It is said that the ancients ate the hearts of their enemies to gain their strength. I search for something subtler. There must be some gland, some organ in which the art of the writer is kept. My guest squirms. I turn the small knife over in my hands, seeing the reflection of my own eyes in the shining blade.
They are bright, my eyes. They shine with the intensity of longing, searching, with the promise of discovery. There are a million tiny victories to be gained from this macabre experiment.
Oh, I do not deny that my little habits are revolting, against the mores of our fair society. But I have to know. I must find it.
I begin.
My guest is bound and gagged, so the only concession to what I imagine to be quite painful would be movement against the binding. My little knife is sharp, but the skin parts and the blood flows. The nerves must fire, and what they overlook, the eyes will see and interpret. For now. And the million cuts of anticipated pain can be worse than the authentic hurting, or so I am told.
The tongue is a logical place to begin my search, and I confess to a habit of logic in my work, but removing the gag might prove imprudent at this point, and besides, the writer may go his entire life without speaking one word of his art. And so my guest’s tongue remains pristine and unmolested.
The eyes — which dart with such fury, as though looking to some exit, some escape just out of the line of sight — are another promising location, but something else stops me. The look in the eyes as they meet mine.
And so I examine the fingers, the actors through which the writer’s genius may make its way to the page. The fingers curl and flex as I turn my attention, my guest’s eyes following mine, deciphering my intention. I smile and lift my little knife.
I find nothing, just blood and tissue. The fingernails lift off easily, teased out with the tip of the knife. It slides under them and pulls them from their beds. Do nails slumber in their beds? Do they awaken when ripped untimely thence? The prize I seek is not beneath the roused fingernails, nor is it within each finger. Just skin, muscle, and bone.
I draw the tip of my little knife in a lazy path up the arm, drawing a line of blood from palm to shoulder, thinking. A high pitched sound has started emanating from my guest, what passes for a wail among the gagged, I suppose. I consider taking my little knife to his larynx, and am momentarily impressed with my own anatomical knowledge.
But ancient sages and the enlightened of the Renaissance knew not where to find what I seek. I should win renown, though I am cogent of the likely reactions of the general public. But then, the ancient physicians were considered monsters. I would find what I seek. Not the fingers? Very well, onward.
I examine the belly, delving into the very gut of the author to see from whence those feelings that become stories derive. The gut is ripe with organs and smells bad, but I am strong in the name of discovery and soldier on. My guest continues his writhing and keening.
The writer’s spark is not in his chest. I exhume the eyes, examining them externally and find nothing. The sockets are empty holes weeping gore. The keening becomes a whimper and the writhing slows. As I make my way down to the chest, I decide that the art of a writer is his strength, and so the ancient savages may have been correct.
My knife will not go through the rib bones that offer some protection to my guest’s heart. I turn to the tray and select a saw. My guest thrashes against his bindings as I crack through the bone. It is grueling work, and I have to stop to mop my brow, which pours sweat from the exertion. I see the heart, a fluttering thing inside the chest. As I bring the tip of my little knife to it, it gives a wild jerk, and then falls silent. I look up.
My guest has gone still. I fear he may have given up on the endeavor before I had intended. It is a shame; there is nothing to find once the writer has given up the spark. I shall have to try again some other day.
Jenn Writes... 