Chapter Text
I dream of being lost. No knowledge of where I’m going or even if I have urgency to be anywhere. The moon is full, a bright sphere kind enough to shed some light in the dark black sky. The breeze is a gentle kiss of hope showing me there is some direction to follow, a subtle cold nipping at my finger tips and toes. I am barefoot. The sand under me is ever so soft and cool to the touch, it falls away as I walk. The sounds the sand makes along with the wind is comforting me and helping to trail onwards. S . L
Today, the sky is a heavy blanket of dull gray, casting the world in somber, muted tones. Plump clouds loom above, waiting like silent sentinels, ready to release their tears on the people below. Today of all days, you’d think I’d join them. “Doesn’t he look so peaceful?” William asked. The nicely pressed suit, combed brown hair, and neat mustache made him look so spiffy—like a CEO of an imported wine company. They had removed all of his piercings, probably to appease the family. His face is relaxed, obviously pale but with a hint of blush to make him look a little more alive for one last time. I wish I had gotten to see him like this more before, but I take this view now with appreciation. I let out a small sigh and used one hand to adjust my tie. “Yeah, he does, for the first time in a long time.” A little bleak for a response, but this is a funeral, so if William had a problem with it, he didn’t show it. He just nods in agreement. The room is wide with benches and windows on all sides showing a clear view of this gloomy day. With the exception of William and myself, this room is full of people all dressed in black with their designer suits and custom shoes. We don’t socialize much with the other so-called ‘grievers.’ We know that everyone else here isn’t nearly as heartbroken as we are. There’s clinks of martini glasses and even some low giggles about another A-list celebrity baby’s name. I’d say me and William may as well have been the only people in this room with compassion for Jason. The knowledge of that sits heavy on our shoulders. The wood from his coffin creaks under my grip as I squeeze it, listening to someone say, “Is this over yet? I can’t miss the new episode tonight.” William’s hand lays on my shoulder, not hard but heavy. “C’mon, Scar, let’s go sit down.” I follow William, and we take our seats on the bench. We sit and listen to the last speaker of the eulogy. I hear yawns as people stretch in their seats, the sunlight dying down behind the man’s head. It’s only six o’clock, but the days are growing shorter and shorter this fall. As the man speaks, his words fade out into a low hum sound, and I find myself frozen, completely staring at the back of the bench ahead of me. I’m dissociating again. I should go get some water and gather myself. “I’ll be right back,” I tell William in a whisper. Slowly, I stand up and exit the room. No one looks at me as I walk down the aisle and gently close the door behind me. In the lobby I see Jason's father, Mr. Althouse. He is talking to a redheaded man with a hushed tone of anger, for whatever reason. The stance of the ginger tells me he might have had too much to drink, either grieving or to have some fun, no one knows. His eyes catch on me as I walk in the other direction down a long hallway. This place is big for a funeral home; then again, it’s one of the most popular in this area, surrounded by nice big houses and even a golf course. I continue my journey deeper into the house. I feel like I’m being watched by the paintings hung up in the hallways. Older, rich white people stare at me while holding hunting rifles or as they eat their dinner, scolding me from the sidelines. Each painting has the same gold frame with an old English type of trim around the border. They all sport a similar symbol at the bottom of each painting. Long, curvy lines with jagged edges jutting outwards, forming what looks to be a beetle-like bug. They each have small diamonds encrusted in them, and I wonder how much they cost to just leave them in each frame of the paintings. Anyone could easily just pry them out with a crowbar and sell it to a pawn shop. I shake my head, letting go of that notion and I move on. I can’t seem to find the bathroom. All the doors are empty, with no signs or symbols. I’ve been walking for a couple of minutes now—there’s no way I passed it already. The air in the corridor seems to grow colder, cold enough to make goosebumps on the exposed parts of my arms. I begin to roll my sleeves down when I reach a door that’s slightly open. There’s no sound on the other side, but there’s a cleaning product smell lingering. With the door being ajar, I assume it could possibly be a bathroom. I slowly swing the door open, peeking in as to not intrude on anyone. Well, there was no reason to peek. There’s no one here. Also, this is definitely not a bathroom. It looks like a hybrid of a doctor’s office and a science lab. There