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cubeswhump · 4 years

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Defy Fate; Reanimate, part 1: The Pieces of Osiris

Gonna make it clear that I got “Defy fate / Reanimate” from this song. This story takes inspiration from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein but I kinda took the barest base of it and ran wild.

For much of my childhood, I was dead set on being a forensic pathologist. Then I got autistic burnout which turned into a nervous breakdown and had to reevaluate my life plan. I still have a huuuuuge love for forensics/pathology and I finally put it to use. A bit too much use. You’re gonna learn about rates of decay today.

Note: Part 2 is already written and will be posted tomorrow or the day after.

Tagging @more-miserables and @brutal-nemesis

Warning for gore, self-harm (not done from depression or misery), terminal illness, whump of a minor (via flashback), death (death is a whole ass focal point of this story so be warned), drugging, creepy whumper (like super creepy), consensual mildly-NSFW stuff that doesn't go anywhere, semi-professional surgery, dismemberment, disembowelment, general grossness.

Dearil was a constant; Lorelai barely remembered life without him. He showed up in first grade an awkward little boy who didn't speak a word of English and she was the happy helper with dozens of gold stars who took him under her wing. But they grew up and he learned English and gained confidence while Lorelai retreated into her shell.

Dearil seemed the type of kid who would be bullied relentlessly: openly gay, overweight, embraced his feminine side with pinks and purples and earrings, grew his hair longer than any boy at school, could tell you every plot point of Bleach and Naruto but couldn't follow a conversation, did these things with his hands that were later identified as stimming. However, he never held his tongue and had this air of confidence that even the mean kids respected. It was quiet, studious Lorelai they picked on, but no one dared bother her when big Dearil stood next to her. When chemotherapy made him lose his hair when they were sixteen, some classmates even shaved their heads to show support.

They stayed close even Dearil repeated eleventh grade because health complications made him miss so much school. They stayed nest best friends even when Lorelai graduated six months early, when he took a gap year, when Lorelai got into medical school. Even when the dreaded Boyfriebds stuck their feet in.

The two shared an apartment while Dearil worked on a degree in business and Lorelai was kept busy as an assistant in a morgue and full-time student. They had big dreams, but Dearil's were much more feasible: he planned to open a bakery that exclusively hired neurodivergent teens and young adults. Lorelai's plans?

"They only don't want to mix magic and medicine becahse the pharmaceutical companies will lose money!" she growled, glaring daggers at the emailed rejection of her thesis.

"People fear what they don't understand. I mean, science can't explain it and it's pretty fucking crazy," Dearil replied, shrugging. "If I had to explain it, I'd say it's kinda like equivalent exchange in Fullmetal Alchemist, right? I don't really get how it works. But you're smart. You're strong-willed. You'll do great."

She didn't get his anime comparisons, but she could get lost in the sould of his voice. If she could bottle it she would drink nothing else for the rest of her life.

Then another Boyfriend came along and she heard that voice less and less. She hated everything about Frankie: the way he zipped around on that noisy motorcycle (and how dare he wear the only helmet while Dearil rode around unprotected), his spikey hair, his smug smile, his grating laughter, his leathee jackets, his lips on Dearil's.

She refrained from hexing him. She wasn't a bad person who would use witchcraft to cause harm. Her acts were subtle and harmless: placing red rose petals in Dearil's pockets and shoes and placing petunia petals in Frankie's.

"I don't know what the flowers mean but I'm guessing it's some passive-aggressive bullshit," Dearil huffed. "Cut it out."

He got a bit angrier when she tried to cut off a chunk of Frankie's stiff hair. It was just for a bad luck charm, nothing lethal, but she pled the fifth on that one.

"You're like a sister to me," Dearil reminded her that day after Frankieeft. He meant well, but she wanted to scream and cry and break things. But she forced herself to smile.

There was a thought that haunted her every day. She would be the maid of honor, perhaps wearing teal if Dearil's current hair color was anything to go by. She would have to give a speech and congratulate the grooms. Watch them kiss. It should be her under that altar! She should be wearing a white gown and veil!

She resigned to life as a lonely spinster. She'd be married to her job.

That was the worst thing she imagined happening, until life hit her like a truck... and the delivery was a truck.

Dearil was so late getting home again. Any minute now he'd call and tell her he was spending the night with Frankie. And sure enough her smartphone rang, but it wasn't Dearil.

"What's up, Kensia?" she asked, but the only response from Dearil's younger sister was sobbing. Instant dread. "Kensia? Come on, use words. I'm not a mind reader."

