Born Dead: Prologue

I lay her down on the cold metal table and carefully position her body, anticipating the first incision. The first in a series of perfect gestures that will take not just one life, but two. One life unworthy of gracing this planet and another not yet ready to set foot upon His great oasis in a black and desolate universe.

I look at the instruments precisely laid out beside me before I pick up the straps that will hold her delicate body. I fasten them tightly around her chest, waist, wrists and ankles, preparing for when she awakes from the anaesthetic and I can go about my work.

The halogen lights clearly expose the blemish-free skin that adorns her young body as she begins to wake from her drug induced slumber. Her long auburn hair flows over the edge of the table like some autumnal river cascading down into the darkness.

It reminds me of the trees lining the streets of my childhood home and the days I spent outside playing with my friends. Back when I was pure. Back when I was still innocent.

I call out for my assistant to hand me my scalpel and place my hands on the young girl’s burgeoning abdomen. I sense the life growing inside her as I say a silent prayer to Him to wash away my sins and cleanse my soul.

The lights overhead flicker and I see the fear in her eyes as realisation flashes across her beautiful face. I begin the incision and her muffled screams echo off the bare brick walls of my own personal operating theatre.

I carefully slice the skin, my steady hands sliding across her stomach with ease and precision as crimson blood seeps between my fingers, pooling around her on the metal table before dripping to the floor with a little pitter patter. Like the sounds of tiny feet running across a living room floor.

Yet hers will never know this world.

Reaching into her womb I pull free the bastard soul that has been growing inside her.

My assistant swoops over and relieves me of this burden so I can return to the task in hand. With nimble fingers I close the wound and return my instruments to their rightful place, now forever soiled with the blood of a damaged soul.

My assistant returns and takes up the scalpel. With a flourish, a slash across our guest’s throat ends the screams.

Our work has begun.

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