are shelves of medical records, supplies, and tools. A big machine takes up most of the right side, and a sink with cabinets fills the left side. Right in the middle of the room is a curtain hanging down from the ceiling. The room is even colder than the hallway. The light above flickers acutely, like it is shivering just as I do. My attention is pulled away from the desk and focused on the curtain now. I know I’m an adult, but sometimes I can’t help my curiosity. Jason used to say that’s why we always understood each other so well. We were both still children at heart and could always make a boring night fun when we were together. I swallow and blink the memory away, almost like keeping a silent promise to him to never change. I start to creep toward the curtain, approaching it like a child trying to take back their favorite ball from the old grumpy neighbor’s backyard. The smell from earlier is even stronger here, and I scrunch my nose while getting closer. The curtain feels thick and heavy, like it is meant to truly conceal what’s beyond the veil of its darkness. I pull it back painfully slowly and carefully. I think I might be hearing things. Is something behind the curtain squelching? Or is something else making that noise? Edgar Allan Poe once said your fears can change how you see or hear the world. Then again, he was also insane. I finish opening the curtain with a quick jerking motion, pulling it all the way open. What I saw almost made me lose my barely eaten lunch. Dead people don’t scare me, but this man was horrifically dead and also not fully dressed yet. The wounds from his gruesome death were still very present and not sewn up yet. I feel foolish now remembering what building I’m in—this must be the mortuary. The place where the mortician gets the bodies ready. They clearly are not done yet with this man. His stomach is open wide, showing the red and purple lining of his flesh on the inside. He looks drained and dry of any sign of blood. It looks like someone left a dead animal out in nature, and the small critters ate its insides first and left the outer layer for last. He has bruised skin with gash marks all over his arms and legs, like he was possibly run over or mauled to death. Although his face doesn’t look as bad, some small cuts are sewn and covered with foundation. I guess they started fixing that part first. It makes sense—I mean, the body will be covered with a suit, but the face is needed for mourning. “You’re not supposed to be in here.” A woman’s voice tells me from behind. I whip around so fast I grab the table to steady myself and accidentally touch hands with the dead man. I yank my hand away and wipe it off on my pants, disgusted by the touch. “I—I’m sorry. I was looking for the bathroom, and I got lost.” I try to steady my voice as I look her in the eyes. The woman stares back at me blankly and somewhat annoyed, but not enough to yell at me or shoo me out of the room—just enough to give me a stare. She’s holding a clipboard in her left hand and a cup of coffee in the other one. Is she the mortician? I ask myself as I scan her small stature. She’s a little shorter than me, an oversized lab coat draped over her, tied together with its strings. She’s pale with dark brown hair pinned up atop her head, and sporting silver round-rimmed glasses perched on her pointed nose. I had always assumed a mortician looked like a vampire—a tall, skinny man with a hunch on his back and a taste for human flesh. But this woman is so small and put together nicely. She looks so tired, but I get the impression that she always looks like this, even when waking up from a nine-hour sleep. Just then I realized I had been studying her so hard I completely ignored her question. I stand up straighter and clear my throat. “C-Could you repeat that? I didn’t catch it.” She doesn’t blink. For a moment, she doesn’t even seem to breathe. Am I imagining her? Maybe Edgar Allan Poe was right. Or maybe I am also insane. “I said this isn’t a bathroom. And yet you stand here staring at a dead body.” She finally says, her voice again monotone and flat. I cannot seem to read her. Is she mad at me for intruding into her office and peeping around like a weirdo? I start to rub the back of my neck, now feeling silly being caught red-handed. “I was just curious and couldn’t resist. It’s not often you get to see things like this.” I try to amend. “Well, curiosity killed the cat,” she quotes nonchalantly and proceeds to walk over to her desk, setting her coffee and clipboard down. “Oh yeah, then would you dress the cat up in a little suit, right?” I make a nervous laugh, trying to lighten the mood, if there’s any subtle tension between us. She cocks her head. “If that’s what the cat wanted, then yes.” Why isn’t she telling me to leave? I can’t pinpoint her feelings on me being here. Maybe she’s lonely down here and doesn’t mind the company. Maybe I could stay and pick her brain some more. “H-How did he die?” Her eyes flick over to him, then back at me. “He was run over by a drunk driver. He had more debris and broken glass pieces everywhere inside him, but they are mostly removed. I’ve been working on him for a couple of hours now.” Giving him an exhausted look, her shoulders slumped a little. Her face slackens and goes cold but with a hint of care or maybe pride in the progress she has made thus far—a mother looking at her troubled child with soft eyes. She doesn’t have to say how tired she is; it’s so obvious with the many empty coffee cups scattered about her desk.