Beautiful Death

I steered my small boat across the calm lake. A sliver of light shone from the island; she must have arrived first. I felt a little nervous, after all, this was my first time going on a date like this. As I stood at the villa's entrance, the moon had already risen. Looking at the lights inside, the surroundings were tranquil and peaceful, the lake reflecting the bright moon like a mirror. I suddenly felt as if I were in a dream. Then the door opened, and she smiled at me from inside, like a long-lost friend: "You've come." This was the first time I'd seen her in person. She looked younger than her actual age; her long, black hair was still wet, clearly she'd just taken a bath. Her fair face was flushed, and her body, wrapped in a bathrobe, was slender and athletic. I couldn't help but reach out, but she gently dodged me. "What's the rush? Anyway, it'll all be yours soon." I snapped out of my daze. "I'm sorry, I almost broke my promise." "It's good that you remember. Dinner is ready, just waiting for you." A sumptuous dinner was laid out in the living room. I praised her cooking skills as a gourmet, but she smiled modestly. "Thank you for the compliment, but you'll have to cook for yourself from now on." "Don't worry, I'll do my job well." The atmosphere became heavy as soon as the topic came up. We finished dinner in silence, said goodnight, and she went upstairs. I lay in the bathtub, slowly reflecting. We met online. When I first received her email, I thought it was a prank, but she wasn't joking at all. Instead, she discussed death with me very seriously. She found my email address on a website I frequented. She said that after reading some of my articles, she was deeply moved and finally decided to contact me. Her first letter went like this: From a young age, I've fantasized about death. Perhaps others fear death, but I'm not at all; on the contrary, I long for it. I planted a rose garden at home, and how beautiful it is when it blooms! But once it withers, beauty turns to ugliness. I don't want to become an old woman, lying in bed waiting to die. I want to end my life at my most beautiful moment, using the most painful yet most peculiar method to make that instant eternal! To be honest, when I saw this letter, I was incredibly moved. She and I were so similar; our understanding of life and beauty was so unique. So, after corresponding for almost a year, I agreed to her request and helped her complete the final leg of her journey on the beautiful shores of Swan Lake. I left the island early the next morning to retrieve the equipment I had left in my car—a streamlined set of surgical instruments—which I would use to fulfill her wish. When I arrived on the island, she was already waiting for me at the pier. With her help, I quickly assembled the equipment. We chatted happily during this time; she told me some funny stories from the past, and I joked with her back—the atmosphere was relaxed. But as it was time to begin, the atmosphere became heavy again. I broke the silence: "Are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to back out now." These words seemed to solidify her resolve: "No, I won't regret it." "Then let's begin," I said. The first step was a medical examination. First of all, I must say that she was very healthy. If I were still working at the hospital, I would write on the medical report: Female, Age 30, Height 171 cm.She was [height in cm], weighed [weight in kg], had sound cardiopulmonary function, no history of hereditary diseases or surgery, and was in good health. As a man, I had to admire her body; her thighs were firm and full, her waist slender and supple, her breasts not large, but beautifully shaped, with bright red nipples, and her skin was well-maintained, fair and radiant. She was very satisfied with my diagnosis: "I've practiced ballet since I was little, and I was a three-time consecutive aerobics champion in school," she said. After the physical examination, I began the first step of my plan. The entire plan was discussed together over a year of correspondence, and there was also an agreement that I could not have sex with her without her permission. This suggestion came from her, and although I was somewhat surprised, I accepted it; after all, it wasn't an unreasonable agreement. Although I am a qualified surgeon, I am not a skilled anesthesiologist, and I was inevitably a little flustered when administering spinal anesthesia. However, I quickly calmed down because the anesthesia worked well; she lost consciousness from the chest down. But she remained conscious, which was her requirement: "I want to fully experience