Chapter Text
Being up to my elbows in a dead person’s intestines isn’t necessarily how I thought my life would go, but here we are. It’s not that the job is overly demanding but this is always my least favorite part of the work. Draining, perfusing, removing, weighing. Not hard, just tedious.
Making them look “normal” again is where I thrive. Taking care in making sure they look like their family and friends remember them in life is why I love what I do. Putting people at ease, in a morbid way, brings me joy. It’s the least I can do in their death I suppose. Not that it’ll matter in a few months but I still take pride in my work regardless of how long it’ll last once they’re six feet under.
Do your job to the best you can, don’t get attached to the body, and don’t be squeamish about what’s on your table.
That was our motto in training. Very clinical if you ask me. Very removed and distant- lacking emotion. Which is definitely needed for this line of work but I’m not completely heartless when it comes to the deceased. There’s still a heavy burden that comes with every body and with it, comes an unspoken story. It’s beautiful in a macabre way. Connecting with people even in death.
I push back loose hair from my face with the inside of my elbow, tucking it haphazardly behind my ear as I take a step back from the table to admire my work. Clean cuts, neat stitching in areas I’ve already finished.
Another great job.
Grabbing the organ bags from the scales, I place them in the hazards box for collection in the morning. Triple checking my list of weights upon removal, still waiting for tox results from pathology, I sign off at the bottom.
Check weights again.
Check organ bags again.
Check incision sites and stitching again.
My fingers twitch in my gloves as I let out a deep breath, closing my eyes. And again.
Check again.
My email chimes on the computer screen across the room. I snap off my gloves, throwing them in the trash on my way over.
Toxicology: High levels of Propofol detected.
I blink at the screen. Sedation? I turn around, looking at the body on the table again. Willing it to tell me all its secrets if I look hard enough from afar.
Check. Again.
All I’ve done is organ removal and closure but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. General skin check was normal, no bruising or marks. What am I missing? I grab my clipboard, checking over my list for the ninth time but nothing stands out.
“I’m sorry to do this again.” I whisper quietly, though no one else is here but me and the body. Better to apologize in case they don’t take kindly to being prodded again after necessary. It’s the least I can do considering the circumstances.
Black gloves adorn my hands once again as I start rechecking the skin. Going a centimeter at a time, examining every crevice up close and then again with my magnifying glass. My fingertips run along the cool soft muscles trying to find any lumps beneath the surface.
“I’ll be quick Mathilda, I promise.”
It’s not mandatory to cover bodies for decency, in fact it’s a slight hindrance to do so, but it feels morally wrong to just have their genitals out in the open so I cover their bits with small hand towels to show a shred of respect and decency. Lifting the towel, exposing the breasts, I do a quick search before I go to cover her again as something catches my eye. A tiny tattoo that’s faded, almost resembling a freckle to the untrained eye on a rib right beneath the breast.
I run a fingertip over the symbol curiously, my recognition vague, but immediately regret it as it feels like I’m electrocuted, pulling my hand away quickly from the shock. My hand trembles as I look down at it. I suck in a pained breath as a shooting pain travels from my hand, along my body and my head starts to ache fiercely. The noise in my head ramps up quickly to overwhelming as it echoes and screams at me over and over until I’m unable to hear my surroundings.
Disgrace.
You were good for one thing and you couldn’t even do that properly.
Do you want us all to suffer for your inaction?
The Gods will punish you for your insolence.
You live for us. You must obey, or suffer the consequences.
Know your place, bitch.
You bring nothing but shame to our community.
Worthless girl.
I try covering my ears with my hands to block out the noise but it’s no use. There is no reprieve as I fall to my knees in agony, the volume is merciless. My breathing is ragged as the voices echo. My chest tightens further with every word bouncing around.
It’s not real.
It’s just a memory, Esmeray.
It’s not real.
There’s hands all over me. A sharp pain stabs me in the ribs before my entire back feels like it’s been set alight. The smell of burnt flesh permeates my nostrils and bile rises in my throat. I try to scream but nothing comes out. It’s like there’s a vice around my throat- no matter how hard I try, it’s just silence. Curling up in the fetal position on the cold concrete floor, I squeeze my eyes shut. Trying to focus on my breathing instead of the agony I’m feeling. My breaths come out broken and shallow, my chest threatens to implode from the pressure.
It isn’t real!
You’re safe.
You are safe.
“Stop it!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
The voices stop immediately.
Silence follows around me but I don’t dare remove my hands yet as my heart is still thundering in my chest. I’m not sure how long I lay there with my hands over my ears, but the motion sensor lights cut off and the eerie silence of the morgue seems to amplify tenfold. All that’s left is my shallow breathing that seems to shake on the air.
In, 1.
Out, 2.
In and out. Count them. Again and again.
