On the day that Derek’s body parts decided to leave him, it didn’t come as a shock.
His nose had had enough of sniffing and snivelling.
His fingers ached from all that scrolling and typing – reams and reams of vitriol directed at total strangers. They’d hated it.
His ears had never forgiven him for the humiliation of the great lost bud debacle of ‘93, sitting in the emergency room with all the other ears wiggling and sniggering on the heads around them.
His mouth – still hoping for a second kiss – couldn’t abandon him. It stayed put, along with his once kind eyes.
The feet longed to run, to hop, to skip – activities they barely remembered from his childhood. They itched to get off the couch, out through the door, into the great, wide world.
His arms wanted to leave but his hands begged for more time. Even fingerless, they felt they could still help him.
No one really cared about the belly button; tiny puckered thing. So it worked itself loose. Quietly. Methodically. It took a few hours, but eventually it untethered itself from the slack skin around it. Only, when it broke loose – so did all hell.
Blood. Intestines. A take-away engorged stomach. Slithering and splattering out onto the already stained couch.
The belly button blushed as the other parts stood and stared.
The fingers did a slow, sarcastic slap.
‘I didn’t know.’
His words fell on deaf ears. Literally. The ears were already out of the door.
The other parts had no choice now. One by one they abandoned post. Some elated, some wistful. All hopeful that their next host might take just a little more care of them.
GAYNOR JONES is a writer of flash, micro and short stories. She has been published in Ellipsis Zine, The Occulum and MoonPark Review, among others. She tweets at @jonzeywriter