108 Stitches

His name is Gordon Finley. Married, no kids from what I can tell. I can't precisely pinpoint the motive of my actions, but I am storing the ID of the kitchen-man within the plastic sleeves of an old three-ring binder that I found nuzzled between some board games in a closet. It would seem that the scavengers were uninterested in tabletop strategy. It's fascinating how context can alter the ethical perception of an action: what would have otherwise been considered identity theft can  now be defended as a means of preserving the humanity of the colorless cadaver in my kitchen. Could that be my motive?
​I wonder if he will wake up...?

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The question has consumed my thoughts. It may seem strange, but I feel close to him, attached even. This is not an anonymous corpse sprawled out on my floor, staining the carpet irreparably. He has a name: Gordon Finley. He had a wife, a job. He was alive. He routinely interacted with and influenced the daily happenings of other living organisms; but now, like most, he has departed from the realm  of the living, and now interacts only with the very non-living polypropylene carpet in my kitchen.

Notwithstanding the concavity of his sunken skull, he's actually in relatively good condition. The scene of his demise appears to have played out recently. I hope that he was a good person, an affectionate husband. I hope that he kissed his wife's forehead every morning and every evening, whispering in her ear and reassuring her of his love, lest she worry, lest she forget the true magnitude of his unrelenting passion for her. Just looking upon his oblong head, bloated across the bluish frame of his driver's license, lips peeled back into a reluctant grin; and another photo: his awkward wife, contorted into an unnatural pose for the camera, maroon curtain-dress-thing hanging carelessly from her figureless figure...

I wonder what could have led to this. What would drive an individual to inflict harm, to strike with malicious intent, to endeavor  to terminate another person's existence? Retaliation? A necessary action for survival, an act of self-preservation? Protection? Or perhaps his hairline too closely resembled the stitching on a baseball, and it was an honest mistake?