Liam Acornley - Year 2: Workshop week 3 - Boneyard

I always wonder how such a beast comes to die, what can pierce its skin and armour and bring down a goliath of this size. I suppose I’ll never know, the beasts that come here, to this graveyard do so by their own accord. I’ve seen them countless times, they arrive under the guise of night and slowly glide down from the skies, then as they are swallowed by the premise of death they never flap their wings again. They land, or crash, sometimes a combination of the two and lie still until the light fades from their eyes and their loud monotonous breathing stops. More often than not, the ones that come here to wait out their last moments are old, battered, bruised, chunks of flesh missing from their bodies, large scratches and gashes; a crevice of bone and sinew. This one though, this colossus of a beast that lies unmoving in front of my unbelieving eyes, it looks almost young. Unburdened by the trial of time that grinds even mountains to dust, yet it waits here amongst the bones of its kin to await the same fate that the rest entailed by coming to rest in this graveyard.

Assuming I am not the first to get to it, the Cutters will arrive and piece by piece they shall dismantle the beast, ripping chunks of carrion and flesh, peeling away the corpuscles leaving naught but the bones that bake in the sun; every now and then they leave a morsel or two behind that is quickly snatched up by another band of vultures. I am no Cutter however, I respect the hunt, and these beasts are my prey. I do not kill them directly, my role involves nothing but to harvest from their remains the things necessary to live on, I bring home the bacon so to speak.

Even after my years of experience, I still have to wait dumbstruck before I begin, captured by a sensation of awe as I stand mere meters from the ever decaying body. I place my hand against its skin and steel myself for the wave of pensive anguish to wash over me. Every damn time. I don’t know if it’s the disbelief that this beast, as large as a skyscraper can fall and bend the knee to death, or the lack of cognizance that now renders its memories and mind null and void. Regardless, I’m letting my emotions get in the way of my work; professional as always. I extract the las-scalpel from my belt pouch and begin to cut a way inside of the creature.

I have been inside a great deal of beasts like this, however, this one was unique, perhaps it’s due to the young age that I do not recognize the intricate paths I can take to journey around the body. Maybe it is of a different genus, rendering my knowledge useless, or maybe it’s just a new kind of creature. I have to stop every five minutes or so to ensure that I am going the right way. The organs are the most valuable and being as young as it is I assume its heart is in fairly good condition, I cut into a vein and dodge out of the way of the black sludge that spills forth, the gore splatters against the floor, slick and jet in colour. However the small trickle of claret that continues to weakly pump throughout the body shows me I’m heading the right direction; satisfied I continue.

On the way to the beast’s heart I begin helping myself to the copper nerving embedded into the tissue walls, what was once the organ used to transport commands, stimuli, and electronic signals from the brain, now lay within the confines of my backpack weighing me down both physically and emotionally. I didn’t like my job, but my god if it didn’t pay well. Mechanics, the Cutters, scrap-merchants, there was no trouble in finding a buyer for these parts, however those willing to gather it were in short supply. Many of us worship the beasts, myself included, so finding those of us who were able to stomach the idea of cutting into a god; well, let’s just say I don’t rest easily at night.

It’s hard to determine how long I walked through the body, attempting to find that which pumped life into the creature, no natural light and a miasmata that gave me a splitting headache didn’t help. Yet sooner, or later, in the fullness of time I arrived at the heart. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would sound like if the beast was roused, perhaps it would sound like a waterfall careening through the body as gallons of fuel sprouted off in every direction. Would each pump emphasise and praise the strength and sheer size of the creature? Regardless, in death much like how the rest of us will end, it is nothing but a derelict mausoleum housing the promise of a past.

I decide as I pull bits and pieces from their roots, that perhaps I should think in a less sombre tone. True, if something as grand as this being cannot survive in this universe then what hope is there for the rest of us? But then again perhaps….shit.
Being distracted in my solemn thoughts I didn’t notice the jut of bone, and looking down to my arm I wince at the cut I sustained, you’d think an organ once known for bringing life would have more sympathy towards you but that is clearly not the case. A quick dressing of tape and I’m ready to continue stripping small globules from the heart. My bag is soon too heavy to carry so satisfied I took the juiciest cuts, I look over the heart one last time. I wonder if this is what my heart looks like, cold, grey, but just as breath-taking, at a smaller scale anyway.

As I retrace my steps to my initial incision, I hear, faintly, a voice. Low gothic tones and a guttural dialect give away the Cutters, the muffled renditions of their voices however, give away that they are sat outside the beast. I slow my walk, rectify my posture and outstretch my hands ready to catch myself in case I trip on a vein, a stray nerve I didn’t already plunder or a great many other potential hazards. While Cutters are not inherently violent they are very territorial, I doubt they’d both let me live and take with me the spoils of this hunt. More likely than not they’d confiscate my bag, give me one or two swift punches into the stomach and warn me never to come onto their ‘turf’ again before removing me from the premises. They would then over the course of the coming weeks forget my visage and when they catch me the next time the cycle would repeat itself, a self-fulfilling idiocy on my part.

What disturbs me about the Cutters above all else is how they treat the fallen beasts. Take for instance my involvement with the cadaver, I enter with minimal damage to its lifeless form, I do not disturb the age-old skin, I do not strip away at its tired and weary flesh, when I am finished with my job it still stands as a monument to the beasts life; a proud testament of a rich and vibrant existence. The Cutters though, they show the same respect a locust would show to an ear of corn and the result is all too similar as well. When I first discovered the graveyard I almost wept to the sight of these half-dressed skeletons. The disdain these grandiose creatures sustained in their final moments of existence horrified me, all they could leave on this world were their bodies, I expected people to respect that, most do, not the Cutters though. I knew it would be mere hours before the flesh was carved away, chiselled and hewn from the remains to be taken back to the Cutters den, a veritable slaughterhouse.

Finally after what felt like hours I find an exit, the eyes, the Cutters enjoy the plumpest cuts first and so they will be distracted by the midriff of the beast, however it won’t be long until they are upon me. Through the eye I can see the Cutters are already chopping away at the poor graven being,
I say a prayer to the beast, and ask for forgiveness before vaulting through his eye. I fall, shattered glass tinkling and shining in the setting sun’s light accompanies me to the ground; I crash to the earth. A particularly large shard has embedded itself in the soil next to me, and I see my reflection in its aspect. I look so old, so tired, exposed wiring, rusted joints, my left eye clearly dislodged by the fall is hanging to my face by a single cable, and its socket begins to spit sparks from the disturbed wires. I clamber to my feet and sprint away, intent to leave. One day I’ll find the parts I need to fix myself, I’ll have to try again when the next beast falls.