the whole process, so I must stay awake." Maintaining consciousness during such surgery is normally difficult, but a newly invented drug overcomes this difficulty; it inhibits the effects of anesthetics on a certain part of the brain, thus keeping the person conscious. "I'm going to begin," I said. She nodded slightly, turning her head to one side where a large mirror stood, allowing her to clearly see the entire procedure. I picked up the scalpel and began my work. When I recall that day years later, what impresses me most is her eyes, revealing such complex emotions. Although I quickly focused on the surgery, I could still feel those eyes, watching me, watching herself, watching a stranger cut open her beautiful flesh, the cold blade slicing through soft skin, watching her thigh slowly separate from her body under the icy, merciless, and precise scalpel. What was she thinking? The surgery went smoothly; the scalpel in my hands seemed to come alive, hungrily devouring the unconscious flesh. I carefully cut open the tendons, severed the lymph nodes, sawed through the bone, and finally sutured the blood vessels, treated the wound, and gave her an injection. By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat. Her right leg lay on the tray, leaning against the side due to loss of support. Through the cut, I could see golden fat, dark red muscle, white tendons, and blackish-red bone. The still-vibrant muscle, suddenly severely injured, lost its balance and began to contract, hindering blood flow. So I used a prepared cloth strip to tie around her ankle and suspended her from the operating room bed frame to drain the blood. The leg, hanging from the frame, twitched a few times, gently swaying, her slender toes twitching slightly, as if dissatisfied with its fate. Its owner closed her eyes, her pale face expressionless; I thought she must have fainted. So I continued my work. The bloodletting was slow, so I used massage to speed it up. Because it had just left her body, her leg was still warm, and my hands unconsciously softened. This was the first time I had carefully touched her body, or rather, a part of her body. Her skin was as smooth as silk, her muscles firm and elastic, her tender toes and heels still rosy, the pale blue veins clearly visible in her white soles. But as I massaged, the blood, the symbol of life, gradually separated from her flesh, and this once vibrant body slowly turned grayish-white. I felt the change in temperature in my hands and couldn't help but sigh. After the blood was drained, I picked up the bucket of blood, ready to empty it, when I suddenly noticed she was staring at me with her eyes open. No, not at me, but at her own leg, hanging slightly from the bed frame. I was surprised; after such surgery, even with the medication, she shouldn't still be awake. But I was soon even more surprised—she was actually trying to sit up! I quickly went to help her lie down. She was very reluctant, whispering, "Give it to me…give it to me…" I understood; she wanted her leg back. Although this wasn't part of the plan, how could I refuse her? I untied the part she had discarded, and she clutched it tightly with all her might, like a beloved doll, afraid it would be taken away. She stroked her cold feet with her burning face, kissing her toes almost frantically, her face streaked with tears… Soon she fell into a deep sleep. I gently pried open her arms and lifted the leg out. I had to take it; the plan had only just begun. I carried the leg into the kitchen to prepare dinner. This was also part of the plan, an idea I had suggested. At first, she disagreed, so I said, “So, what do you want me to do with your body? Throw it in the lake? Or bury it?” She thought for a moment and replied, “Criminalization.” I couldn’t help but complain, “My dear lady, do you know how high the temperature is for cremation? Besides, I don’t think you’d want your beautiful body to go to waste.” After a moment of silence, she agreed. Now the real fun began. It was fair; I fulfilled her wish, and she satisfied my desire. In the kitchen, I freely enjoyed my pleasure. I placed her leg on the table, took a large cleaver from the knife rack, and chopped it off at the ankle. It was hard to imagine that I had just been so skilled at dissecting flesh with a scalpel, and now I was wielding a knife like a butcher. Yes, I am also an unusual person, but I am not a bad person. I don't know when it started, but a destructive desire has been deeply imprinted on me. I like to destroy beautiful things, I like the sublimation of beauty in pain. This is unimaginable for ordinary people, but it does