The Beauty of Death Vol.1

Metamorphic Apotheosis-1

METAMORPHIC APOTHEOSIS

by Rena MasonFirst Larval Instar of the New World Screwworm: a stage in the life of an insect between successive molts.

In the slanting light of a Floridian afternoon, Francesca Werner lay still, dazzled by the glistening bands of the creamy yellow maggot that stood tall as a man at the foot of her bed. Two dark slits just under the surface of its conoidal head twitched and pointed down toward her open nakedness. She widened her legs over damp sheets, pressing her backside into the mattress.

July heat heightened the already intense ammonia odor that saturated everything in the master bedroom, permeating even her skin. Humidity close to one hundred percent liquefied the fetor, and it oozed down the white walls in brown runnels.

Long days spent worrying then yearning to rid herself of the dead she felt moving inside her made Francesca nauseated. She turned her head slightly and vomited, never shifting her gaze from the worm as thin liquid dribbled from the side of her mouth and pooled under her neck.

Black mouth hooks jutted from its head and probed the air. The worm leaned forward and sunk the curved spikes into the flesh above her knees. Francesca breathed deep and groaned as the worm extended and retracted, mounting her. Bulging sections slid against her damp skin while the sharp ridges corkscrewing its oblong shape sliced her flesh as it groped for purchase. She closed her eyes and drifted away from the stinging, waiting, and writhing as the worm segments inched over her s*x. It tore its mouth hooks free and rose slightly before penetrating her thighs. The worm pulled through the skin above her knees, lifted itself again, then came down and punctured her abdomen. Pain opened her eyes, and she watched as it slowly worked its way up.

Mesmerized as its head loomed above her face, Francesca focused on blood dripping from the sharp tips. They came down and stabbed into the dark areolas encircling her erect n*****s. Illicit pleasure born of filth’s perversion racked her body in unrelenting crests and troughs as the worm gyrated her into orgasmic oblivion.

“This hurt?” With her thumb and index finger, Francesca spread the woman’s skin.

Mrs. Miller’s magnified face glowed blue in the darkened room. Using her other thumb in short, sweeping motions, Francesca guided the surgical blade across the taut cheek of her client. Dry skin accumulated along its steel edge the way plows move through snow on roads.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Miller whispered without moving her lips. “Sorry ’bout losing the—”

A uterine contraction gripped Francesca, the pain jerking her hand. Mrs. Miller winced. Francesca moved the knife away and watched a crimson seam rise to the surface just under the blade, grateful it didn’t bleed up.

“I—” Mrs. Miller sucked in a quick breath.

“No. I’m sorry. That’ll leave a small, straight mark like a bruise.”

“It’s my fault. I should have waited. Will you be all right to finish?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” Francesca looked up at the wall clock.

After some deep breathing, she resumed planing Mrs. Miller’s face. Neither of them spoke for the next twenty minutes. When she finished, Francesca rolled her stool back and swung the light’s arm to the side. She misted cool water over the woman’s face then applied a moisturizer.

“I’m done.” Francesca gave Mrs. Miller a mirror.

Her client turned her head to examine the scrape. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’ll be fine if you don’t pick at it.”

“I promise not to.” Mrs. Miller handed the mirror back to Francesca. “It was stupid of me to bring that up while you were working. I’m really sorry. It’s just that I hadn’t seen you in so long and when I asked Kim at the front desk, she filled me in.”

“It’s okay, really. Better to be here than at home thinking about it.”

Mrs. Miller made a slight smile.

Francesca gave her client a small tube of the moisturizer she’d used. “Put this on the scrape for the next couple days. It’ll keep it from itching.”

“Thanks.” Mrs. Miller got up from the chair and pocketed the sample. She rifled through her purse then handed Francesca three twenties. “Should I schedule next month with Kim?”

“Thank you. And yeah, please do. My August is pretty open. There’s nothing new to your regimen except for the scrape. Call if the red starts to spread.”

“Oh, definitely. You don’t think—”

“No. I’m just paranoid about infection these days.”

“That’s understandable. I’m glad things didn’t get any worse for you.” Mrs. Miller patted Francesca on the shoulder and spoke as she left the room. “At least you can try again when Paul gets back.”

A typical thing for one of her clients to say, but after nearly five years as an aesthetician, Francesca learned not to expect anything more than inane comments from the women who frequented the plastic surgeon’s office where she worked in Naples. How much worse could her life possibly get?

While she cleaned the room for her next client, something tugged just beneath her belly button. Francesca placed a hand over the loose skin and flabby, post-pregnancy fat. A kick against her palm left her breathless and still. She couldn’t help thinking that maybe her GYN didn’t get all the infection out. Her body grew warm, and the scrub top she wore clung to her armpits. Another quick pull came from her abdomen; Francesca poked a finger down into her navel. Something pushed back.

After grabbing her purse from a drawer, she swung the door open and rushed out to the staff entrance of the front desk.

“You don’t look so good,” Kim said.

“When’s my next client?”

“Mrs. Blake is here now.”

“Damn.” Another painful contraction took hold. Francesca dropped her purse and grabbed her abdomen. “Can you reschedule?”

“Yeah, but what’s wrong?”

“Never mind. I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.”

“Go to the lounge, and I’ll tell the nurse.” Kim picked up the main phone.

Francesca got her purse from the floor and headed for the staff room. Before she sat down, she filled a cup of water and sipped some. She took a few Motrin from her purse and wished she had something stronger.

Rora entered the doorway and put her hands on her hips. “You’re a hot mess.” The nurse walked over to Francesca and sat down next to her. “What is it?”

