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Submitted on
May 27, 2012
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(Contains: violence/gore)
On some of the earth's very best days, one hundred and fifty thousand people die, and so for that reason I find donating blood and organs to be very important. My blood type is relatively rare, and so I'm a person who finds themselves frequently giving in to the demand of their assets. I've been a blood donor since 1996 after I first murdered a teenage girl in the yellow corn fields of Illinois. I was told I saved three lives that day, and I have no doubt that I did.

I spent a good deal of time building my house, which is very quaint and stands like a single, unmoving tooth that juts from the earth, as if the planet's crust was punctured by a wooly giant who had tried to devour it in a single crunching bite. Sometimes I live in Iowa, and sometimes I don't, when the steely grass sways like pieces of wire beneath a silver Midwestern sky and I miss the smell of Florida. They found the woman I dismembered in the same year I donated bone marrow for the first time, and it was also the year I nailed a little Polish girl to Saint Peter's cross. They were unable to locate the head, which I still have in a small box somewhere.

I became a registered organ donor in 2006 while I was living in Tucson. A single organ donor can save up to eight human lives, which is very interesting because I take about six human lives in about an eight month period. I believe that this is around the same time that I started donating skin grafts to burn victims, but it could have been later than that. I remember that in 2008 a woman who was wearing strips of my left thigh on her melted face shook my hand and thanked me in a garbled, drowning voice. She could have been smiling, but I'm not sure because it looked as if she had been born made of rubber.  

The home that I have in Washington is in a suburban area. Though I'm there only infrequently, I keep my lawn and landscaping in the most perfect order, although the inside of the house has very little in it. It was mid-summer when I strangled the landscaper with a garden hose until his face was blue and his neck wore a fat circular bruise like a necklace of permanent pain. I would have buried him in the rich, brown mulch of the garden that he'd put together for me, but I had an appointment with the Red Cross so I folded him like a dirty shirt and shoved him into a crawl space instead.

My arms are lined with the black bruises of sacrifice and my skin ripples with the many bubbling and dimpling scars of my vicious selflessness. I give and take with such violence and kindness that it often seems as if I swell with duality, that a black ocean of pluralism rocks and sways inside me like dark wine in a shaken bottle. I am cleansed with salt, I am covered in oil. The world is crushed beneath my hand and I am swept away in a gust of wind where I disappear forever.

A few weeks ago I found a road kill cat at the side of the highway and I smashed it against my wooden floor so the smell of wet decay would seep into every inch of every thing that I owned. I shoved my fist into its oozing belly and disemboweled it with my hands, tearing apart the pink and purple ropey intestines with my teeth, ripping like a hungry dog, roaring like a monster and lapping at the jagged, flapping abdominal wound. I tore the meat and fur away from the bone and cracked the spine away, pulling it from the appendages like a child ripping the cardboard strip off a new box of breakfast cereal. In my walk-in closet I slid the head through the triangle space of a clothes hanger, the long column of bones dangling like a skeletal tail. I scrubbed my floor on my hands and knees like a dismal Cinderella and it took me three hours to realize I had been using a flayed handful of cat flesh as a rag.

Some time recently I bought a nail gun from a hardware store and used it to shoot holes in two sisters that I was keeping in my master bathroom. They made sounds like moaning cows, as if they were communicating in a secret language of suffering. One gurgled through the hole in her cheek and I couldn't make out what she was saying and I wanted to, but it was time for me to donate platelets. I killed them quickly later and I know they would have thanked me for eternity for the release.

In the very depths of my heart I know that my time is coming to an end. I am running out of things to give. I popped off my thumb nails with pliers and taped the bloody shapes to the wall in hopes that someone would come and take them, but no one did.

I am on the brink of inequality. I am on the verge of singularity.

The organ donor card that I got for myself those years ago is in the breast pocket of my shirt, and it's there beside my heartbeat, being drummed by the stampede of pulses. I killed her, a young woman, fat, pretty, and I slid my knife into her like she was made of the silkiest butter, imported from the dairy farms of France. She was screaming and I killed her, and while she was still alive I pulled apart the slits I had made so I could see the curdled yellow mush of fat that bloated her carpet of skin. I broke her face with my foot for no other reason than because I could. She was making bubbly groaning sounds when I tried to lift her into a dumpster. She was too heavy so I left her hanging mostly over the edge, her thick ankles sticking in the air like tree branches stuck in mud.

I jumped from a chair and broke my neck in a final act of ultimate balance. And I can't move or really see, but in the ambulance I become very acutely aware that I'm going to die. I am peace. I am chaos. I am duality. I have achieved equality.

There's someone putting an air mask over my face though I know I'm about to die, and the person adjusting it seems to know this as well. He's saying that they found my card, and it's a good thing they did because they just admitted someone with the same rare blood type as me. I could probably save her life. They found her not too far away. She was stabbed fourteen times and needs a transfusion.
I don't know what this is or how I wrote it sober.

Thank you so much for the Daily Deviation! I am so grateful! If you're interested in this story, it's included in my book of the same name which you can purchase here. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-11-24
Organ Grinder. by ~Kill-Natalie is deliciously descriptive. ( Featured by neurotype )
:iconeyesoftheabyss:
Interesting concept, it is very well written. Great job it is amazing.
Reply
:iconmorticia-lynne:
Morticia-Lynne Nov 25, 2013  Student Writer
 *slow clap* Well-played. Well-played.
Reply
:iconchuchummm:
chuchummm Nov 10, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
I just fell in love. That is beautiful.
Reply
:iconmery4411:
Daaaaaaammmmn. Wonderful:)
Reply
:iconiwanttobeemmapeel:
This is phenomenal. Wonderful and disturbing and beautiful and insane.

You are very talented.
Reply
:iconkiller-instincts:
:iconcannotevenplz:
I literally cannot even...
~ This is the best fucking thing I've read ~
Reply
:iconcreaturaoculta:
CreaturaOculta Apr 15, 2013  Student General Artist
very cool
Reply
:iconrandomfreakygothgirl:
randomfreakygothgirl Apr 7, 2013  Professional General Artist
I simply adore this, it's a perfect short story. I love the duality of the main character, how he/she's a murderer yet also helps save lives as well. Infinitely interesting. =D
Reply
:icondeadvelvetcupcakes:
DeadVelvetCupcakes Feb 8, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
This is outright mad, beautifully frightening, and 100% genius. Well done <3
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:icondevereux-hyde:
I don't know if you have ever read any of Clive Barker's short stories in his Books of Blood, but this is something that swims with the same kind of literary genius. I love this kind of detached style that tells the reader that the main character is, within their own mind, completely sane... it's just that the rest of the world's order does not fit with their reasoning. Very good read, and brilliant idea :)
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