NOVEL WEB Chapter 3: Chapter 2
Monica regained consciousness to the urgent blare of sirens, finding herself thrown in a dim corner of a morgue.
Her body felt foreign against the cold sterile slabs, still lethargic from the chloroform she'd inhaled. Her limbs hung **exhaustedly heavy**, as though weighed down by stones.
Across the room, the surgeon's back was turned. Her skull throbbed as **a visceral terror coiled in her gut at the sight of him**—his gloved hands wrestled a corpse's stiffened arm into a stainless-steel drawer. The metallic clang echoed like a death knell each time he tried to close it, but the limb **jutted out, stubborn**.
A glint snagged her vision: a medical **rod** lay near her foot. Beside it, a gold molar grinned up from the tiles, **ripped** from a corpse's jaw. *Shove it right where the spine meets the skull.* Her instincts **hissed**.
She inched her hand toward the rod, fingertips brushing cold metal, but her vision **swayed**. The chloroform haze still **clawed** at her nerves, turning her muscles to sludge. *Idiot. He'll crush you before you even stand. Could you even drive a rod through his flesh?* Her breath hitched. The sirens outside wailed closer—police? Paramedics? **It didn't matter.**
*Run.*
Every cell urged it. But as she **wrestled with the command**, the surgeon turned.
Monica froze, pressing herself breathless against the wall. His round glasses were fogged with **vapor seeping** from beneath the mask. For a heartbeat, his gaze penetrated through her, vacant. Then he pivoted back, starting to use an amputation saw on the corpse's arm to fit it into its new cradle.
**"Run. You won't get another shot."**
The sirens were closer now—*I have to get out, now*—but the room stretched endlessly before her. Her nails clawed at the floor, every muscle aching as she dragged herself forward, silent as can be. The cold tiles bit into her palms. Two feet. Four. She crawled desperately, her hands finally off the floor and wrapping around the door's handle.
Her eyes flicked to the distracted doctor as her grip slipped on the handle, slick with nervous sweat. She twisted it, but the door wouldn't budge. *Locked.*
*Why won't it open?* Panic surged as she stared at the handle, her mind racing.
"Already awake? You have a high tolerance for sedatives. You've only been out for ten minutes."
Monica's heart stopped. His voice was calm, almost amused, and it sent a jolt of terror through her. She spun around, her wide eyes locking onto his as he adjusted his glasses.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" she tried to scream, her voice cracking.
"Don't raise your voice, young woman. You'll awaken... other, less pleasant sleepers." He chided, his tone almost paternal. "There's been a misunderstanding. I thought you were a deranged escapee. That's why you're unharmed. Look, we can forget this ever happened. Let me help." He extended a hand toward her, his gesture almost kind.
"Get the fuck away from me!" she screamed terrified, her voice raw. "I'll tell the police everything!"
"I advise you to cooperate," he said, his voice still eerily calm. "Or this will end as Macbeth's final scene."
His words clotted the air, a sickening silence settling between them. A half-smile flickered across his thin lips, unshaken by her terrified staring as he tilted his head in mock disappointment. "Tsk. No manners at all in this generation." The click of his tongue echoed through her senses.
"But I've *recognised* you, Monica. Your performance...that's what stayed my hand. You starred in that wondrous theatric—*The Last Dance of a rebellious soul*. A tad overdramatic with the weeping, yet… unforgettable performance I must admit." His gaze sharpened, dissecting every emotion blooming in her eyes.
She stared at him in disbelief, he could hear her thoughts from her obvious expressions of shock.
"Why else would I waste time debating myself whether to stuff you into a corpse drawer and spare myself the trouble or throw you back out on the streets, hoping others would help a forgetful girl?" The leather of his shoe hissed against the floor as his weight shifted forward, "*You've forgotten one line in the play*.
"Don't take another step," Monica yelled, her hand curling into a fist as she raised her arm threateningly.
"Truly? You wish to punch me now?" He chuckled, a cold, mirthless sound. "Let's have a civilized discussion. From one art lover to another. Shall we?"
"You psychotic bastard," she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "Let me fucking out of here!"
"Right. You've figured me out," he replied, his tone unnervingly calm, admitting to his nature. "You may leave, but on one condition."
The surgeon let her anticipation build before choosing his next words very carefully.
"Not a whisper of what transpired here—not to friends, not to family, not even in your prayers. Forget but one line in your long life."
He started tugging his glove off one finger at a time as he spoke, the latex clinging briefly before surrendering with a dull snap, like a serpent shedding its skin. "To ensure you remain quiet in the long run, you'll deliver me a replacement. Someone disposable. Then you'll be implicated in my operation."