So Kensia spoke, and Lorelai would have preferred she didn't. She didn't remember getting off the phone. She didn't remember much of that night at all, but she couldn't forget all of it.

***

She almost didn't go to the funeral. She didn't want to wake up ever again. She thought about joining Dearil. But she got out of his bed, staggered to her bedroom, and searched her closet for appropriate attire.

The black dress was old and wouldn't cover the runes carved into her arms, but what did it matter if someone got uncomfortable? Fuck everyone else. The dress was tight in her waist and she bitterly realized that it would fit soon enough now that Dearil wouldn't be baking sugary treats all the time.

His mother came to greet her dressed in all white. The whole Jean-Pierre family wore white, even Dearil's dad whose wardrobe consisted of grey suits and plain ties. Catheline wrapped her up in a bone-crushing hug and Lorelai wanted to push her away and shout, "I'm not here for you!"

A cheap pine coffin for someone so great. What a disgrace. It was closed too. A closed-casket funeral was the most logical solution but it hirt Lorelai to know she wouldn't see his beautiful face ever again. That beautiful face was pulverized. Even Frankie, who was wearing a helmet, was killed so Dearil didn't stand a chance. He was killed on impact, painlessly.

Painless for who? It hurt so, so much.

She could scarcely hear the spoken eulogies over her own sobs, and declined to give one herself. Dearil's own mother wound up consoling Lorelai throughout the ceremony, rocking the young woman in her arms like a child. No words were shared until the end when Catheline walked Lorelai to her car.

"Traditionally in Haiti, we gather to mourn for nine days. It's a social gathering where we eat and drink and talk, nothing stiff and formal," Catheline explained through her own tears, smoothing Lorelai's messy ponytail. "You're part of the family, cheri. We want you to join us."

Like she wanted to waste her time at some social event. The only thing she wanted to do was lie in Dearil's bed and smell him on his pillow. But she couldn't shut Catheline down like that.

"Why nine days?" she asked.

"That's how long the soul takes to leave the body - that's what we Vodouists believe. We gather for nine days to assire the soul ascends safely and doesn't get stolen away by any petro loas. Evil spirits."

A pause. Lorelai got an odd look on her face. "Was he embalmed? Were his organs donated?"

Disgust flashed across Catheline's face for just a second. She took a deep breath. "We believe that harm dealt to the body after death harms the soul, so we don't usually embalm or donate organs. Dearil did want to donate his organs, you know what he's like, so we respected his wishes. He wasn't embalmed. Why do you ask?"

The question had a bit of an edge. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes.

Lorelai wasn't crying anymore, though her eyes were rimmed with red. "Catheline... If his soul is still on earth, could his body be saved?"

Catheline frowned. "What are you..." Her face contorted with horror. "No! I have nothing against you doing witchcraft, but this is where I put my foot down. Interfering with the soul? My son's soul? Imagine the pain he'd be in! How could you even think of that?"

Lorelai looked away from her. "I'm sorry... I'm just really... I'm not thinking. I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't do anything to harm her."

Cathine took her hands. "Look me in the eye. Promise me, Lorelai. Promise me you won't tamper with anything you shouldn't."

Lorelai sighed, looking into those honest brown eyes, eyes so much like Dearil's. "I promise."

***

She promised, but above-ground burial only existed to tempt grave robbers. It was a blessing; the universe wanted Lorelai to do this.

What wasn't a blessing was the man standing outside the mausoleum. Fucking Catheline must have held her suspicions and reported on them. The guard's head snapped her way, and she bolted.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

Every step toward her car, every step toward her front door was a knife twisting. She was leaving Dearil behind.

She went to the gathering to keep up appearances. She drank much-needed wine and ate Haitian foods even when she felt like the smallest bite of food would make her vomit. She and Catheline said nothing of their conversation, and the older woman hugged her a bit much for her liking.

The witches in the forums turned on her. They called necromancy evil and her plan foolish.

People like you are why people think so badly of us! wrote WitchBitch666. No one had any tips but MagickalShells wanted updates on her progress.

No one had done anything like this. At least, not in written history. She was completely on her own. But it wasn't the first time she did something crazy woth magic, though the forums were more help the last time.

The migraines. The vomiting. The paranoia. The way he couldn't catch his breath. Finally, the seizures. After the appointment with the neurologist, Dearil had called Lorelai crying.

Four tumors across his brain, all cancerous. Two inoperable, the structures too important and delicate.

Dearil needed her like he did when they were younger, but it wasn't enjoyable this time. The doctors estimated that he had ten months to live. They only offered to attempt to shrink the tumors with chemotherapy and "focus on his quality of life."

He slipped into a coma toward the end, and Lorelai grew desperate.

