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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2017853-Colours-of-Space
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Sci-fi · #2017853
Scientific and medical research give way to untethered life.
“The only challenge we, as humans, face is ultimately our own fate. That fate, great and tedious, is the product of our own humility.” - From a passage in the tome Ab Aeterno titled “The Great Rift”

From the desk of Dr. Harold Maddison of Mishkatoshen University:

“On this late afternoon of the fifth of May, 1923, I recount my findings of the early morning of the first of May of 1903 in particular: There we stumbled under a moonlit and star-studded landscape, shown forth in brilliance of utter disgust for the ultimatum of livity given. Wise pronunciations of gasps and awes billowed upwards from our long-shattered lungs as we stood transfixed at the phosphorescent reddish glowing piercing our eyes. Myself, Harold Maddison, along with my wife, Patricia, felt the pattering of ants climbing up from the ground and engulfing our bodies. This feeling, neither concrete nor static in existence, spewed at my wife and I as our eyes were sterile at the glimmering waves of colours, shining seemingly out of ghoulish primeval absence. It was a night-gaunt blur of impressive - near grotesque - company.”

Sixth of May, 1923: It was a woeful advancement of significant gibbering in unison. I detached myself from this dreamland and continued to find a cure for my wife’s illness; tuberculosis. There she lie, on that flat, surgical steel-cold table awaiting for the arrival of her ever-approaching reanimation into a figure of abstract liveliness. With the correct apertures applied, an enchanted nourishment would writhe my wife, Patricia, back to the plane of corporeal thought.

Beginning work on my latest fashion in my dark crypt of malicious intentions. How ever the bulbous lights hung from the ceiling, it was perfect in my medical inclinations. The dark brick walls of this crypt clung with air-tight injections and windowless catastrophes. This dank oasis of medical instruments sat dormant. The cold, surgical stainless-steel tables locked securely in place and the gray-like translucent curtains hung from the ceilings on tracks made to move in case I provided other services.

I had to beseech myself to stay in relative distance as my work should continue post-mortem. An intangible brevity of time concluded that on the early morning of the first of May, Patricia and I encountered an object of indistinguishable form. Unidentified in my theories of evolution could this disambiguous persistence somehow attach a life tether to her and I. Venturing outside of the normal, in terms of feet, I should fall grossly ill with a death-knell close by, eventually decorating my body and soul in death’s cold grip.

Patricia shan’t linger in perdition, awaiting trial. Her body will be alive and well once again.

Seventh of May, 1923: With the arrival of the ingredients - thirty cubic litres of silicone - work shall start once the mold of my darling wife, Patricia, sets in rather stillness.

Algor mortis has set in resulting in a rapid decline of her body’s overall body temperature. I must work fast. Flies have descended upon the room in relative low masses. The accumulation of gasses contained within resulted in a low-grade bloat. A recovery of all fluids drained in a grate on the body of the floor to allow no excessive build up of any residual coagulation. The putrefaction approximate timeline has already begun to take hold; discolourations on the abdomen of her resting body.

The encasement process of the body will begin shortly. Once embalmed with the essence of her stillborn life, my darling Patricia will once more stay in the company of her once warm breath. I had spoken allowed in the presence of her lifeless corpse. There was meaningful breakdowns of melancholia and a morose wailing erupting from my body as the thought of her no long being near was a blight upon my life. Injections of silicone into various orifices will preserve her already decomposing body, but if not for a time being as I collect my final moments of life in foreboding memoirs.

Eighth of May, 1923: I shall take note, within 23 hours of the mold and encasing taking a flexible and nameless feature, the body still lies on that cold slab.

Movement - the bending - of various fingers and toes exemplify a state of prolonged suspended animation with proper rubber movements, snapping back into place after being released. Elbow and other joint experimental movements remain conclusive with the small appendages. A whispering stillness of her blank gaze stood an encouraging sight to dwell upon.

Rudimentary tests involving standing and sitting will denounce all religious genus and xenos. In my windowless crypts below the first story, I perform these acts in stench-filled grotesqueries. Her now ill-formed body was an anatomically and bendable design of perfect faculties as the result of my much sought after eye for the perfect wife. In a positive appropriation, the singular secret of such a travesty is countless commandments via simplistic monastic passages. In other words, I have found a way to preserve the essence of life.

