The scent of blood and raw flesh is pungent enough to make me double over and violently retch. My whole body shudders in revulsion, cold sweat rolling down my back as my stomach clenches. It's only through pure spite that I manage to soldier on and force myself to look in the bathtub.  
 
There's nothing human in the gory mess, just dead, mutilated things in murky red water. The sea of mangled flesh and bone churns as though caught in the grip of a vicious storm, yet not a drop spills over the edge.  
 
With trembling hands, I open the window to its fullest extent, allowing a cool breeze to gust into the room. I'm not worried about flies swarming in. No insects want anything to do with this unnatural monstrosity that I've created. 
 
In the very centre of the mass, the emaciated body of a bird drifts to the surface. Its movement is less turbulent than the rest, and judging by its sparse coat of white feathers, it appears to be a dove. Its remaining feathers are tattered but miraculously unstained, their whiteness shining against the sea of dark red. 
 
The dove opens its beak, but the words come out of a gaping wound on its sunken breast that looks like a lopsided grin.  
 
"Please don't do this," it whispers. "None of this will bring her back." 
 
It sounds sympathetic enough, but its gaze is as cold and dead as the rest of it. 
 
I snap on a pair of latex gloves and reach into the black bin bag I hauled in earlier. As I sweep my hand around, I feel the moist squish of torn viscera beneath my questing fingers. There's no end to this bag, and if I'm not careful, I could be drawn in and lost forever in a maze of mutilated bodies.  
 
I find the pig's head and drag it out, then toss it into the tub. It lands with a messy splash and stares up at me with bulging, glassy eyes. The bloody snout quivers and opens, its tongue flopping out like a fat slug. 
 
"She's been gone for so long," it says, high and pleading. "Can't you just let her go?" 
 
Saying nothing, I watch as the pig is swept beneath the rolling water and the body of a fox takes its place. The fox's rotten flesh is sloughing off its cracked bones, and oily filth is matted throughout the remains of its fur, but the eyes sunken deep in its skull remain bright and inquisitive. When it opens its jaws, something dark pulses in the cavity of its throat, like a charred heart. 
 
"You'll have to combine an awful lot more dead things if you want to make them into a living thing," it says. "Remain determined and you'll surely meet your goal." 
 
It sounds friendly and eager, like a ghost of my childhood optimism, but I can't tell if it's genuine or if it's just mocking me.  
 
I reach into the blood-soaked bag again, scattering flecks of bone and scraps of oozing skin. Living things squirm around frantically, seeking my body heat, and I crush the life out of them. 
 
From the corner of my eye, I see the head of a goat bob to the surface, floating still and calm admist the frenzied whirlpool of ruined bodies. It emitts a fearsome warmth—the same sick heat that radiates from someone burning up from a terrible fever. 
 
I know I should ignore it, but I can't. I turn to face it, my heart fluttering wildly, sweat beading on my forehead. 
 
The goat's black fur is heavily overgrown and matted in tangled clumps. Its left horn is just a splintered nub, but its right one is intact, curving over its skull in a broad arc and tapering into a sharp point. Its eyes burn with fierce yellow light. 
 
“You were the one who wanted her gone in the first place,” the goat says, its thunderous voice filling the whole room. “You of all people should be able to accept it.” 
 
"I made a mistake," I say. "Chastise me for it all you want, but I'm doing my best to make things right."  
 
"I don't think so," the goat replies. "In fact, I think you're just a rotten liar." 
 
“You don't know anything about me,” I say through gritted teeth. 
 
“I know everything about you,” the goat responds. “How could I not? You've poured all of your heart and soul into this project.” 
 
“Not all of it.” I try to sound defiant, as if I've had the upper hand all along, but— 
 
“Petulant child,” the goat rumbles. 
 
“Shut up.” I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. 
 
“She's dead. Everyone you love will eventually die. That's just how it is.” 
 
“Shut up, damn you!”  
 
I lunge for the bin bag and reach inside, my hands flailing as I grasp at whatever is nearby. This time, the things inside manage to evade me, scampering and slithering just out of my reach. They sense my desperation and they're only too eager to take advantage of it; their crazy, high-pitched laughter echoes in my head. 
 
Not for the first time, I catch myself wondering about what the hell I've gotten myself into. I'm out of my depth and floundering like a fool. 
 
“It's not too late to accept the truth,” the goat says. “It's a difficult process, but you must be strong and tough it out.” 
 
“No. You lie.” I can barely force the words out. I sound slurred and weak.   
 
“The only liar here is you. You've fallen into despair and allowed it to gnaw at you until you're nothing more than a husk of what you could've been." 
 
I collapse on the floor, my stomach twisting with nausea, heart pounding hard enough to make my chest ache. My fist is still clenched around the last piece of flesh I wrestled out of the bag.  
 
"I have to complete the ritual," I whisper. "I've come this far, there's no backing out now." 
 
This time, the goat does not respond. The sound of churning, restless water fills my ears, leaving my head feeling like it's adrift at sea. My vision is fading into whiteness, and my body feels like its slowly sinking. It reminds me of when I was being put under anesthetic for surgery, and my sense of reality begins to crack as I wonder if I ever left that operating table.  
 
Gotta see it through. I have to. 
 
But my strength is leaving me. My grip loosens and the last scrap writhes away between my fingers. Through my fading vision, I watch as it pulses with life, before suddenly becoming still. The stench of decay becomes overwhelmingly strong, and the swirling of the water begins to calm. 
 
Not strong enough to complete it. And now all my work will rot.  
 
I'm not sure how long I'm out for. The left side of my body aches from lying on the cold hard tiles, and my mind is still fuzzy. With great effort, I haul myself into a sitting position and lean against the tub, my breath coming in sharp gasps. I sit there for a while, regaining my senses, taking in the newfound silence. 
 
The bin bag lies deflated and empty, like a shed skin. The smell of decay is much fainter. When I finally manage to clamber to my feet, I see the water in the tub is drained and the animal bodies are rotting away with alarming speed. I grasp at them with trembling hands, but they disintegrate into dust when I touch them. Soon, all that's left in the tub is a scattering of dirty bone shards. 
 
I stand there, my mind and body exhausted, absorbing the reality of my failure. I poured my heart and soul into this ritual, suffered both mentally and physically, but it was not enough. And yet, despite the shroud of defeat and misery descending over my mind, I can feel a stubborn spark of hope remaining.  
 
The minutes pass in stony silence. I want nothing more than the hope to fade, to allow me to properly wallow in my despair, but it persists. I recognise it as the same spark that has followed me throughout my whole life, flaring up in my darkest moments, shielding me from giving up entirely. I loathe and worship that spark in equal measure.  
 
Struck by sudden inspiration, I look towards the remains of the ritual, trying to find a pattern in them. There's something there—there has to be—written in the bones. Tiny shards forming the magic phrase that will lead to my salvation. I lean over the tub, straining my eyes to see each and every minuscule fragment. I hardly dare to breathe, terrified of disturbing them and ruining the message.  
 
And eventually I do find words: REVIVAL, RESURRECTION, RENEWAL, RETURN. The bones shift before me, rattling against the porcelain, spelling out what I want to see. I study them for hours, tears trickling down my face, looking at those four words with an abject longing.