After allowing her seconds to consider, he suggested. "The person who left you weeping until you stumbled into this mess, perhaps? Bring them to me. I'll unlock the door as a gesture of goodwill."
Monica stared at him, her dark eyes wide. Then, unexpectedly, she began to giggle. It started softly, then erupted into full, uncontrollable laughter.
"You're going to prison," she said between gasps. "The police are here. They're everywhere. There's nowhere for you to run. I'll tell them everything. They'll drag you out like the sick animal you are.
His composure cracked. The charming tilt of his head stiffened; his fingers twitched slightly. She was laughing to his face.
When he spoke again, the words slithered out in a recitation: *"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage… and then is heard no more."*
Then, immediately, he grabbed the sawed off arm on the trolley and lunged at her like a madman, closing the severed arm's fingers around her throat with crushing force. Monica had no time to react. She struggled, legs kicking uselessly as her laughter died into a choked rattle.
"It is a tale told by an idiot!" he screamed on top of her. "Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing!"
He yanked a syringe from his coat and plunged it into her thigh. Her body stiffened, rigid and paralyzed beneath his weight.
Just as he lifted her onto the gurney, fists hammered against the door. **"Police! Open up!"**
The surgeon's hands lingered a moment too long on Monica's throat before he stepped back. The officer entered cautiously, fingers brushing his holstered pistol as he scanned the room. "Reports of a disturbance. Heard shouting—everything alright?"
"Shouting? I was merely reciting *Macbeth* to still my mind." The doctor gestured to Monica's body, her face turned to the wall, her black eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted in a silent gasp. "The tragedies we see daily in our professions… they take their toll."
His voice softened, clinical yet rehearsed. "Note the bruising here—consistent with manual strangulation. A large assailant, likely male. Now, if you'll excuse me…" He gloved his hands, smaller than the bruises darkening her neck. **"Time is critical for the autopsy."**
"Poor girl," muttered the officer, leaning closer. "They say open eyes mean unfinished business. Bet she'd give anything to name her killer."
Monica's chest rose in a barely perceptible tremor—a breath so faint and shallow it stirred nothing. She could hear everything they were saying, she could see the officer from her peripheral vision.
The officer's knuckles whitened on his belt. **"If I ever catch the monster who did this..."**
"You'd let a courtroom decide his fate." The doctor's blade slit through Monica's forearm, penetrating flesh.
Her mind screamed in agony as he peeled open her arm like dissecting a fish , exposing quivering muscle glistening under the sickening white lights.
She felt EVERYTHING.
She wanted to thrash, to wail, to beg—*Stop him, kill him!*—but her body lay inert, a prisoner of the neuromuscular blocking agent he injected in her system, which kept her entirely conscious but paralysed.
She was being flayed alive under the eyes of the officer.
She tried to scream, but her lungs were barely functional, her vocal cords burnt wires. *Make it stop make it stop make it—*
Her body betrayed her again—a guttural *gurgle* as her bowels spasmed, followed by a sound and stench. She managed to pass gas. Perhaps the officer would notice her now?
The officer recoiled. **"Did she just…?"** His voice confused.
"Relax, Officer," the doctor drawled, not pausing as he peeled a ribbon of skin from her arm, as if punishing her. **"I know it wasn't you.** Bacterial decay breeds methane, hydrogen sulfide… A natural process." He flicked a gloved hand toward the door. But do step back. You're blocking the light."
Monica's mind raged. *Liar. LIAR.* She wasn't dead—she was *alive*, it was the plea of her only functioning muscles.
"Courtroom..." The officer said pensively, resuming their conversation. "Laws are for humans. That animal? I'd—" His voice splintered, rage thinning to something raw.
"I understand." The doctor said. "Under your watchful eye, they'll get what they're due."
The doctor lifted a sliver of forearm tendon, pinching it in front of the officer. He hoped the grotesque display would distract him from noticing her very shallow breathing, but the officer seemed used to gory scenes.
Monica's heart thrashed inside her chest. The pain was so unbearable that she begged it to burst, summoning every inch of her willpower to move at all.
Then, her face turned.
"She… She's the same age as my daughter," the officer stammered, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned closer. His gaze lingered on her face, enough to notice a very subtle movement of her throat.
At that moment, the doctor shot up.
In one swift motion, he wrenched her shirt open. Cold air bit Monica's exposed chest as the officer jerked his head away, cheeks flushing with anger.
"You're very emotional," the doctor remarked coldly while drawing lines down the center of her chest for the autopsy. "You might start hallucinating if you linger around the dead for too long."
The officer stiffened, jaw clenched. **"Just find the bastard who did this."**
**"Oh, I will."** The doctor said as he passed the scalpel on Monica's chest, his eyes flicking to her trapped stare. **"Her body will tell me everything I need."**