500

Heavy Wait

My eyes open to find my hands hovering hesitantly over the dismembered form of a woman lying on top of a stainless-steel table. There are neither doors nor windows set into in any of the filthy, grime-streaked walls surrounding us. A simple white-faced clock's dull tick-tocking fills the remainder of the room. I cannot recall entering or for how long I have been here.
I inspect the instruments I am holding and the assortment on the tray beside me and I realise it is unclear whether I am assembling or disassembling the body beneath my trembling hands, who despite being separated at all her major joints - neck, knees, shoulders, elbows, ankles and wrists - bears no sign of bleeding. Furthermore: she lives.
Her eyes blink in continuous disbelief.

I imagine my own eyes ache and twitch, weary with the weight of confusion. I note the position of the hands on the clock before slipping back into darkness.

When they open again the clock has moved or perhaps I am lying down now. My extremities feel cold and distant and unresponsive. My head immobile, my eyes rove about their sockets.
The figure looms over me, hands shivering and outstretched, uncertain what to do next. Unable to speak I spend what feels like hours furiously attempting to communicate my pleas through flickering eyelids only to see that the minute hands of the clock have barely crept a fraction forward throughout all my efforts.
The figure remains dumb and immobile whilst my originally frantic blinking falls into steady rhythm with the second hand as it slowly circumnavigates the clock-face.
With each tick my eyes open a little less until closing completely.

The ticking wakes me. Each tock a deafening thud reliably answered by its mechanical counterpart: an incessant tick-tock-tick-tock-tick…
I shut my eyes tight and wait, knowing that the two of them are there, somewhere in front of me: the still figure, the detached woman.

Barely roused, I am once more the standing, motionless idiot. Unsure whether I should help pull the still living, twitching parts together or continue segmenting them into smaller and smaller pieces. Possibly, if given enough time, I could complete both in an inexhaustible array of grotesque and wild combinations. Most likely I'll remain here, idle and useless, dithering on the edge action.

Focused on the static limbs of the white clock's face, my eyes, heavier than ever, close for an instant.

They open again and from my view-point laying on the table I see they have reversed their course a fraction of a hairs breadth.