Lorelai knew little about witches. Heathens, Mama and Pedro called them. They voted for increased limitations on magic at any election - local, statewide, and nationwide. They wanted it to be outlawed entirely.

But she knew witches did things that couldn't be explained with science. Maybe science wasn't everything. So she turned to the forums.

Once a week she would rip off a fingernail with her pliers. She would sneak into Dearil's hospital room and put the fingernail under his mattress, then slice into his hand with a razor blade and draw a rune behind his ear with his blood.

Hospital staff increased security when they found the harm done to his body hand and the blood on his head, but he miraculously woke up after two weeks. He still had cancer, though, and her work wasn't done.

"You've been doing what?" he had cried when he was coherent and cognizant enough to understand, staring at the deep, angry red slash across his palm. She lunged for his hand and he stepped back. "And let me see your fucking nails!"

"Come on, you're dying," she pointed out. "What do you have to lose?"

He cringed, but they both knew she was right. So he would let her take his blood and sleep with finger and toenails under his pillow, though he shuddered to think about. She lost weight and grew pale as he regained what his mother called "bebe fat" and life returned to his eyes. The tumors shrank with each X-ray.

"You're doung this, aren't you?" asked Catheline, very seriously, and Lorelai had paled. But when the teenager bowed her head, Catheline pulled her into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, cheri. But don't kill yourself to save him."

Week eighteen. Lorelai's nails were growing back ever so slowly and terribly brittle. With two toenails left, she had to wonder what offering she would give when she ran out.

But with the next X-ray, it was announced that the boy who was supposed to be dead in mere months was in remission. He walked with a limp because of the damage the tumor did to his cerebellum, but physical therapy got that fixed up. He returned to school, behind a year, and Lorelai became fixated on influencing western medicine to adopt witchcraft, if not becoming the first doctor to use magic on her patients in the United States.

The guard was there the next night, but she made sure she wasn't seen. She linked herself to the ground and, urging him to hurry up and take a bathroom break or something. Dearin's brain was the most important thing to be kept, but the brain is one of the first things to go, ces collapsing just minutes after death. Every minute wasted waiting for this stupid guard was cellular death. Losing her Dearin.

An illusion spell. He ran to investigate the vandals kicking at tombstones and each footfall was like feet stomping on Lorelai's face. She was never so happy to feel pain though.

A spell to unlock the door would be a waste of energy. One of the runes on her chest was already seeping, and she needed to save her blood for tomorrow. She picked the lock and slipped inside as the "vandals" led the guard here and there, running him ragged.

Dearil didn't deserve to be in this house of nobodies. Name after useless name among the granite on the wall until she found a Dearil Jean-Pierre. She pried off the granite slab with her crowbar, and then the concrete under it. She dropped the concrete on her foot and puffed out her cheeks to keep in the profanities. The concrete broke in two, and she expected her throbbing toe did too.

She gripped the sides of his coffin and tugged. It took a minute to budge. Dearil wasn't very tall, and neither was Lorelai, but he was wide and heavy. Her face turned red and she grunted with effort. She jumped back as his coffin fell to the ground. It was still jammed shut, and she wished they still nailed coffins shut. She didn't know what this sealant wasade of, but it was rough.

Running out of time. Guard could come back. Hurry up.

The lid came out, and the smell. Oh god, the smell. She gagged, but it was nothing compared to when her flashlight landed on what was left of her friend.. No, that actually made her swallow back bile.

He was missing one arm, only a little mangled stub remaining in his empty sleeve, but that wasn't the problem. His face, God, his face. The left side was caved in, skin and dreadlocks torn away to reveal the gore. He didn't have much of a left eyebrow, his jaw leaned to one side with missing teeth gaping at her, and what was left of his nose was a bloody pulp with the little stud nosering glinting far from where his nostril was supposed to be. And his eyes, his gorgeous eyes... Grey-blue scleras, left eye protruding from the socket with black spots around the iris.

"Oh god, Dearil..." She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to get a grip.

This was the easy part; all she had to do was transport him. But how was she supposed to fit a 5'7", 185 pound man in an, albeit large, suitcase?

It felt so wrong undressing him. She wanted her first time seeing him nude to be consensual, but not one "yes" left his bloated lips. She tried not to look anywhere inappropriate, flushing under her mask.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered as she produced the bone saw from her gym bag. She held the flashlight in her mouth as she sliced into one thigh.

Rigor mortis had passed and he was soft abd squishy, but the femur was still rock solid. It took a bit of force and then she moved to the other leg. The smell increased tenfold, and ut got even worse when she swutched ti a scalpel and sliced off strips of his wobbly, pudgy belly.

