By Thine Own Hand
written by: Jasmine Johnstone
Death is not flattering. It bloats you, mottles you, bends you out of shape. Your hair is plastered to the table like long, wet worms. You were dragged out of the water after weeks of searching. Weeks of local news lamenting the tragic disappearance of such a promising girl. Looking at you on the table like this, it’s hard to see that you had been beautiful not so long ago. Your slender body resembles a swollen fish; you could go unnoticed in an ice tray at an early morning fish market. They found you washed up downriver. You must have got stuck under all the overhanging trees, with their shadowy arms that stretched across the water.
The periwinkle blue of my gloved finger stands in stark contrast to the inky crimson speckles of your bruised, purple hand. It’s an obscene distinction, such vibrance against such violence. It reminds me of the offensively small, broken bodies of children who have graced my table. The news said you had received a scholarship due to your prowess on the piano. I grasp your slippery fingers in mine gently. They look like sausage skins filled to bursting. I can’t imagine them lithely dancing their way along ivory keys. I scrape the dirt from beneath your nails and store it carefully, labelling it. Your torso is stained with red like a child who has squeezed raspberries between their fingers. Webbed lines snake their way along your body. Leaning forwards, I inspect the deep grooves on your neck, sunken and harsh like tire treads through sand. Natural fibres are embedded in your skin; your throat is a wheatfield.
I talk to you softly as I unpick events across your skin, diligently scribbling my observations. Anything can help us, I tell you. Dirt. Water. Fibres. I saw your picture on the news; the one from your Graduation shoot. You were holding white roses, sun shining behind you. It lit you up like you were going somewhere. There was no smile. Perhaps you weren’t sure where. You were wearing the same denim jacket from the photo when they found you. I imagine it was soaked with murky water and balled up like blue seaweed. I hope your parents get it back. Your mother shrivelled behind the glare of all those news cameras. Shrank herself to nothing. She will dream forever of cold skin and gasping breaths.
Turning your arms gingerly, my breath catches. Slashes claw their way up your forearms. Cleanly sliced, healed and un-reported; these were your work, weren’t they? They overlap like a game of pick-up sticks. I look once more at the rope marks. Picture those sweeping trees with their ragged stumps and snapped branches. One might suppose, at a glance, that they were strong enough to hold a swinging body. Your friends spoke about you on the news. Praised you. Said they couldn’t imagine anyone being your enemy. Couldn’t fathom anyone hating you. They were wrong though, weren’t they?
- By Thine Own Hand - September 19, 2024