exist. My beloved medicine cannot explain my confusion, but I think this may be an anomaly among the countless human natures, descended upon me, so I am in pain, bewildered, but also have a strange pleasure. Whenever I dissect a corpse, I think, are they any different from me? Death takes away the soul, leaving only a lonely shell, seemingly helpless but also more of a liberation. Even if the soul is still preserved, how many people really care? So I stopped thinking. Her ankle was very slender, and I quickly severed it with the cleaver. I put down the knife and picked up the foot to admire it carefully. Her feet were a good size, with slender, long toes and lightly polished nail polish. Her skin was smooth and delicate, with slightly yellowish heels but no calluses, showing she knew how to take care of them. Feet and legs like those would surely attract a lot of attention on the street. But href="http://892567.Now, it's in my hands, for me alone to enjoy. My lower body unconsciously hardened; I was almost unable to restrain myself in the operating room, but I couldn't break my promise. Now I need to release. I unzipped my pants, took out my penis, which was throbbing with my pulse. Sometimes I'm amazed by human anatomy; a small organ mainly composed of muscle and fiber can bring such great pleasure. I held her foot, rubbing my glans with the sole of her foot. The cool sensation, transmitted through the nerves, transformed into extreme pleasure when it reached my brain. This feeling was truly amazing; I was actually giving her foot a footjob! My glans touched every inch of skin on her foot, twitching between her toes, even touching the broken bone. Finally, I ejaculated, a wave of electric-like pleasure flowing through my body. After resting for a while, I started preparing dinner. I opened the refrigerator and saw it was full of vegetables, milk, and beer, but no meat. It seemed she was indeed prepared to eat herself. Preparing dinner wasn't difficult for me; after all, I've been living alone for 5 years.Years had passed. I first used a sharp knife to separate her legs at the knees, then used a large knife to cut off the flesh from her calves, putting the remaining thigh in the refrigerator. Her flesh was very elastic. I made four dishes: stir-fried pork slices with soy sauce, diced pork with mushrooms, angelica and bone soup, and a Western-style roast meat. I was starving, and she was still unconscious, so I ate it all by myself. It was my first time tasting human flesh, and it felt very strange. It was unlike anything I had ever eaten before, but it was precisely this strange taste that intoxicated me. I poured myself a drink and quickly finished everything. After dinner, I went to check on her in the operating room. She was sleeping well and showed no signs of fever, so I went to sleep reassured. The next morning, when I woke up, it was almost dawn. I lay on the soft bed, recalling yesterday's experience, it felt like a real dream. A light morning mist still lingered outside the window, and amidst the crisp sound of wind chimes, I could vaguely see a little girl rowing a small boat by. Suddenly, something from my memory stung me, and after letting out a long sigh, I sat up. Just as I finished brushing my teeth and was about to shave, I heard a crashing sound from upstairs. I rushed up. Her bed was a mess; an ashtray had hit the dressing mirror next to the wardrobe, and she was half-sitting on the bed, hysterically screaming. I went over and tried to comfort her in the gentlest voice possible, but she seemed deaf. After a long pause, she managed to say, "Where are my feet? Where are my feet?" She kept repeating this question, constantly patting where her legs should have been. I knew she was delirious. With someone in this state, the facts were the best approach; otherwise, it wouldn't be good for our next plan. So I went to the kitchen, wondering whether to show her yesterday's leftovers or the frozen meat in the fridge. Then I suddenly remembered the object that had satisfied my desires yesterday. It was lying quietly in the vegetable pile in the fridge. I picked it up and smelled it; there was no strange odor, and since the blood had been drained promptly, the color hadn't changed, except the blood at the cut was a dark purple. After I washed it clean with warm water, it looked more like a delicate work of art, lying quietly in my hand. The bloodless toes appeared even more translucent. The human body is indeed the most beautiful thing in nature, whether as a whole or in part. When I handed her the artwork wrapped in a white towel, she seemed to be stunned by its