His neck was already broken and any damage could be fixed, so she pushed his chin down to his chest, avoiding looking at those glassy eyes. His remaining arm was okay to stay. It was easy to angle and wrap around his head, and she secured the limb with tape before cramming him into the plastic-lined suitcase.

She put the lid on the coffin and lifted it back into its divot. It was much lighter now, only containing clothes, flaps of skin, and two legs, and there was no evidence if tampering at first glance. She pushed the two concrete halves together and into their place on the wall, shoving the granite slab in after. They kept sliding and threatening to fall, so in the end she went around prying off and smashing dozens of slabs. With so much damage, they won't know where to start, and if they find other caskets unaffected, maybe they won't check his...

This plan was falling apart. No it wasn't. It wasn't, it wasn't!

Connecting her senses to the grounds, she found the guard outside. She held a lighter to her hand, feeling the warmth, imagining a small explosion and fire. Runes bled onto her shirt. The guard ran off to check the exosion at the other side of the graveyard, shouting. Feet trampling her face.

It was just an illusion. She wasn't one for destruction magic or vandalism. Well... The mausoleum said otherwise about vandalism, but as she walked away it was out of sight and out of mind.

She still struggled to lift Dearil into the passenger's seat of her car, having to roll the windows down to deal with the odor. She plugged her phone into the auxiliary cord and played his favorite music. She was never a fan during his life, but now she loved the sound.

She didn't go to their apartment. No, that would be far too predictable. She still had a key to Mama and Pedro's beach house, and when she checked earlier that day she found that they hadn't chamged the locks. It was only an hour's drive and she could make that to and from work, school, home without running out of gas money.

The roar of waves crashing on the shore competed with the obnoxious rumbling of a heavy wheeled suitcase on cobblestone. She got inside and turned on the lights. The table was new, very nice with polished wood. She didn't feel at all remorseful putting Dearil's odorous, leaking body on the pristine surface to operate. Preserving his brain was frst and foremost.

Face-down, his eyes didn't stare at her. She sliced around the top of his scalp, separated the skull, and then sliched straight down to his nape. She severed his optic nerves and then focused on removing the brain. The brainstem had to stay intact, so she removed the uppermost vertebrae it was attached to.

In her hands, she held Dearil's mind, the most important thing she had ever touched. Faintly grey and sagging with a chunk taken from the left. She struggled to figure out what larts were damaged the most. She reslized, with complete horror, that there wasn't musch left of Broca's area. Not his voice! I need to hear his voice! She'd have to fix that.

Wernicke's area looked okay though, so hopefully he would be able to read abd write without problem. His parietal lobe as a whole didn't look so good, and he already jad sensory issues... Hopefully it wasn't too bad.

She wished she could do an X-ray and see how the inner structures had decayed, especially his hippocampi. He needed to remember her!

Focus. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Whatever the damage was, nothing would be fixed if she just stpod there staring.

Her medical school had gotten on board with new postmortem brain preservation techniques. Liquid nitrogen, cryonics, blood substitute. The dust was mixed into the fluid in the tank, and now she allowed Dearil's brain to be submerged. She dripped fresh blood onto the rune under the tank and for just a second, the water glowed.

The human body is home to tens of trillions of microorganisms that keep you healthy. Though these populations are necessary for human survival, a single one getting out of control would be devastating. That's where the immune system comes in, suppressing overgrowth and keeping these populations in check.

But dead people have no immune system; bacteria runs rampant.

Lorai soaked a new mask in winter mint rubbing alcohol and pulled it on, and new gloves. Her goggles and apron stayed on, and sue set to work, starting the scalpel at his shoulder and ending at his breastbone. Mirror the stitch. Slice down his mutilated stomach to the start of his pelvis.

Peeling back the skin, it was clear his liver and gallbladder were no more; his insides were stained yellow-green with bile, and the winter mint did little to mask the smell of ammonia and hydrogen sulfate. She had to get rid of his stomach before the hungry microbes could do any more damage, scarcely breathing as she cracked open his ribcage and transferred internal organs to a garbage bag.

She couldn't exactly drag him outside and hose him down, so so brought him to the downstairs bathroom with the detachable shower head. He was so light now.

She rinsed him with the shower head. Water ran yellow-green, and then finally clear, though his insides still were definitely not a healthy red-pink. She wrapped him up in the fluffiest towel and brought him to the kitchen. She'd removed all the shelves in the refrigerator during her first trip to the house so she had no problems sticking Dearil's mostly empty husk inside.

And then she lit a few scented candles and went to bed.