I begin with the standing test. Her sustained body is linear as I excitedly distributed her weight amongst her stance. Propped up against the surgical table, Patricia was now next to as alive as she would ever be. Standing in front, her posture was perfect. I exclaimed in a clap and smile as my hands found there way to wiping the sweat from my brow and neck in utter anticipation for years to come.

Ninth of May, 1923: I awoke to the sound of squirming upon the medical table. Vast diplomatic ringings of unaccounted fear brought me to my feet to discover Patricia awake from her slumber, unable to move any sort of appendage. Her muffled screams dipped into my ears while I furiously made my way to cutting open the silicone mold covering her lips. Hesitantly, I gasped to find that her eyes were a black abyss, devoid of all light and life.

I slit open the space between Patricia’s lips what happened next startled me. A shriek of foetid, ghostly passages shot through the air as though a moment sprang forth in bountiful abundance. There were no remains of scrambled partings and no scarcely presence of embarked beauty of her vocal chords. It was inhuman. Uncanny were the last surviving muttered vowels which lingered in instilled deliverance.

“Patricia? It’s me, your husband Harold. Can you hear me?” Proudly strewn from my mouth were the words of heartbreak and happiness. Patricia’s reanimated corpse turned in a conjectured, fluid motion to face me with all of the black abyssal-like gaze. There were no contestants in the realm of her inanimate propaganda. Short-lived was the promptly survived hesitance as Patricia, hastily reaching up for me. Was this some sort of sign of trouble relived through her thoughts while she lie dormant? Or could there be some correlation between the sickly, glow that night and her mannequin-like reassembly?

“I’m here. What is it, my darling love?” My words fell on deaf ears. She cursed in utter disdain while extravagantly shooting up in a sitting position on the table. My body fell back and onto the floor in amazement. It should be noted that the importance of my work remain secluded and shall not persist nor transport its way into the hands of vile caricatures. Convenient in part of the indifferent expertise, but mortal in the way of primordial masquerades. Patricia gazed blindly at me, as I knew this far back - roughly eight feet - was the maximum distance allotted to me to be away from her body. I know now I should never mock the outlined deterrents of my senses and the forces of repulsion.

Attempting to grab a decent foothold, Patricia slowly stood erect, bipedal and with confidence. Certain aspects of such a sight told of a writhing reptile moving through the Earth. I knew not of the unreasonably vitality which spawned several ill-fated circumstances with my emotions. I felt a disoriented wash of deterioration - philosophically - and seized the opportunity to confront them.

I reluctantly stood, on the precipice of uncertainty. “Patricia, are you able to speak to me, your husband?” Thus the only response I could conjure up in this moment of disbelief. Her fanatical maddening rose to obliviousness as she strode toward me in an unforgettable revivification. A scourge upon the Earth isn’t what I recounted. A cacophony of splendour turned to retreat as Patricia’s odious stride rushed at me in my deserted train of thought.

Abruptly, she lept forward in a feline posture, foiling my attempt at a warm welcome and graciously outstretched arms. I knew something was wrong, my experiments have never gone awry. A moment of clarity washed over me in a terrific sensation of fear.

II


Tenth of May, 1923: He, Harold, went into a physical status of catatonia. A gash in the back of his noted a hard fall onto a surface of something hard and non-porous. Inconclusive findings resulted in a mass of coalesced amalgamation of discoloured scabs, ostensibly a scuffle. Certain scratch marks sustained during said scuffle were made evident. Doubting the advisable procedures, the repetition of said experimental theories admonish any sort of scientific findings if not shared with others in that community.

I, Patricia Maddison, finish Dr. Harold Maddison’s research into revivification of deceased patients. A collection of ingredients have been recovered and reused for my intensive studies to continue a living being’s soul into a mannequin-esque form of ambiguity. Inert brain-wave activity succeeded by certain dissections and the removal of non-vital organs collapsed into prostrating duties.

I shall feverishly delve into my late husband’s work and correct the distraught body modifications which led to my horrific and disfigured soul.
© Copyright 2014 J.N. Moore (baiulus at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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