I remember it like it was yesterday, dear Debra. As I close my eyes, I see you in your youth. As I hold your hands in mine. As I kiss your lips.
Your hair smells delightful. As always. The coconut shampoo detracts from your natural scent. Black roots push up against dyed brown hair. The odd strands of grey betray the years that passed. We have grown old.
The blue of your eyes is lighter than I remember. Perhaps it is just harsh lighting. I can still see the flash in them, whenever you got pissed. The sparkle when you laughed. Venuous shades of perfect hues.
The angles of your cheekbone. The softness of your cheek. The plums that are your lips. I would kiss them. Desperately. Starting rituals to a good fuck. We were such desperate youths.
Your slight shoulders. The excuses I would make up to give you a massage. All for the chance of touching. When I was still wooing you. The friction of your skin on my fingers. The warmth of your body.
A desecration. I have to look away.
Why?
I compose myself. I look back. I take notes.
A moment.
Hands. The untanned skin beneath your wedding ring. The coarseness of your once delicate skin. What caused this? Dishwashing liquids? Marriage does become a chore, doesn’t it? The many hours I could have held your hand. Enjoyed your company. Just holding your hand. I didn’t.
Stomach. The stretch marks on your belly. Beautiful. The birth of a child leaving its marks. I’ve seen your child. I wish she was mine too. She’s beautiful. Like you.
Thighs. I touch them. I stop myself. I examine them professionally. Nothing wrong with the thighs.
Feet. No obvious bruising. Week old nail polish. The toe tag dangles.
“Tan Hui Ling, Debra.” I read off the toe tag. “Date of birth: 25 August 1976. Time of death: 11.23pm, 22 August 2013.” The cause of death remained empty. I look at the self-inflicted slits on your wrists. It was obvious, but I had my job to do.
I pause. I start up the bone saw. I whisper sorry as I put steel to flesh.
I never thought I would see you last this way.