Goodbye, The Most Painful Love

Chloe bowed slightly as she stood by the stainless steel autopsy table.

She picked up a silver scalpel and made an incision in the middle of my neck.

"First rib hasn't calcified," she muttered, gliding the blade through my chest cavity.

"Minimal fat, no surgical scars."

She pinched my lung, noting, "Dark bruises. Severe emphysema."

"Pericardial hemorrhages."

"Mechanical asphyxiation."

Her frown deepened when she reached a sensitive area.

It was empty.

Did that case cross her mind?

The shocking rape and murder that shook our city—the one that dragged me to hell.

Chloe worked with intense focus, the cold light above casting her in an almost sacred glow. Her scalpel moved with practiced precision.

She looked both sacred and devout.

Ironic that my first time seeing her work, I'm the corpse on her table.

Hours later, she finished the autopsy and handed her meticulous reports to Detective James.

They joined the meeting, where photos of my body were plastered on the whiteboard.

Chloe delivered her analysis, "Male, 20 to 25 years old. Based on stomach contents and decomposition, death occurred about ten days ago.

Genitalia removed—likely revenge-motivated."

She paused, brow furrowing.

"Chaotic limb wounds suggest an inexperienced, impatient killer. First-time murderer, perhaps? Or deliberate torture. Extremely brutal either way."

"Lung emphysema rules out poisoning. Confirmed asphyxiation."

"The dismemberment screams anger and vengeance."

...

Silence fell.

"It's too similar," James said gravely.

Everyone knew which case he meant—the one that still haunted them.

"Could be someone provoking us, seeking revenge for that old case," James suggested.

The team agreed.

"But we don't have any missing officers or family members," an officer pointed out.

"How does an adult vanish without anyone noticing?"

Chloe, eyes fixed on the photos, said, "DNA's been run. No matches."

James rubbed his temples. "We need to ID the body ASAP to narrow down suspects."

"The suitcase only held the torso. Either the limbs have identifying marks the killer's hiding, or..."

"A 24-inch case couldn't fit a whole adult. Two disposal sites, then."

"If so, the second can't be far."

Chloe's frown deepened at the mention of the left arm.

I touched the scar on my left hand—a reminder of when I'd tried cooking her favorite dish and spilled boiling oil.

She'd felt so guilty, tending to it daily.

If she saw that arm, would she recognize me?

Someone suggested the genital mutilation might indicate hatred towards men.

"Past abuse? Betrayal? Or avenging a loved one?"

Chloe's brow twitched, disgust flashing across her face.

Thinking of me, the "filthy" one?

James whispered to her, "Any word from Hans?"

If this was revenge against the police, Chloe—who'd done the original autopsy—was the likely target.

That person had sworn to make her regret it.

Chloe gripped her phone. "I've blocked Hans. Only divorce talk gets through."

James nodded, returning to the case.

He decided to lead a team to test the river's flow, estimate the dump site, and search for other body parts.

Another team would check missing people's reports.

I floated above, eyeing the discarded "starry sky" photo in the trash.

The clue she'd missed, like everything else about me.

"Go home, Chloe. It's late," James urged.

Her phone pinged—a message from Gene, "Come home, I made your favorite."

She smiled softly, setting down her work.

"Okay."

My heart shattered.

Chloe, the workaholic who'd stay at the office for days—I never dared disturb her.

But Gene's message was all it took to pull her away.

Clearly, in her heart, I—the "filthy" one—could never compare to him.