There's a girl who would dream of sitting on a cloud

So she could look down and watch the world pass by.

Because the voices around her were deafeningly loud

And it would be quiet alone in the sky.

And the girl got her wish and looked down at the earth,

And in the absence of sound, her head began to pound

Without any tethers, she questioned her worth.

So she screamed just to hear another sound.

And her cry became the thunder,

And her tears fell down as rain,

And they threatened to pull her under

Unless she'd live again.

And so she had no choice but to let herself fall,

Back to the noise and work and pain

Because alone in her storm with no one to call,

She could only hope to get lost in the rain.

When someone puts a loaded gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger, the human head opens up like a flower. This flower formation can happen from GSWs to knee-caps and even the groin area, but nothing compares to the head. It’s utterly horrifying to see, but maybe by the time you’re done reading this, you’ll see just how beautifully poetic it can be.

The only reason I know all of this is because I am so privileged to once have had an almost promising career in the medical field, and I was going to eventually specialize in Forensic Pathology after becoming a general surgeon. Fourteen years of schooling sounded like a fucking dream to the nerd I’ve always been. I was the youngest-ever candidate chosen for an exclusive summer program at University Medical when I saw my first and only self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. And just like myself, this person applied and was approved for Full Body Donation—so I was free to do hands-on study of his remains (thank you for your service, Sir).

The first requirements you need for that line of work is a strong stomach and an eager love for the science. However, to keep you there requires a genuine desire to help others. I am an advocate at heart, and the crux of what a pathologist does is give a voice to the voiceless. I’ve always been determined to leave this world in better shape than it was given to me, and this was my way of helping people. Studying those precious former lives under the most phenomenal doctors was by far the best professional experience of my life.

So, of the dozens of autopsies I have taken part in (both in person and through video/photo lecture), one of them, sadly, was this suicide I mentioned. He was a middle-aged male and the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot into the mouth. It’s not the only suicide I worked on, but definitely the most visually memorable. The pressure a gunshot creates inside this air-tight, fluid-filled compression chamber we carry on our necks forces a human head to open up like the fully-bloomed petals of a lily. Any remaining teeth become forged with pieces of skull and brain because the force and heat of the explosion literally turns any hard matter into the shrapnel of a pressure cooker bomb. Ever observant as I was, they allowed me to remove a tooth I identified that was lodged into one of the petals of the human head flower.

Unfortunately, I never even made it to medical school because life threw too many punches at me at that time [*ba-dum-tee* formerly-abused humor anyone? Eh? Ehh?]. Just joking! I’ve always said, “If I couldn’t laugh at my life, I would’ve fucking killed myself a long ass time ago.” But aside from comedy saving my soul countless times, that suicide case is seared into my amygdala—from the sorrow and duty I felt toward this man and his family, down to the smell of his chewing tobacco still stuck to portions of his gums. Clearly enough to give anyone reservations about that second of bravery it takes to just fucking do it.

This was the case which also piqued my interest in the funeral business. Any Funeral Director/Embalming Specialist who can put that train wreck back together to resemble anything of the man his family and friends love so dearly, oof... to me, that is art of the highest caliber. Only the most skilled specialists in the world can pull that off well. Most families will opt for a closed casket in these cases, and you don’t get a “body funeral” if you’re signed up for Full Body Donation—but I wanted to be the one-of-a-kind talent who not only performed autopsies to the utmost perfection, but could give families their beloved back, looking beautiful, one last time.

Death wasn’t just my calling to help the world… Death was my life’s passion. I might still have a chance at the funeral business someday—that is, if it’s not me who ends up on that cold, stainless steel examination table first. Death has reappeared in my life, in a bad way, and that fucker is lurking ever closer, each day.

The majority of my physical and emotional scars belong to a single bad man who I will soon introduce y’all to in my darkest tale of woe. This man is solely responsible for the loss of my ability to continue my education and accomplish these dreams I once had. I had to plan nonstop for my escape because he was so cunning. And one day, the plan finally fell perfectly into place because he’d given himself a little too much heroin. He was completely zonked out and nodding off so heavily that I simply walked right out the front door. I told him I was off to send a gift to his mom, which he easily took me up on since he’d forgotten her birthday. He let go of my shirt and I slipped away. I escaped nearly 20 years ago, and to this day, he still finds ways to contact me online.

As long as this bad man stays away, I wish him no harm. But the videos he’s been sending me lately are what struck my desire to start writing again. Not only do I need to finally heal this pain once and for all, but I need to document what he did to me (just in case):

1) My beautiful body, gone.

2) My beautiful mind, gone.

3) My beautiful career, gone.

4) My beautiful life, FUCKING GONE.

This bad man has delusions that I will always be his property. I truly feel sorry for him, but I can never forget what he stole from me. How could I? His torture is all over my naked body every time I look in the mirror. The stalking and obsession seems to be growing, and because he was so smart, I can never call the cops on him again (long story).

So, my only choice was to finally agree to have a gun in our home full-time (specifically, when Mister is gone). Thanks to the Traumatic Brain Injury from this bad man, I’ve been a nervous, stuttering klutz ever since—so not only did it kill my once surgeon-steady hands and ballerina grace, naturally, I was always scared to be responsible for my own gun. However, I have too many lives depending on me now. She’s no Colt .45 with a pearl grip, but she’s definitely a stealthy bitch that’s more than willing to do the job. Her name is “Kiddo,” named after Uma Thurman from the Kill Bill films. Pretty fitting, don’t you think? Well, I’m proud of it—proud of my Kiddo ;)

If he ever finds me again, the play-by-play of what would happen is now also seared into my amygdala—from the fear I feel just imagining seeing him again, down to the smell of his black leather combat boots and body odor. I’ll know he’s here, and the memories will all come flooding back:

It took almost 1 decade to escape him for good. It took 2 decades to have the courage just to write about him. It took 3 decades to meet the first kind gentleman in my entire life. It took almost 4 decades from the day I was born to find self-love. He is NOT taking a single thing away from me again.

But this massive man with his roaring voice will surely be black-eyed and screaming at me. I need to remember what matters. I can’t get distracted or crumble into pieces. I need to remember what Mister taught me:

1) Just breathe and focus on your target, not the gun.

2) Keep your arms strong and grip tightly.

3) Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

4) Keep your eyes open, and never shoot to injure (only you can finish it).

If he tries to attack me or step foot into my home, it’s either him… or him. Turns out, I can still contribute to the morgue of my dreams, because Kiddo and I have unfinished business…

*click-click*

1) Heart: for stealing my life’s passion.

2) Lungs: for every time I couldn’t breathe.

3) Dick: for every time he forced me to my knees, screaming.

And just like the first time I escaped his captivity, the last words he ever heard from my beautiful voice, that I still have:

“Shhh it’s okay… go back to sleep…

I’m just going to send your mom some flowers…”

4) MOUTH: for my condolences.

Human Head Flower

A “Those Damn Enigmas” Production

Based on true events, but no one was harmed writing this story.