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While the killer was stabbing me left and right, my dad was stitching up a teddy bear for my sister, one careful stitch at a time.
He ignored every desperate call I made for help.
“Super busy right now, don’t bug me unless it’s big.”
Days later, Dad, a forensic pathologist, was teaching his students using a female cadaver he dissected himself.
“The victim faced brutal treatment before her death, clinging fiercely to life until her last breath.”
He opened up the cadaver and then sewed it back together, allowing each student to practice from sunrise to sunset.
He identified every injury on the body but failed to realize, this body was me–his own daughter he resented so deeply.
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30
They found my corpse in a sewer shaft.
A badly decomposed body reeking of
death.
The police, along with my Dad, the seasoned medical examiner, rushed to the
scene.
Upon arrival, Dad expertly handled my battered body, instructing his students to take down vital scene details.
“The deceased is a young female, her face destroyed by sulfuric acid. We’ll need to gather DNA to identify her.”
After assessing the situation, Dad took off his gloves.
“Take her back for an autopsy.”
His student nodded, moving to place me in a body bag, but the sight of my acid-
disfigured face nearly made him sick.
“Ugh…”
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Dad shook his head, “Can’t stomach it?”
The student excused himself to vomit then returned pale–faced. “It’s not about handling it, sir, it’s just that this lady’s fate was too harsh…”
Dad glanced again at the body bag holding me, nodding dispassionately, “Yeah, it’s a tough one.”
Years as a medical examiner had numbed
him to the horrors of death.
But Dad, if you knew it was me, would you still be so composed?
I watched them transport my body back to the police station and onto the autopsy table.
Hovering above, I silently observed Dad as he donned a mask and gloves, preparing meticulously for the autopsy.
Disinfecting, arranging, bowing, incising.
The cold scalpel sliced through my body, causing even my soul to shudder
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involuntarily.
It didn’t hurt.
Compared to the thirty–seven stab wounds on my body, this was nothing.
Dad’s movements were precise and skilled as he examined and noted each wound.
He held my head, examining my face closely.
Suddenly, he sensed something was amiss, his finger brushed my ear.
I have a mole under my earlobe; he used to know about it.
Dad touched the mole with his hand, and as he pondered, the students entered.
Dad quickly turned around, pushing the thought aside.
He removed his gloves and told the students, “This corpse is quite instructive,
it’s rare to see one this decomposed. Have a go yourselves.”
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The students crowded around me, the harsh light from the autopsy table reflecting the cold steel of several scalpels.
I no longer felt any pain and could only watch as Dad walked out of the autopsy room step by step.
So close, Dad.
You were so close to discovering that the body you were dissecting was your own daughter.