beauty. Her dazed eyes focused on the part that had once belonged to her. Her hands trembled, but she didn't reach out to take it. I said softly, "This is yours, take it." But she still didn't take it, so I put it on the bed, quietly closed the door, and left. When I came out of the kitchen an hour later, I had already prepared breakfast. Although I was already used to eating the previous day's leftovers for breakfast, I still specially cooked her a bowl of congee with preserved egg and lean pork, using her own meat, of course. Although I didn't know if she would like it, it was the best food I could make for her, and it would be very helpful for her recovery. "Recovery?" Thinking of this word, I couldn't help but chuckle. It seems I still have a long way to go to adapt to this dual identity of butcher and doctor. But I almost ruined my good intentions myself—she wasn't in the room! I hurriedly put down the plate I was holding, wondering where she might have run off to. However, a soft sob drew my attention to the wardrobe. I opened the door, and there she was, curled up inside, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed like a wounded kitten. My hard heart melted. Perhaps she was exhausted from crying; when I gently picked her up, she only flinched slightly before giving up. After I put her on the bed, I noticed she was clutching something in her arms, and I think I knew what it was. It was her right foot. She had dressed it in a light blue lace sock with cute cartoon patterns and a red leather shoe, the kind usually worn by little girls. The large wound on her ankle was neatly covered by the lace on the sock, creating a striking contrast. I settled her on the bed and said, "It's time to eat something, or it'll get cold." She obediently nodded. Now she was like a well-behaved little girl, letting me take away her carefully decorated little foot and quietly eating the porridge I fed her. This scene, which should have been heartwarming, was actually strangely unsettling. A man who considered himself both a butcher and a doctor was gently feeding a girl he was meeting for the first time porridge. The porridge wafted from the bowl, carrying the aroma of her flesh. On the table beside them lay something that had been hurt, abandoned, and manipulated before being cherished again… “Once you’re separated from your body, you’re just an object, do you understand?” My words shattered the eerie scene, pulling her back to reality. She shuddered, looking up at me with eyes filled with resentment, anger, and confusion… I sighed inwardly. Her gaze slowly shifted to the porridge bowl. The aroma seemed to give her an insight, yet her tone was surprisingly calm: “It tastes good.” I paused, then nodded in agreement: “It is indeed good.” After she spoke, she seemed like a completely different person. She took the bowl of porridge from my hand and slowly began to eat, her every move returning to how I had first met her. Although this was somewhat abrupt, it made me feel much more at ease. "I never knew...it tasted like this..." She sounded puzzled, yet also regretful. I couldn't help but chuckle. "I only found out last night too." "How could you have thought..." She seemed unsure how to continue, "...to eat human flesh, is that it?" I finished her sentence for her, glancing out the window with a bitter smile. Something flashed through my mind like lightning, and I frowned slightly. "Is death so terrible? If so, I should have experienced it long ago..." she murmured, her voice ethereal, like a whisper. "In my heart, Mom has always been the most beautiful woman. Although I never liked Dad, Mom wouldn't let me say that. Until that day, Mom still deeply loved Dad..." Her large eyes stared at the ceiling, her long eyelashes curved, her smooth face flawless, and her slightly pale lips uttered memories as cold as ice. "That day I waited at school for a long time, but my mom didn't come to pick me up, so I had to walk home by myself. It was already very dark, but all the curtains were drawn and the door was locked. Luckily, there was a spare key under the doormat... Both my parents were home, which was rare. My dad is always out drinking and only comes home drunk. But today he seemed to be in a good mood, and he even danced with my mom in his arms, one step... two steps... three steps... My mom was wearing her prettiest dress today. Although my dad was covering her face, I think she must have been very happy too. My dad slowly turned around with my mom in his arms." "Come, I can see them clearly now. Dad is still the same as before, with his stubble, but Mom... Mom, she..." The ice of nightmares