***

The head medical examiner was a lonely older man. His wife was either dead or left him (Lorelai wasn't sure which, and she didn't care), and his only company was the corpses he sliced open. Lorelai saw the way he looked at her, eyes hungrily taking her image in. In the days after Dearil's accident, she started making moves on him even though it ft so, so wrong.

She smiled at him throughout today's shift. She washed her hair for the first time in days and let it hang lose around her face during her break. She even put on makeup, though it took a few video tutorials to get it loose.

Toward the end of her shift, she sidled up to him, whispering, "Hey, Viktor..."

He glanced at her. "Hm?"

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

He went red up to the tips of his ears.

"Come home with me," she said in a whine, fingers stroking his arm. "I'm staying at my family's summer home. I'm the only one there, all alone and sooo lonely."

"Fuck yes," he breathed.

"You ever have sex on the beach?"

"I'm getting hard just thinking about it."

She forced herself to smile instead of grimacing. "You ever been with a witch?"

"You?" His eyes widened, but then he smiled. "I bet you're magical in bed."

Ew ew ew.

"You've got that right." She placed a hand on the unmarked chest of the man on the table. His skin was the wrong shade of brown, but his hair was perfect. She already had a nose on ice that she'd taken during Viktor's break. It was a bit too dark as well, but it was just the right shape for Dearil. "How about we take this guy with us?"

Viktor recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you said you want a magical night. Do something crazy!" she exclaimed. "You don't have to fuck him or anythibg, and we'll have him back by morning. It's not like he'll mind. It's a witch thing."

Viktor put a hand to his salt and pepper hair, eyebrows knitting together. A few emotions clouded his features before he came to a decision. "If you say so. But if we get caught this was your idea."

"Noted. But I promise you'll enjoy yourself."

He helped her wheel out the John Doe on one of the cheaper stretchers no one would miss, faces obscured by masks and a darkness spell. They stuffed the corpse into the tiny trunk of her car. Viktor pressed his lips to hers suddenly, bushy mustache scratching her. He smelled like literal death and whatever offensive oil he rubbed into his mustache so he wouldn't have to smell as much decay.

He couldn't keep his hands to himself during the whole drive, rubbing her thighs, kissong her neck, trying to unhook her bra and getting excited when he found out she wasn't wearing one. She wanted to slap his hands away, shout that her body belonged to Dearil, but this was a necessary step.

Her mind screamed but her lips purred, "Ohh, that feels so good."

He still hadn't settled down when they were taking the Doe into the house. "Talk dirty in Spanish, chica," he murmured.

"I was born in Florida," she sighed. "I don't speak that much Spanish."

"Don't you know any?"

"A bit. Do you?"

"I can say hola and count to ten," he laughed. "My Spanish classes probably ended before you were even alive. Come on, say something."

"Estas... Estas tan muerto," she said. "Eres solo, uh, um... un peón."

"That's so hot," he moaned, and she bit her cheek to keep from laughing.

Viktor's smile became a frown when they walked into the house. He set the John Doe on the table while Lorelai went and locked the door. He quickly sniffed his shirt when she wasn't looking, but the smell wasn't coming from him. And the bed in the adjacent living room was a bit of an odd choice, though he could appreciate the silk and headboard. And the ropes. This was gonna be a fun night.

Lorelai came back, a smile playing on her lips. She put a hand to his chest. "Come closer, Señor. Permítame whisper in your ear."

He leaned close, his smile tentative now. Her lups were so close they tickled him just as a sharp pain struck his neck.

"I never liked you," she whispered, pressing the needle in harder as he tried to pull away. He shoved her away and staggered back, staring at the clear fluid still in the syringe.

"What the fuck did you just do to me, you crazy bitch?" he screamed, clutching bis neck. Her smiling, round face had gone hard and cold, expression neutral.

"Oh, calm down. It's just lorazepam," she said. "They use it on unruly patients all the time. It's probably the safest injectable sedative."

Ge hit out at her but she easily dodged the sluggish attack. She pushed him down onto the bed, tying up his wrists. He still kicked his legs until she tied his ankles too. He was finally silent when she wrapped the duct tape around his head and moury several times.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, tying ger hair back. "Alexa, play Bury Me at Makeout Creek by Mitski, full album."

It's beautiful out today

I wish you could take me upstate

To the little place you would tell me about

"When you'd sense that I'd want to escape," Lorelai sang over the muffled screams and shouts, pulling on her mask, goggles, gloves, and apron. Viktor could only stare at the saws, scalpels, drills, and needles that she left on the table before she disappeared into another room.

No one could hear him scream.

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