the col

mperature. It's the cold of the stainless-steel table beneath

scrubs is my husba

athologist. His face is a mask of professional indifference. He picks up a scalpel, t

vous? Or

a late night w

there' s nothing. Just a hollow emptiness, a

is in

s assistant are trying to lay them

t a short, fr

killer was thorough.

ge of impatience. It' s the same voice he used when I' d ask him wh

ung man I don' t re

eport said she was held

nd, or what' s left of it. He traces a line along my finger

at. "Dehydration, malnutrition. The dismember

int that he recognizes the body parts of the woman he married. But how

ose three day

my wrists. I didn' t cry. I didn' t scream. I just waited. I waited for Et

ppers made the call. I hear

oice, clea

som? Fo

cruel laugh that shatte

hank you for getting rid of th

silence in the room was

he pain

n closer to my torso. He uses his forceps to pick at

r. Cole?" the

untreated wood. Maybe fro

a fraction of a second. A flicker of something. Not recognition. Not sadness

zle he couldn' t b

s again, his voice

. it' s personal. The kil

up, his face once

a strong m

the sterile silence. He strips off one of h

ftens. The ice melts away, replaced b

e... No, I' ll be there. I wouldn'

At me. A look of pure disgust crosses his face. As if my brutalized r

his over with,

et, my final, desperate hope to fix what was broken be

business again, a machine of prec

leans forwar

ly, and lifts out a tiny, nascent form. A fetus. Bar

seems to stop. The hum of the ventilation, t

jaw tightens, his eyes widen, and a sound escapes his throat-a choked, gut

the husband who despised me disco

ust declared not

f that dark room, my hand on my

Daddy will save

fool

ind, hope