“Is the work hard?” I ask. She lifts one dark eyebrow. “Hm?” I cringe at myself after asking such simple questions that require complicated answers. Of course, the work is hard, and seeing dead bodies isn’t for the faint of heart. “Uh, I mean, like the process of it all. Like the embalming machine and sewing.” I might have imagined it, but her eyes widened ever so slightly behind her glasses. “You seem to know some terminology already. But yes, it is hard work. But so are many jobs with long hours and a demanding schedule. Mine is just a little bit more quiet.” Her eyes darted over to the man at the table then back at me. “And a little darker than most jobs. But there’s no threat here, nothing to scare you. Just peace and quiet.” That almost sounded poetic to me. She walks closer now, standing by the man’s legs while I still stand near the head. “This doesn’t bother you? Looking at him, I mean.” I shake my head. “Dead things don’t bother me at all.” Her face transitions from deadpan to a subtle hint of intrigue, her brows lifting slightly as she absorbs my answer. I hear people above us shuffling their feet, and I remember again why I am here today. “Can I ask you something?” “Yes, of course.” “Did you prepare the man upstairs? His name is Jason Althouse.” She takes a second trying to remember who I’m talking about. “He was a suicide.” The words fall flat between us, heavy and sad like someone’s depression. Again, she doesn’t blink and just nods softly. “Yes, that was me. Is that who you are here for?” “Yeah.” She stares at me, waiting for another question. “I’m sorry for your loss.” It sounded like she had to say those exact words so many times over the months that it’s lost all feelings of compassion. I look up to her with glossy eyes. “You made him look so peaceful. Thank you.” Emotion threatens to waver my voice, but I hold it in. I don’t think she really cares, but I feel as though she should hear how I appreciate her work. The corners of her mouth slightly turn upwards. “Thank you.” Taking a few steps back, I wave my hand. “I’m sorry again for intruding, but I should get back upstairs.” I breathe out. She lifts a hand toward me. "Wait!" I stop, and even she seems startled by her own words, quickly adjusting her glasses as she steps toward me. “We are in dire need of another mortician.” She gestures to the man lying on the table. “There are so many bodies, and just me here to fix them.” She squares her jaw. “If seeing dead people doesn’t bother you at all, then you’d be perfect here. And, of course, I will teach you everything you need to know. It’s easy, really.” She sounds so sure of it. “Well, I do need a job.” I mutter. I'm still unsure. A minute ago, she was stern and questioning, looking at me like I was an alien who had invaded her planet and spoke nonsense. But now, she looks so genuine, asking me to join her team. I don’t know what to say, so I hesitate. “Women get hired on the spot,” she says, trying to convince me further. “Why is that?” I ask. “Men have a disturbing history with being left alone with bodies. The exact reason you’re thinking of.” My stomach twists in response. I know exactly what she means. Seeing the horror on my face, she fumbles in her pocket and takes out a card, handing it to me. My thumb feels over the shiny metallic letters on the card while she speaks. “It’s our business card. Just call him to set the interview, but I know you will get it if you simply show up.” The name reads: Mr. Howard Keel - Funeral Mortician, Administrative Office. I squint my eyes. Right under his name is a smaller one: Alex Morgan - Head Mortician and a name next to hers that is scratched out by hand, with the word ‘Apprentice’ under it. “Thank you for this. I’ll keep it in mind.” I wave my hand to her as I leave out the door. She lifts her hand also, but it’s a weak gesture, and she quickly places it back into her lab coat and watches me leave. When I arrive outside, the chilled winds caress my face as I scan the courtyard for William. People are scattered, and some are already entering their expensive cars and pulling off with no goodbyes. “Hey, there you are.” His voice travels in the wind as he jogs to me, holding flowers in his right hand. “What took you so long? Never mind. Let's put these on his grave.” I follow closely behind, examining the dark grey sky. Why hasn’t it rained yet?