Author’s Note: So, this isn’t exactly a blog piece, but, rather, a creative writing piece. I wrote this piece after a very emotional Sunday night (I say this with a smidgen of satire) where I needed to sort out my feelings and figure out why I felt so invested in this particular instance. Additionally, I read this piece aloud for my creative nonfiction class on the day we presented our work. I’m happy to say they quite enjoyed listening and I quite enjoyed reading. So I thought, why not share it with you? Plus, it’ll be a good preview to this Sunday. Sort of. Hope you enjoy “The corpse with a six pack” by me. (And, yes, I still have a cold. Cheers.)
The corpse with a six pack
This is it. It has to be. This moment defines all moments. I imagine peoples from all over the world with me in this moment. The moment that took a whole goddamn year getting here.
My body is tense, muscles taut like a stretched rubber band, ready to be released with a single flick. With my eyes wide and brow furrowed, I chew the right corner of my mouth as my hands wring together. My pre-finals cold threatens the moment. I choke back a glob of mucus, willing myself to stay quiet. I must not make a sound. Sniff back that cold, but don’t risk a tissue. You don’t want to miss this.
The chair beside me creaks as my roommate leans forward, resting her elbows on the wooden kitchen table. The laptop’s cooling fan whines in protest. The picture flickers and we pray to the Wi-Fi gods that this moment won’t be taken away from us prematurely. We dare not breathe. My heart pounds in my chest; I can hear it in my cold-clogged ears. I’ve never felt so alive as I watch the corpse with a six pack.
Can a corpse have a six pack? Or is the corpse flexing? Hm.
Sorry, back to the moment. The moment, yes, the moment. Everything else is hanging over your head. You have a presentation to prepare for tomorrow. You have a revised essay to get done (with an Artist Statement). You could be doing more important things, like getting that internship application done or calling your mom or ending world hunger. You should be ashamed of yourself. What the hell is wrong with you? Why is this corpse with a six pack so important to you?
I don’t know and I don’t care, because right now, in this moment, all I care about is this small kernel of hope, that my life isn’t a mess, that I can rise from the ashes, that this corpse will breathe. I need it to breathe.
But it looks dead. His face is an actor’s resting-dead-face—relaxed, calm, stoic, powdered in a white, snowy complexion, probably waiting for the director to yell cut so he can breathe. I bet he’s cold. He, the corpse, lies there on a worn wooden table, half-naked; dark, crescent cuts puncture his stomach. A wolf sits beside the table, its CGI features reflecting the production’s budget. Those surrounding the corpse wear heavy fur coats or wool cloaks, fit for winter. They stare at the corpse in disappointment and one by one, they leave.
No, this can’t be happening. Don’t leave. Don’t lose hope. If you lose hope, what will I do? How will I survive finals? How will I survive the rest of my life? What will get me through the long, cold nights, downing green tea and consuming Chipotle as I fight to stay alive in this résumé-enforced society? What will I hold onto? What will anyone hold onto?
The door shuts and the corpse is alone. The wolf stays, resting its head on its white paws in defeat. My roommate and I watch at the edge of our seats. I think I’m sweating, oh god, I’m sweating. My body is ready. My emotions are in shambles, but I can’t look away. No one can, because the scene hasn’t cut away. The moment isn’t over. Not yet. We hold onto this kernel of hope together and we wait.
And wait. And wait.
The wolf looks up and the camera pans to the corpse.
Oh, god, this is it. It has to be. The moment.
I grab my roommate’s arm for support and she shoots me a look.
Get your shit together, Lauren. It’s just a show.
But I don’t care. Because right now, right then, the corpse breathes.