Posted by Sawney Beane on September 16, 2007 at 22:27:45:
The Collected Works of Sawney Beane: Volume #154
SENSE OF LOSS
by Sawney Beane
9 September 2007
781 words
DISTRIBUTION NOTICE and DISCLAIMER: Sawney Beane requests that any distribution of this work of fiction remain within the realm of social responsibility. This story is suitable neither for minors nor for the seeming majority of adults who have difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. It is pure fantasy, which means that, for whatever reason, someone has found it interesting to think about the events depicted herein. It does not in any way mean that the author would like to see this fantasy become reality, so if you are the type of person who might be swayed into doing something irrational by reading a work of fiction, the author respectfully requests that you decline to read further.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sawney Beane, originally a native of Edinburgh, lived for twenty-five years in a cave on the coast of County Galloway, subsisting on the flesh of unfortunate travellers, roughly a thousand of them all told. He and his wife raised a large family of eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grandsons, and fourteen granddaughters. Eventually, the family was captured, and the whole lot was brutally and unjustifiably tortured and executed without trial. Since his death in the early 17th century, Beane has reformed his ways and now confines his atrocities to his literary endeavours.
WARNING: This story contains scenes of semi-consensual snuff and gynophagia. If you find such things offensive, please steer clear; you have been warned.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Another random concept.
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It's amazing what a person can get used to. When they cut off my hands, I cried and cried. I couldn't stop crying all night. All I could think of was the cruelty of losing a part of me. I kept replaying the scene over and over in my mind.
The man came and pointed at me and gave the butcher some instructions. Then Sam the butcher took me over to the block and told me to lay my hands down there. It didn't hurt, of course; they take care of that. And the bandaging job was quick and efficient, so there was hardly any blood. But I just watched in horror as Sam folded my two hands into each other like a little prayer and wrapped them in paper before handing them to the customer.
All that evening I imagined that a part of me had become someone's dinner. Hard to say whether or not he had me that very night, but chances are he made a special meal for a woman he was trying to impress, and my lost hands were his strategic gem.
But the point is, I took it hard. I don't even remember now why it bothered me so much. Somehow I felt that I had lost something, had become something less than I once was. In a way, I suppose that's true. But oddly enough, if you lose enough of yourself, you forget who you once were and even forget to regret that you are no longer who you once were.
I know it sounds strange, but it's true. I don't even remember when that happened. It couldn't have been more than a week or two ago, but I can barely remember the person I was before that.
The next day, another customer came in and ordered one of my feet, and my left arm sold that day too. There was a little twinge of sorrow when these much larger bits of myself were whisked away, but nothing like the despair that the original hand job had created.
And so the days go by, and bits of me have been disappearing ever since. Now both arms and both legs are completely gone. My breasts have also been removed. And it is truly shocking that I barely gave a passing thought to their departure. After all they have done for me, I have no sense of loss.
Just the other day, I was sitting in the meat case with another girl. She was in much the same state as I was except she still had breasts and one arm. I didn't even know her name. I'm not sure I know my own name for that matter. But the point is, we were passing the time by telling each other jokes, and this girl was right in the middle of telling a complicated and lengthy joke when a customer walked in and pointed at her through the glass.
The butchers whisked her away. I couldn't see, but I could hear her mumbling and talking until one big "thwack!" silenced her forever. Then they clearly gutted and butchered her. The horrid sound of them sawing her ribs from her dead carcass caused me a bit of discomfort, but when the package of ribs was handed across the counter, it just didn't phase me. Oddly enough, I didn't dwell on the fact that an acquaintance of mine had just been taken mid-sentence from the happy meat case and suddenly turned into a package of spareribs. I didn't even bother myself with the worry that my own life, such as it is, could end just as suddenly at any time. The thing that bothered me most was the realization that I would never get to hear the punch line!
I'm not sure why I feel the way I do or rather why I don't feel much of anything at all. It just all seems natural at this point. I am partially butchered meat, and I will soon become fully butchered meat. I may have been a woman once, but I can barely remember what it was like.
There aren't many removable bits left on me. Someone may come and slice off parts of my bum or shoulders, but that's about it. Probably within the next day or so, someone will place an order that will lead to my immediate death. And I don't feel the least bit unhappy about it. It worries me a bit that I can't be bothered to fear my own death at least a little bit, but that's just the way it is. I have definitely lost my sense of loss. Funny I don't miss it.