“Contractions, I think.”

“That’s normal. Your body’s still trying to rid your system. You still bleeding?”

“Yeah.”

“Bright red?”

“No. It’s clumpy with lots of clots and fluctuates between different shades of maroon.”

“Well, that’s good. Does it smell bad?”

“Really? Not that I can think of.”

Kim rushed into the lounge. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Rora said. “You should get Dr. Kritsch in here.”

“She’s not back from seeing the maggot guy at Naples Community but she should be here any minute.” Kim stepped over and sat down on the other side of Francesca.

“Maggot guy?” Rora said.

“You know, the one with the open foot sores.” Kim had a nonchalant tone.

“Mr. Jacobs? The diabetic wound patient? He does have a name you know. And the preferred term is biodebridement, not maggot anything.”

“Hey, those little buggers do a great job cleaning up dead tissue,” Kim said.

“Can we please not talk about this now?” Francesca closed her eyes and inhaled. A wave of nausea rolled up her stomach. “Ugh, gross. I think I might throw up.”

Kim quickly rose from the couch and looked down at Francesca. “I’ll send Dr. Kritsch in as soon as she gets here. Plastic surgery may be her specialty, but she knows about female stuff, too. You need a barf bag or anything?”

“No. Just go. Thanks.” Francesca closed her eyes and tried to will the stomach acids to stop churning.

She was still concentrating on making the nausea go away when Dr. Kritsch arrived and gave her a quick exam, asking the same questions Rora did. It ended with a call to Francesca’s GYN, Dr. Giltner, who told her to come in right away.

“Thank you, Dr. Kritsch. I’ve never gotten an appointment that quick.”

“No problem. Of course it helps that Jim and I both did our residencies at Jackson Memorial.” Dr. Kritsch looked away and smiled as if she were having a fond memory. She snapped out of it and turned back to Francesca. “Look, you need to take some time off. And that’s an order.” Her tone was firm, but she smiled. “Don’t come back until you feel ready. Now, I’ve got some patients to see. Take care.” Dr. Kritsch patted Francesca’s shoulder as she exited the office.

“Okay.” Francesca lowered her head and stared at her shoes. She wanted work to occupy her time. The thought of being home alone didn’t sound the slightest bit appealing. Everyone else in her family lived in California, and she’d never taken the time to build any close friendships. All she had was Paul, and he was gone.

In the traffic crawl to her appointment, uterine kicks and contractions forced her to pull over onto the shoulder, twice. Images of dead baby parts reanimating then eating and tearing their way out played in a loop through her mind.

“You’ve been watching too many zombie shows,” Dr. Giltner said.

Not the answer she expected from a professional, but he’d always had a strange sense of humor. Francesca looked up at him while he watched the monitor. He moved his hand between her legs and rotated the lubricated ultrasound probe he held inside her.

“See, there’s nothing in here for you to worry about.” The device squelched as it came out with a gush of K-Y Jelly. Dr. Giltner then handed it to his nurse, trying to keep it down and away from Francesca’s line of sight. “Are you still taking the medications I prescribed?”

“Yes.”

“And you finished the round of antibiotics?”

Francesca nodded as he came around and palpated her abdomen.

“What about the Lexapro?” he said.

“Yes.” She lied. Francesca had stopped taking the anxiety meds after only two doses. All they did was make her sleepy while numbing her brain.

“Someone from the office will give you a call if your bloodwork comes back with any abnormal results. Is there anything else?”

“I guess not.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Sometimes.”

“I can write you a prescription.”

“It’s okay. I still have some of the pills from before.”

“Look, I can assure you the infection is gone, and there’s nothing left inside you. What you’re feeling is perfectly normal.”

Francesca sighed and looked at the frozen image of her empty uterus on the monitor.

After arriving home, Francesca showered, put on a pair of pajama bottoms and one of Paul’s old tee shirts. She lay on the couch and flipped through the channels, never stopping at one for more than thirty seconds until she finally turned the TV off and looked up at the ceiling.

What the doctor had said echoed truth. At times she did feel wholly empty, but something moved inside her now; that much she knew. Francesca lifted Paul’s shirt up and rested her hand across her mushy abdomen. Horrible thing to have a post-pregnancy body and no baby.

Poor Paul got the worst of the deal—a fat wife, no son or daughter, then deployed to the other side of the world. She’d make things right for him on his return. Her womb would be healed by then; Francesca would make it so. He’ll come back and be unable to resist the new her, see that she was ready to try again. But first she’d have to get rid of what was left inside.

A bump from below pushed against her fingers. She slid her hand to the side and watched her belly button rise and fall with the sensations, convinced the doctor was wrong and didn’t want to admit his mistake. But if the baby was alive its heartbeat would have shown on the ultrasound monitor. No. It was dead. She saw them carry the b****y mess away.

Francesca sunk her head into the throw pillow, closed her eyes, and thought of ways she might rid herself of the dead inside on her own.

The cell phone vibrating across the coffee table woke her. It’s Paul.

She cleared her throat before answering. “Hi, Honey.”

“How are you? Miss me? What’re you up to?” His voice faint warbles through static.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was sleeping.”

“Sorry to bug you. You should rest. I’ll call again when I can.”

“No. You could never bother me. How are you?”

“Busy.”

“That’s nothing new.”

He might as well had been on Mars. Talking to him on satellite phones only emphasized the distance between them, and he was too eager to find a reason to disconnect. Paul was always busy. Too engaged with work to be there for her when she really needed him, and when they were together, he was forever occupied with flight plans, then spending time with his pilot buddies. Using those excuses to avoid talks with Francesca about losing the baby.