slowly solidified in the cramped room, pressing against each other and creaking. Her eyes were so empty, enough to drag me into that nightmare as well... The young woman was indeed beautiful, with arched eyebrows, a pert nose, and sensual lips very similar to hers. Such a beautiful face was stained with blood, sitting on the dining table alongside a similarly bloodstained kitchen knife. Her slightly open eyes looked at the bloodshot-eyed drunkard, revealing a rare tenderness as she embraced her headless corpse and danced silently. The ceaselessly flowing blood flowed over her high breasts, slender waist, and feet still clad in stockings, mingling with the drunkard's staggering dance steps, drawing an eternal curse on the daughter's heart, which seemed frozen at the doorway. It was late autumn. The withered reeds by the lake swayed in the north wind. A hazy, yellow sun hung lazily in the sky. I took a deep breath of the slightly fishy air; the crisp air filled my lungs. I closed my eyes and listened to the north wind whistling past my ears on the balcony. I felt a wave of dizziness. She was clearly tired after telling her story, but she refused to sleep. So I left her alone to have some peace and quiet. I had long suspected she must have had some special experiences, so I wasn't particularly surprised when she told me. However, her narration touched a nerve deep within my own memory, reminding me of things I had long forgotten… By the time I awoke from my reverie, the setting sun was already half-hidden behind the distant mountain peaks. I walked to her bedroom door, pushed it open slightly, and saw her lying quietly on the bed, her chest rising and falling gently. Not wanting to disturb her, I turned to leave, but then I heard her voice: "Take me for a walk." I turned back; her eyes made it impossible for me to refuse. I gently picked her up, as lightly as holding a kitten, who nestled obediently in my arms. A small boat was moored at the dock outside. I carried her and stepped onto the gently swaying boat. She held me even tighter, her warm body pressed against mine, her youthful fragrance filling my nostrils. My hands trembled slightly. The motor hummed, and the boat slowly glided through the reeds, the bow parting the calm lake water, creating ripples. The reeds rustled in the evening breeze, their fluttering tips slicing the setting sun into countless fragments. In the distance, the songs of fishermen returning home drifted up. "Tonight… let's end it… okay…?" The sun finally set. Cold instruments were placed on a tray; the clanging of metal was chilling, as if piercing my soul. She lay peacefully on the operating table, gazing out the window where a string of pale blue wind chimes hung.A gentle breeze tinkled the air. Without a word, I began injecting her with the medication. It took effect quickly; she lost all feeling from her chest down. My hand gently stroked her remaining left leg. Even through the gloves, I could feel the smooth, tender skin. My hand trembled slightly, yet the bloodthirsty blade seemed to come alive, precisely separating flesh and blood. Crimson muscle broke through the skin's protection, white ligaments detached from the bone, and blood could now freely gush from the blood vessels deep within the muscle, until even the stubborn bone succumbed to its joints, becoming a still-trembling mass of flesh hanging on the bedside table. I gently stroked her genitals, which appeared even more prominent due to the loss of her legs. She seemed to be electrocuted, her gaze shifting from the wind chimes she had been staring at, looking at me with confusion. I smiled slightly. This anesthetic was only for pain; other senses would become more acute. I carefully observed her female genitalia. Her vulva was a light color, with short labia minora and thick labia majora. Her pubic hair was thick and black. I took a razor and carefully shaved the hair. Although the movements were gentle, it was a strong stimulation for her vulva, which had become more sensitive under the influence of the medication. Her cheeks flushed, her brows furrowed slightly, and her breasts reacted, her nipples slowly hardening. Without the hair to cover her, her vulva appeared even more pink, and a colorless, transparent fluid slowly flowed from between her lips. Her body language told me what to do. I took off my surgical gown and gloves, climbed onto the operating table, and stroked her firm breasts. She finally couldn't hold back and let out a soft moan. I parted her labia minora and saw that her pink clitoris was already aroused, and her lips were even more wet. I took a deep breath and