Cinnamon Hearts
Human anatomy is often more predictable than the complex biology of flowers
Disclaimer: Nothing nice happens in this story.
I am using his living body as soil for the rose cuttings. His decaying mouth is the vase. The tongue and teeth have gone away, but his clam-like soft palate holds the stems upright.
People mistakenly believe roses are difficult to propagate, and sure, some species can be tender or finicky, but a rambling rose is a hearty sort. One of the issues with rose cuttings is that you need to cut soft green wood. If the wood has hardened, you will not get any root growth. Begin your cut right beneath a bud and remove all the other external petals and shoots. I suggest preparing several of these cuttings at the start, just in case of failure. Nature is not always consistent, and it’s better to have something and not need it than to need it and not have it.
Human anatomy is often more predictable than the complex biology of flowers. I won’t lie and say that I possess a medical degree or that I can perform any of the surgeries that are routine in hospitals, but I can keep the human body alive. There are some fundamental needs: oxygen, water, calories, blood, and waste removal. You know, those basic aspects of life. Outside of those, there is a sneaky will to live hiding beneath all that supple yielding flesh. The pessimists might wax on about it in some fancy vernacular, but I have noticed that in most circumstances, a body will continue to function, right up until the very end. Whether or not this constitutes life is another question entirely. Let’s avoid the philosophical here. Let’s keep it simple and neat. The bit of human soil I have cultivated is still living.
The first romantic affront was the candy. I was expecting chocolates. I don’t believe this expectation is unreasonable. On Valentine’s Day, one gets a box of chocolates from one’s beloved. He brought me a big bag of those little cinnamon hearts.
What kind of a gift is that?
His excuse: “I thought we could make cookies together.”
Baking cookies—do I look like fucking Fanny Cradock?
I suppose—I might, maybe just a little, but only in the eyebrows, and only because I like to keep them tended and uniform. Yes, I freely admit that I am much more of a Baroque garden lover if I am given the choice. I like things in order. I like the rules. I don’t think that means I bend nature to my will. I, instead, carve channels. I allow for a certain amount of space. I allow things, whatever they might be, to develop in accordance with a properly pleasing aesthetic.
The roots of the rambling rose have grown far down his throat. I knew from the beginning that these growths would restrict oxygen flow and would constitute a major issue. I have been very attentive to any root growth that curls or vines into the nasal cavity. I trim those right out. I am rough with the pruning shears. There has been some damage to the fleshy outer parts of this soil. He twitches or shudders when my cuts are overzealous. There are some muffled pleas, but it has been a full year, and he is weak. The straps hold him tight; I don’t even use paralytics or numbing agents—haven’t for months. I am sure it is uncomfortable for him, but honestly, I don’t really mind.
PH continues to be an issue. Human saliva has corrosive and digestive properties. I am careful not to overwater, but as I said before, roses are not as fragile as people think. They can grow in harsh or barren environments. Having known this man when he was more active, I can state clearly that he indeed embodies a harsh environment.
One of the benefits of the modern age is the unending access to information afforded to some of us. I think the failing healthcare system has forced a lot of people to pay attention to loved ones well past the point when it would still be socially appropriate. Palliative care has returned home in a big way. If you want to avoid elderly abuse accusations, there are plenty of instructional videos and loads of generally helpful and informative websites. Mind you, my living soil patch is not elderly, but in his current state, he shares a lot of qualities with someone bedridden. I contemplated performing a castration and penectomy, along with a colostomy bag, but the chances of deadly infection and bleeding out were too high. Instead, I opted for adult diapers. The food that I chose to use for this soil has made the waste removal process easier, still unpleasant, but easier. I do not regret my decision. Other than incontinence aids, you can purchase all sorts of life monitoring machinery. You will end up on some undesirable mailing lists, but for the most part, buying these things second-hand is the way to go. Many Gam Gams and Peepaw’s had to die for me to get the setup I have, and I keep that fact in mind. The beeping and flashing lights can be overwhelming, but the sight of those roses in full bloom has made the whole experience rewarding.
The “food” I chose to use for this soil was really an ingenious idea. I was presented with those paltry cinnamon hearts instead of chocolates, and despite my anger, I put them to good use. They are relatively inexpensive to buy, and in the off-season, I have had no problem finding enough in stock. The man at the grocery store thinks I am running an online cookie sales business; he keeps asking me to bring some in for him. I smile and pretend to flirt back. I always have an eye out for future resources.
Once a week, I empty a bag of these candies into a little pot and add a small amount of water. Eventually, and with a little elbow grease, this simple concoction melts down into a sugary syrup, not unlike a more viscous dextrose solution. The temperature needs to be monitored closely, and the water-to-candy ratio was tricky to work out, but I had nothing but time. Several of the experiments were a complete failure, and I ended up with a molten sugar paste. Waste not want not—I put that paste to good use. Hours of entertainment can be found in spattering a restrained ex-lover with scalding syrup.