Eventually I gain the strength to stand again, almost as if the episode never happened. But it did. And it will again. Cons of the job I suppose. My palms press against the cool metal table and the tension in my shoulders relaxes a fraction.
Focus.
Finish the work, Esmeray, then go the hell home. Away from these fucking ghosts who wanna fuck with your memories.
My gaze zeroes in on the tattoo on Mathilda but I simply write it in my autopsy notes rather than touching it again. Fool me once, shame on me. Won’t fool me twice. I go about the rest of my search finding more small tattoos and what appears to be scars in various symbols. There’s a tiny pinprick hole in the carotid artery in the neck and I sigh deeply.
Toxicology confirmed.
I smack the table in helpless anger, the thud echoing in the quiet room as I let out an exasperated growl.
“Sorry Mathilda, I’m not mad at you. Just mad at who did this to you.” I explain quietly.
I place a gloved hand over hers in an attempt to reassure her briefly before going back to my paperwork. I write down my findings and leave it at that. I maneuver the body on the gurney and head back to the body coolers, opening up a free one and sliding the gurney into place.
“I’ll be back in the morning to make you feel beautiful again, okay? You’ll be safe here, I promise.”
With a nod, I close the door and latch it shut. I sign off on my paperwork for the night, do a quick inventory, and jot down some notes for the next shift.
✦✦✦
I’m sprawled out on the couch, one leg up over the back of it, half hanging upside down as my hair brushes against the floor. I do my best thinking this way, something about the blood rushing to your head seems to make things easier to think coherently. Or something?
The tattoos and scars on Mathilda have been stuck in my head the whole way home. Gnawing at me, wanting to be heard and understood. I know I recognize them from somewhere but can’t place my finger on it. An unintentional groan of frustration escapes my lips.
The rain thuds softly on the roof and with it, a sense of calm serenity washes over the space. I get up from the couch and head to the kitchen, turning the kettle on. Tea will point me in the right direction. Help me get my head on straight.
I check the cupboards for my loose leaf teas and settle on a green tea. I pick off a sprig of rosemary and some mint from my herb drying rack above the sink, remove the stems, and add them into the tea strainer in the pot along with the green tea leaves. It’s.. an acquired taste, especially unsweetened but it’s great for memory at least.
There’s half empty paint cans littered on the countertop because I started painting- well, repainting- the upper cabinets and then never got around to finishing. Currently swapping from a sage green to a deep plum as I felt it was going “stale” in the kitchen department. Among the plethora of glass jars, messily scribbled labels, and mostly melted candles join the mess that is my counter space.
I’ll get around to organizing it. Eventually..
I can’t say I’ve always been the neatest person but as long as I know where it goes and it’s - maybe, but probably not- in its allocated place, then what’s the harm? Nobody comes over to hang out as I’m estranged from my family and I haven’t kept a friend since graduating high school nearly a decade ago. It’s just me, dead bodies, and my overactive brain that keep me company on lonely nights.
The kettle finally lets out its high pitched whine so I fill the pot and let it brew while I browse my bookshelf. Broken spines, journals, leatherbounds, and yellowed pages adorn the shelves and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s mostly botany, herbology, and mortuary science from my college days that I’ve held on to, but there’s books about tarot, crystals, various mythologies, and general witchy knowledge essentials as well.
I, at the very least, dabble just a bit in the pagan “practices” though at this point it’s more just a way of life rather than any religious driven acts. I fell out of touch with my connection to spirituality or whatever you may call it due to some.. unsavory experiences, but I’ve found it again on my own. Claiming it as mine rather than it being forced upon me.
My fingertips run along the spines, the silver rings on my hand glint faintly in the moonlight spilling through the curtains as I trace over the texts. I close my eyes and let my intuition find what I’m looking for- aka I’m just feeling blindly for whatever feels right.
I land on an old leatherbound about Spellwork. Seems fitting enough for a touch up on. Not sure what it means for clarity right now though. I shrug before tossing it onto the couch, grabbing my tea from the counter and curling up under a blanket with my legs tucked beneath me. I hold my cup precariously on the edge of the open book as I flip through its contents, nothing remarkable standing out at first glance. I’m most of the way through my tea when I flip to a section about rituals.
And that’s when I see it. A symbol that was on Mathilda. My breath struggles in my throat as I skim over the meanings and uses for them. I flip through several more pages, finding more symbols that littered her body. My eyes flicking along the pages as I pinpoint the ones from memory.
Fertility. Cattle. Exchange. Investment. Harvest. Balance. Sex. Honor.
Flipping the page one last time, my blood goes cold and I think my heart sinks deep into my core.
Sacrifice.
The world around me seems to muffle, my breathing no longer comes easily and halts momentarily as it catches in my throat. I think the room is spinning or at least it feels like it even though I’m seated. Reaching up, my fingers brush over an old scar on my throat that mirrors the one in the book.
It’s beginning again.