Work Text:
The click of an audio recorder’s switch changing places.
“Autopsy log 1, victim-Harriet Morwald. Coroner, Henry Orwell. Eyewitness accounts claim that the victim, after suddenly convulsing for around ten seconds, stopped moving and proceeded to regurgitate two human kidneys, one after the other, followed by an intact and beating human heart, all of which have been sent to a lab for DNA testing. Other observed symptoms included hyperflexibility in the limbs and unnaturally pink irises.”
A pause as Dr. Orwell’s sterile gown rustles.
“Visual inspection of the eyes suggests that the claim of pink irises was either a temporary symptom, or an exaggeration driven by stress.”
The crunching of broken bones.
“It appears the hyperflexibility of the limbs was due to the olecranon and patella being completely shattered, as well as the corresponding ligaments torn, thus removing any restrictions on movement.”
The light crackling of an arm being returned to its normal position.
“However, the amount of pain that would be caused to an individual who sustained injuries such as these would be debilitating enough that any possible mobility gained from it would immediately be rendered useless.”
The crinkle of a scalpel’s sterile packaging being opened.
“Beginning dissection.”
The soft “slllp” of the scalpel cutting.
The surprised “Hmmm.” of Dr. Orwell.
“Despite the fact that Ms. Morwald was not an organ donor, her heart and kidneys are absent, and her digestive tract appears unharmed, despite what would be required for one to regurgitate an object the size of a human heart.”
The creaking slam of a body locker closing.
“In light of the information uncovered, I have decided to continue this autopsy once the DNA test results are back from the lab. Dr. Henry Orwell, ending autopsy log one for Harriet Morwald.”
“Autopsy log 2, victim-Harriet Morwald. Coroner, Henry Orwell.”
The sound of Dr. Orwell’s heavy, raspy sigh.
“The DNA test results came back. The organs that the subject supposedly regurgitated were...her own. This, combined with the fact that the organs were missing from the subject’s body, would suggest that she somehow managed to get organs that were outside of her digestive tract into her esophagus and past the epiglottis without damaging it at all.”
Sterile gloves brushing against the outermost layer of an esophagus.
“And despite this, there is no visible stretching of the esophagus or cervical skin tissue.”
The nearly-inaudible sound of a gloved finger palpating arteries.
“To further complicate the matter, there is no sign of internal bleeding, which should have taken place as soon as the subject’s heart was removed. Not even a clot.”
The wet, squishy noise of a hand rummaging around in organs and viscera.
“Most perplexing of all, every one of the veins and arteries leading to the heart, including both venae cavae, have been neatly and cleanly severed as though done surgically. The same is true of the ureters, implying that whatever happened was premeditated.”
The squeaky wheels of a body locker’s tray sliding back into the refrigerated compartment.
“Nothing about it makes any sense. I need to clear my head. Dr. Henry Orwell, ending autopsy log two for Harriet Morwald.”
“Autopsy log 3, victim-Harriet Morwald. Coroner, Henry Orwell. On top of the impossible nature of vomiting up one’s own organs, freshly healed scar tissue consistent with that found on burn victims was discovered in the throat and mouth.”
The sound of Dr. Orwell leaning forward onto his elbows and sighing with the resignation of a man who cannot remain clean and professional any longer.
“Look, I don’t understand anything about this case. She’s perfectly fine one moment, then she starts to convulse, then she collapses onto the table, then she climbs up with her elbows bending backwards to barf up her kidneys and her still-beating heart. There’s no disease that makes you do that. It sounds like something out of The Exorcist, but nobody in those movies ever puked up their internal organs, and demons don’t exist!”
The sickening snap of bone.
A maniacal cackling laugh, echoing off of the cold metal walls of the morgue.
Dr. Orwell’s confused cries.
A new voice, clear among the static.
“Of course they don’t.”
A hand slamming onto the metal bed of the body locker.
“Demons are tools to make misbehaving children eat their vegetables.”
The crunch of a hand riddled with rigor mortis tightening around the poor man’s neck.
“Gods, on the other hand...”
The same cackling laugh echoing off the walls as Dr. Henry Orwell slumps to the ground, lifeless.