by Andreas Flögel
Sia called me her manager, but I knew the truth. I was a combination of bodyguard and pimp. Also, I was hopelessly in love with her.
Bodymods (no one uses the scientific name) had changed everything. Originally a medical miracle, developed to heal patients and shattered veterans, the technology had long since bled into the realm of lifestyle. It allowed the desperate and the bored to grow and regrow limbs or organs in a matter of hours at a minimal cost. It birthed a dozen new industries and corrupted a hundred old ones. In the neon haze of the Sebsprawl, where the air tasted like ozone and recycled rain, guys with tiger heads or girls with porcelain-smooth skin and eyes like opals were nothing special.
Sia, however, had found a more profitable path, fueled by a market we were eager enough to serve.
Like clockwork, the routine always went the same. A group of “connoisseurs” would gather in a private, high-end suite, usually a penthouse where the floor-to-ceiling glass looked down on the flickering misery of the lower districts. I would stand by the door, playing the part of the silent sentinel.
Sia would mingle. She was effortless, a vision of grace. There was small talk and the tinkling of crystal glasses, but the guests never looked her in the eye. They looked at her thighs, her shoulders, her calves. They devoured her with their gaze.
Eventually, the signal was given. I would administer the sedative, a pale blue liquid that hummed in the syringe. While Sia drifted into a chemical sleep, her breathing becoming shallow and rhythmic, I would draw the vibro-knife.
I still remember how my hand shook that first time. The hum of the blade felt like a scream in my palm. Even now, after a dozen times, it is not a weight I carry lightly. I would remove one of her legs and hand the warm, heavy limb to a waitstaffer to be whisked toward the kitchen. Then, I would carry Sia’s limp body to a prepped car to begin the accelerated regrowing process. Behind us, the guests simply waited for dinner to be served.
One day, while I was cleaning the blade in the silence of our apartment, Sia shocked me. She didn’t look up from her mirror.
“Have you ever tasted me?” she asked.
The question was so quiet, so intimate, and so monstrous that I couldn’t look her in the eye for a week. How could she even ask? I felt like I was losing her.
Over time, the routine curdled. The market demanded “authenticity.” First, the guests wanted to admire her naked before the procedure, a livestock inspection disguised as an art viewing. I hated the way their eyes crawled over her skin like insects, but Sia simply raised her fee by twenty percent. Then, they wanted the “honor” of the cut. They wanted one of the guests to perform the amputation. My objections were loud, visceral, and ultimately ignored. Sia held a silent auction for the privilege instead.
The breaking point came last night.
A regular, a man with gold-plated fingernails and a voice like gravel, suggested carrying out the dismemberment without the sedative. He said he wanted to “hear the song of the meat.” He wanted to hear her scream.
My blood turned to ice. I reached for my gun, ready to end the contract and the guests if needed. But the chef intervened first. He stepped out of the kitchen, white apron without any stain, and shook his head vehemently.
“No, I veto! The adrenaline and cortisol would ruin the flavor,” he stated quite agitated. “Stress makes the fibers tough. It would damage the quality of the meat.”
The guest sighed, disappointed, and settled back into his chair.
After that evening, I left her. It wasn’t the cruelty of the guests that broke me. It wasn’t even the gold-nailed man.
In the end, it was the fact that Sia hadn’t even flinched at the suggestion of her own torture. She hadn’t looked at me for protection. She hadn’t even blinked. She had simply started typing on her com-sleeve, her fingers flying over the holographic display, calculating the additional premium for “conscious delivery.”
Finally, I realized that there was nothing left to save. Bodymods could regrow her flesh, but the woman I loved had been consumed, one calculated cut at a time.
~
Bio:
Andreas Flögel is a German author with a passion for exploring multiple literary genres, including science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, and fairy tales. His fiction has been published in anthologies and magazines in both German and English. Recent credits include stories in Dark Moments, Flashpoint SF, Trembling with Fear, Stygian Lepus, and various anthology collections. For additional information see his website: www.dr-dings.de
Philosophy Note:
If the body becomes infinitely repairable, does it lose its inherent value or “sanctity”?
In traditional philosophy—most notably in Immanuel Kant’s Lectures on Ethics—the “uniqueness” and indivisibility of the body are what make it precious. A technology that allows limbs and organs to be regrown or replaced at a minimal cost would, of course, be a medical miracle. Yet, would this not simultaneously imply that the human form is no longer “sacred”?
When the body can be discarded and replaced like a piece of hardware, it ceases to be an identity and becomes a mere utility. In this story, such technology is used not only for amusement but to reduce the human form to a “means to an end”—the very definition of objectification. Once the line between personhood and property is crossed, the trajectory is inevitable: a steady departure from the “someone” toward the “something.”
You might be interested in
