Rokitansky’s Method

I feel nothing.

It’s a boring lecture. His name is Dr. Rille and I wonder if he enjoys touching my vagina. Spreading the lips, exposing the vulva, massaging the outer walls and smoothing down the mount of Venus. He’s not that bad looking; a bit of a pot belly, but I’ve fucked worse. I remember when I signed my consent to the University years ago. I thought it’d be a kick to be some kind of god-given gift to those med students. I can see that resident no. four is having trouble hiding his boner. It’s flattering.

But my story isn’t about genitalia.

“Make sure the incision isn’t too short.”

It’s all about size, baby. Some days you wake up and your body is a fat fuck, and other days, your bank account total is too small. You can’t conform. Life isn’t about that. That’s not the American dream. You wake up and fight tooth and nail for a green piece of paper, just to get sucked in another money game called scam.

Inner labia. Outer labia. Clitoris.

Everything is catalogued these days.

Everything has a name; a word for it. If you can’t name it, describe it. There’s not a single thing we can’t describe with words. We’re a big illustrated glossary book. And I’m just about to redefine a few things.

Love: The way you feel before you die.

That’s love for me. You’ve never been dead, so you wouldn’t know. But I can swear on my life, that’s love. It’s fear and exhilaration overcoming your whole system. It’s like a snort of coke in the morning followed by sex. You don’t know what hit you until it’s too late.

“The incision goes beneath the breasts.”

Yet, dying still manages to be disappointing.

I’m holding my sister’s newborn baby again. It’s called Erika. I call it an it because it was grey and hairy and just ugly. We’re all ugly. I wish you and the rest of the world could just appreciate how ugly we are. My sister cried with joy and held that lump of thing close to her, all while it flailed around helplessly.

Erika was disgusting.

Once, Erika threw up on my mouth. Everybody laughed. Five years later, little It Erika broke my great aunt’s vase. I slapped her across the mouth. I hated my great aunt. I also hated Erika. She was spoiled and childish and everything a child was supposed to be.

“If you examine these scars closely-”

No heaven. No God. No angels.

“-scarring on uterus. An abortion, perhaps?”

It was her hair.

It reminded me of innocence and naivety. It was so thin you would hold back whenever touching it in fear of contaminating it with your oily hands. Taint it. Ruin it. I hated it. It was Thanksgiving and I was in charge of brushing it. She was shaking. Even when a handful of hair was ripped from her scalp, she didn’t say a thing.

She knew.

“Lee will be in charge of dissecting the stomach.”

Children are life’s most cruel expression.

They grow like parasites and come to life through agony. I’ve seen the faces of birthing mothers; oh, there is no joy. No visions of changing diapers and cooing words. There is pain and desolation. There is a look in their face that says they want it to stop.

They want out.

“- severe scarring.”

It was a summer day.

I am drinking Earl Grey and the kids are playing on the yard. Erika isn’t allowed outside anymore. Her cast on her leg is fresh, and my sister keeps telling me how clumsy Erika is. How she will fall off the monkeybars, or jump off the swing and snap her ankle. My Earl Grey is too hot to drink. Erika is coloring a page with black circles.

Sometimes I worry, her mother says. She tells me the lady hurt her, can you believe her? I don’t know what to do, should I take her to George? Is this normal?

“Definitely not self induced.”

Erika is clumsy. Erika couldn’t stop a small tumble down the stairs.

She’s okay, I assure her with the same hand I sinned with. It was like shaking a stranger’s hand after you jerk off. It’s a phase she’ll grow out, I say.

I hear a coloring pencil snap.

“Has anyone guessed the cause of death?”

She knew.

Erika saw me spit into the turkey sandwich.

Still, she swallows.

“You are correct, Steven. Trauma.”

Everyday feels like pending death. That is how you feel: you simply are. The feeling of the gas pedal under your foot, the buzz of an annoying insect in your bedroom, the sensation of clean linen between your fingers. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.

Pending death, I tell you.

“Five more minutes and she could’ve been saved.”

I hear a vertebra snap.

We’re going to be late for the recital, I think. Fuck. I can’t really, really. I do a disgusting gaping movement with my mouth and all is tight. Everything around me is tight. Erika is quiet, quiet, quiet and I can’t feel my legs.

My arms. I can’t.

“Think we can open up the skull?”

My head is turned sideways in ways I feel unnatural. Erika is staring at me.

She knows.

I try to tell her, the little bitch. My fingers are inching closer to my new iPhone. It’s pitch black; we’re going to be late. See? Her leggings are ripped and shredded and I can’t reach my phone.

Erika give me back my phone.

“Be careful, only slice off the fat.”

Breathing is hard when your head is turned 10 degrees to the right more than it should.

I hear the seatbelt alarm patiently reminding me of safety. The red light flashes on and off on and off, reflecting off her angel face. She doesn’t move.

Erika, give me the fucking phone.

I gargle on my own spit.

“We will continue with the lungs tomorrow.”

Her tiny hands, such innocent, untainted, hands.

I can see my blood smeared on her open palm, her Capri sun breath on my face while I’m gasping for life. And then it comes. That short moment we all live for, that small moment we will never be able to label or categorize.

It tastes like iron and smells like fruit punch.

I feel

“I hate you.”

Nothing.