Using an I.V. bag would have been ideal, but that takes too long, is too complex, and the solution would be difficult to manage. So, I purchased a long funnel. I can force it down the soil’s throat. I test the mixture on my wrist, because I don’t want to burn the roots, and I pour the sugar solution right into the soil’s stomach. A bit of serendipity here, the funnel also helps to keep the breathing apparatus open. I am gentler with this than I probably need to be, but again, I do not want to damage the root system. The soil doesn’t have much of a gag reflex anymore; it honestly doesn’t really have many reflexes at all. Twitches here and there would be my only signs of life if it weren’t for all the monitoring machinery.
I do not have a fully functional detached greenhouse, but instead, I utilized a sunny back room. The large bay windows supply the soil with ample partial sun, and I was able to manufacture some makeshift plastic flaps to hang from an archway. This structure lets out a lot of the stench, and it lets in a lot of insects. It is less than ideal, but the stench is manageable, and a rotting living body with gangrenous stumps emits a not totally unpleasant, sweet, almost almond aroma. When that combines with the odor of flowers, it creates a sickly sweet but not overpowering fragrance. It is also possible I have grown desensitized to the smell.
I do not entertain guests anymore, as a lot of this would be difficult to explain. I believe myself to be the sympathetic victim in this whole charade, but that opinion doesn’t always translate. You know what they say about loose lips and sinking ships. I wouldn’t want anyone to blab about my whole set-up. I would like to brag about it more, but this isn’t a science experiment, nor is it something for the greater good. Ultimately, it is slow, drawn-out revenge.
There is some conjecture about the “reality” of scaphism, and this practice was probably too involved to ever have been done on a grand scale. For me, it resides in a similar realm to an iron maiden. It is a form of execution that feels more like a direct threat than any actual reality. For royal courts, there might be instances of extreme public displays of torture, and yes, of course, these would make it into history books, and live on in myth and nightmare, but I am just a lone person, and the effort I have put into this execution is approaching too pretentious and grand even for me. I keep that original Valentine’s Day slight close to my heart, and this insult helps to drive me forward. But today, after a year, I will reap my reward and discard the remnants into the appropriate disposal sites. Reusing these remaining bits as any actual compost seems out of the question at this point.
The sheer number of insects that have infested my soil would be funny if not so inconvenient. I was prepared for the black flies, fruit flies, and maggots, but after a full year of a man’s living flesh rotting away, I have seen so many terrifying new forms of insect and parasite. The bedsores on the soil have all split and become part of the steel table underneath him. I have given it my best effort to cut away those pieces of flesh that no longer resemble humanity. The dripping organic mosaic that remains has festered to the point where I am swimming against the tide. There is so much attention from creepy crawly things.
Early on, I had the luxury of just removing whole limbs from the core of the body; I could seal the stumps with a tourniquet and cauterize the wounds, but now the entire back of this soil has turned into one large open fistula. The infection meeting the steel tabletop stops some of the blood loss, but it is too much to keep up with. Additionally, the syrup diet I have force-fed the soil has given the whole sloshing mess a distinctly red hue. Now, at the end, it’s very hard to discern the difference between flesh, blood, rot, creepers, and deep bruises.
…Sigh…
This year is up. The wild roses, which started as cuttings, are in full bloom, and they stand tall in their glory, a beacon of triumph straining away from the soil’s gummy mouth hole. Their color is so vivid. I never imagined such a deep tone of red, nor did I imagine such full sagging damp pedals. It really is a wonder to behold. I will trim them at the base and make a beautiful bouquet of them. I might even leave it on my own doorstep and imagine these roses are from a secret admirer. I have given myself such a fine gift. Most of the sticky, convulsing soil that remains will fit into the garbage disposal or other trash bags. I will leave the windows open tonight, and the insects will finish up.
I have a whole garage full of syrup and feces-soaked diapers to get rid of, and I’ll have to go to all the surrounding counties not to arouse suspicion. This experience has been quite an ordeal and will continue to be one. Tonight, however, I will enjoy my gift. I do wish all of this could have been avoided. I mean, we were dating for two years, and that first Valentine’s Day was the traditional chocolates and roses, but in year two, the soil went rogue. He bought me those fucking cinnamon hearts, and he showed up with a mixed bouquet.
How dare he!? Was it worth it!? Was it worth it!?
There is no use in screaming at him. The ears have been gnawed away long ago. Aside from the practical advice I’ve shared, there’s no deeper lesson here. Some people prefer traditional gifts. I don’t think I ask for much. I was willing to go to all this trouble, and he wasn’t even willing to bring roses. I have so much cleaning to do…so much. Well, that can all wait until tomorrow.
February 15th is as good a day as any to start a spring clean-out. I’ll unplug the monitors, though. Give myself a little peace of mind. The electric bills are sure to be lower. Roses can be an expensive hobby. It’s too late to plant bulbs for this spring, maybe I’ll do some annuals in June. They have a much quicker turnaround.
Oh well what a creative choice! It was grotesque yet the dark humour of it made me smile. Paced well and not over done, concerningly realistic growing descriptions, convincing to say the least!
I kept thinking about an old movie called "Boxing Helena" while reading this. You've written a seriously unhinged and literate piece of body horror here, sir. Fine work indeed!