to spill out for the shadows to see, while others remained forever encased in the terror they felt the day society collapsed on top of them. 

He turned a left, then a right, and then it was about a five minute stroll to the stairs. Third floor. He was grateful the nurse before him showed him the way. He doesn’t see her anymore though, not since last week. Probably went somewhere else to greener pastures. He understood, especially when he saw the chaos erupt from his very balcony. It was rather cathartic, now that he thought of it. It was hard for him to stomach at first. His mother said they were okay. As long as he stayed put, everything would be fine. As long as he listened. 

At last, he ambled near the doorway, and stepped into the floor. Like everywhere else in the hospital, he saw nothing but dried bloodstains. Fear and peace decorated the bodies around him. He tightened his grip on the straps, and started down the hallway. One, two, three, and then four. He opened the door.

There his mother lay. Her dark, gossamer hair cascaded from the bed, an angel hiding away from the world’s nightmarish decay. Lifeless eyes gazed calmly at the ceiling. A hospital gown clung to her thin frame, and porcelain skin shimmered ethereally in the dark. It was as if an embalmer had come and prepared her for a funeral she planned an eternity ago, a funeral he’d yet to receive an invitation to. There was an antique-like quality to his mother, the wizened qualities hiding behind an impossible youth. 

Carefully, he stepped inside. He combed through cabinets with precise fingers, and sorted through files, scanning through documents to see if he could improve his technique. After cursing to himself, he finally saw a box of formaldehyde. He smiled to himself, as he unzipped his backpack and gingerly placed three bottles into his backpack. And when he removed the box, he saw more supplies. Masks, gloves, some iodine; he grabbed what he could. He was impressed by the amount of medical supplies left over. Then again, no one bothers checking the hospital rooms when they’re trying to leave. 

He stood, happy with the weight on his shoulders. He turned and looked over his mother once, twice, a third time. A passive frown passes over his lips, before he leaves the room, the door slamming behind him.

He stopped the decay.

For now, he stopped the decay. 

Always wash his beans. Make sure to soak the organs in formaldehyde so they’ll be better preserved. Use lots of water. Stitch the tendons together. Cook the rice. Put his ears next to their hearts; he might hear their heartbeats. Put a place on the table. Be careful not to drop anything. Don’t drop anything. Don’t drop anything.

They stopped decaying.

For now.

Laurie Nguyen has been a writer and book reviewer since 2017. She has a particular fondness for writers such as Anne Rice, Edgar Allen Poe, and authors of dark romance. You can find her work on Your Impossible Voice and Midwestern Book Review, as well as her website, The Ugliest Sinners Book Reviews, at https://theugliestsinnersbookreviews.wordpress.com.