Peeling the Orange

I held the orange in the palm of my hand. It was of a deep, lusty hue. My mouth watered in anticipation of its luscious center. It had something I desperately needed--rejuvenation.

My fingers dug into its crust, prying away the peel like some strange predator unhousing its prey. The orange made sickly squishing sounds as I rent the skin, my nails delving into its marrow. A crisply sweet citrus smell wafted up my nose. I lay the pieces off to one side. The work was slow, but steady. I came to the north and south poles of the sphere and went to work on them.

The stem was unearthed--a limp, stringy tentacle that threatened to encircle my finger and choke it. Fortunately, it remained lifeless, dangling and swaying insipidly.

Eventually the outer layer lay in a jumbled heap on the counter top, looking like a shattered orange-white jigsaw: a grizzly puzzle even for the most gifted surgeon. The skinless body stood, undead. White arteries trailed all over its hulk: veiny, crawling things that pulsed sickeningly.

Still hungry, I brought myself to separate the sections, telling myself that this is the way of things. Slowly, I dug my thumbs into the quavering flesh and ripped the body in twain. It sprayed its viscera helter skelter, droplets rained on my hands and fingers, and the tissue resisted with an awful friction. There is no sound so abnormal, so nauseating, so excruciatingly unbearable as the sound flesh makes when violently rent asunder.

I stood there, quickened in breath and failing in health, staring at the result of my labors. My hands were sticky, stinking, dripping. And the corpse lay there accusingly: tortured, violated, molested beyond recognition.

Slowly I backed away: overcome with revulsion, dazed with misgiving. And, waiting for the sirens to come take me away, I thought about what I had done.