and having writ moves on
[OOC: Trigger warning? There's reference to dead children and questionable sexual situations. Not at the same time that'd just be messed up.]

13 September 2017
"This is going to be you some day."

A milk-white corpse lies on a stainless steel autopsy table. Around it stand five pathology residents and a county medical examiner. As of July he - the ME, not the corpse - is associated with the Department of Medical Education. None of the residents feel shock or disgust in the presence of the dead anymore.

"Maybe not arriving in such pristine condition. Cursory external examination reveals--what. Who can tell me what external examination reveals?"

The five young adults glance back and forth between each other, none of them wanting to answer first. The shortest female resident is taller than their proctor. That doesn't matter much. Something about him managed to put them on edge the second they met him. Some aura they cannot perceive or pin down. It's like the world's worst déjà vu.

"Doctor Cross!" he says, loud, jolting the tall California transplant. "External examination."
"I, uh..."
"Huh-uh. No 'uh.' You have eyes. You have a brain. You would not be in this program if you did not know the answer. Tell me what you see."
"He's, ah, he's tall. White. Has, ah--"

Another resident, Morrison, interrupts. She has a tendency of doing that.

"Decedant is a Caucasian male who appears to be one point eight meters tall and weigh--"

"Look at his neck," their proctor interrupts.

Five sets of eyes glance down.

"I don't have to cut him open to tell what killed this man. I am going to, because he died in the emergency room and the hospital has requested an autopsy and he deserves a proper diagnosis before his family plants him in the ground. Cause of death was listed as an MACE, Major Adverse Cardiac Event. but I do not believe that is what killed this man."

Morrison says, "But--"

"And I intend to challenge that cause of death. If anyone feels lightheaded or nauseous during the course of this internal examination," he says, "I will ask you to kindly step back from the table so as not to injure yourself or someone else."


15 December 2014
What was there to say. The child was run down. He was outside playing with his friends the way any healthy eight-year-old boy ought to be, tearing around the residential Miami street, and the driver took the corner too fast. No one knew what to do. It took too long to track down his parents.

His parents are still parents, but he is not their child anymore. His body is lying in a slab in the morgue where his father works. This is the thought that plagues Andrés as he sits at home, his daughter dead asleep with the assistance of diazepam and having soaked his shirt in her tears.

A memory, blurred: Hinata comes home. Hinata to him, Eloise to them. She liked the way it sounded so she took it as her craft name. Both names are composed of linguistic elements that mean "sun." Or "sunny." "Towards the sun."

They do not have language this afternoon. She walks towards him like a ghost, dressed all in black, and she is crying as she pulls him out of the chair by his belt and starts to kiss him. He tries to wipe away the tears but they keep trailing down her cheeks, her breath leaves her body in ragged airless sobs. Her own resonance tints the air with its determination and when she unbuckles his belt and gets a hand beneath his clothes that determination awakens a spark of desire.

Grief sex is not like in the movies. At least not for them. It is not raw and passionate and cathartic. They do not lose themselves in each other. They don't kiss, don't laugh, don't talk. With her back against the wall and a leg around his waist, they cling to each other as if knowing: their son's death was going to tear them apart.

In a few days her coven sister will call her and they would talk and they would decide, after the wake, that taking Naomi and going to Tokyo for a while would be the best. For both of them. They needed some clarity and Andrés would never leave his work anyway.

When he comes his wife reacts to the noise he makes by stroking his hair, as if he is the one who needs comfort. As if she knows his brain is beginning to formulate an unholy plan, a denial, no he will not accept this.

Hinata wants a proper Buddhist funeral. To witness her son's coffin as it slides into the cremation chamber.

She will. It will be the coffin she picked out. But the body will not be inside, and she will not be able to tell the difference between Yori's bones and the bones she picks out of the ashes later.

Hinata was nearly an adept in the fields of Life and Spirit but she never could get the hang of Time.


27 September 2017
The word 'backlog' means nothing to a person who can bend laws of nature and physics. A rape kit comes in, the technician had better process it before Dr. Sepúlveda has to come hunt him down. Sepúlveda only has to hunt down Luis when the blonde intern is distracting him with conversation. You want to have a conversation, act all flirty-flirty with each other, you can do it after you clock out.

So: afternoon. Wednesday. Everyone is yawning. It's hotter than hell and they have more work than usual. On the computer screen in front of him is an anonymous report. The patient chose to report the crime but not to attach their personal information to it. Part of him nods in approval, their sense of civic duty intact in spite of surviving an assault. The other part of him wants to hit his head on the desk because that information could be fucking vital if the perpetrator is known to the victim.

Lacerations on both knees. Abrasions on the right wrist. Jagged ovaliform bruising on the left posterior shoulder. Whoever submitted the report did not even bother trying to label it human. The impressions are tooth-like, but...

"Aaaaaaugh, chingámeeeeeeee..."

It has been just over a year since the last time the person he calls received a call from him.

Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon

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