entered her body, but was blocked by something. My heart skipped a beat, and I had already broken through her defenses. She let out a short moan, two lines of tears sliding down her cheeks. I reached under her arms and lifted her up, feeling as light as a leaf. Her eyes were deep and glistening with tears. I held her close, feeling her weak hands caressing my back, her soft, fragrant breasts against my chest, her vagina warm and moist, enveloping me tightly. I assaulted her wave after wave, her body growing increasingly aroused. In that instant, I let out a howl, my eyes stinging—a feeling I hadn't experienced in years. Tears streaming down my face, I held her tightly, reaching the climax together… After the storm, I gradually calmed down. I saw an unprecedented tenderness on her face. I gently bit her lip, her tongue slipping into my mouth, which I greedily sucked. But her eyes remained serene, my attempts to stir a ripple were futile. Finally, the final moment arrived, and I resumed my role as the doctor. She stared wide-eyed at us in the mirror, unwilling to miss a single detail. I sighed, the cold blade slicing in from below her collarbone, through her breasts, across her alabaster abdomen, around her navel, and down to her genitals. The blade stopped at the mound, a thin line slowly spreading behind it. I grasped her still firm breasts, the blade mercilessly separating them from her sternum, letting them roll down to her armpit, leaving only the slightly heaving sternum. My hand didn't stop; following that thin line, I opened her abdomen. A peculiar smell wafted out, a mixture of the stench of a young girl's flesh and the mucus of her internal organs. I felt a surge of excitement. At that moment, she struggled to move her right hand, trying to touch her breast that had rolled down to her armpit, but she couldn't reach it. I looked at her with pity, reached out and cut off her entire left breast, placing it in her hand. She held the breast up to her face, her breathing becoming rapid. Although separated from her body, her round nipples remained erect, their pink areolas making them appear delicate and alluring. She took one nipple into her mouth, gently sucking at the milk that could no longer be produced. I turned my head and continued my work. Amidst a mass of slightly wriggling, pink intestines, I found her internal reproductive organs: two small ovaries and a fully developed uterus. I leaned down, using my face, lips, and tongue to feel the suppleness of the uterus and ovaries, the slippery warmth of the intestinal mass, and the sweet, fishy smell in my breath. I closed my eyes, and in a hazy, warm state, I used my tongue to locate the fallopian tubes, carefully cutting and peeling them away with my teeth. I could feel her reaction; each movement sent a jolt through her, and her previously gentle, weak breathing began to quicken. I slowly straightened up, the mucus on my face gradually cooling and drying, just like my shrunken and deformed heart. I stared into her eyes, unblinking. She cupped her left breast, gently sucking, her slightly open eyes languid and content. I knew that in her eyes, I was nothing more than a speck of dust. The blade in my hand began its final dance, needing no guidance from the eyes; true art required only the heart. In a daze, I saw her dancing on the blade, the sharp edge her accompaniment, the dripping blood blooming into exquisite flowers. This final dance of life would be drawn by me. The sky filled with blood blossoms, but her languid and satisfied gaze grew clearer. Finally, the cold accompaniment of the blade came to an end, abruptly ceasing. A faint blush appeared on her cheeks, her breast slipped from her hand, and her lips trembled slightly. I turned my head, looking at my masterpiece. Her entire set of internal and external genitalia had been completely separated from her body. The pink clitoris was still tender and dewy, the white essence mixed with blood slowly flowing from her vulva. I gently picked up this masterpiece, placed it on a white porcelain plate, and presented it to her. She was too weak to move even a finger. I lowered my head and kissed her cool lips. Her dark eyes, under my gaze, gradually lost focus. When I left Swan Lake a week later, the only proof of her existence were a few bottles in the trunk of my car. I never knew her name, but what did it matter? She had become one with me. "Will anyone miss you?" I asked, looking at the glass bottle in my hand. She still looked at me calmly, with those languid and contented eyes. The snow finally began to fall.

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