The soles of his feet squeak against the cold tile floor as he steps toward the body. She has been lain out with care and arranged just so, her arms resting by her sides with the palms of her hands tilted to God. Supplication. He wonders if she ever went to confession, clasped those hands together and begged forgiveness. Too late now, he thinks.
She wears a necklace of bruises, a terrible rainbow of purple, yellow, and black around her thin throat. His eyes trace the pattern of her veins as they twist and snake beneath the skin. He follows their path to the base of her jaw, to that white soft crescent where he can see the pulse of her heart fluttering the beneath the skin.
He reaches out, a flash of steel in his right hand. He pauses at her collar bone, her clavicles spanning under his hand like frail wings. The assisting nurse asks if everything is alright. He nods and quickly pushes scalpel into flesh. Organ donors are few and far between and he likes to say a prayer for each and every one.
Words: 188
Image courtesy of: Mitzu-stock
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