Borrowed time

Bursts of jazz played from the old radio filling the mortuary with a mix of music and static, as Omar Saint-Martin placed the last guest of the day on the chilly embalming table. She was a splendid brunette in her mid-twenties, with a glare that almost pierced through your soul. The music was now clearer, but still retained the occasional underlying wave of static. Omar had just put on his black leather gloves and apron; he could, however, not find or remember where his scalpel was. He rushed through his toolbox looking for it. Two minutes in his frenetic quest, he had finally retrieved it; almost cutting himself in the process. His macabre masterpiece had begun. Omar’s hazy mind constantly fought against the steadiness of his hands, forcing him to often cut his guest in unfocussed ways. This endless battle between intent and action had been raging for days.

“You’re almost ready. I’ll make you beautiful again — I promise.” Omar said under his breath.

She didn’t speak, but he could feel her passing judgment on him. Omar was suddenly hit with a migraine; mild at first but quickly intensified. His face contorted in pain. He spun around, leaning on the cold metal table that stood behind him, and let out a groan.

Omar pressed his clenched fists on the table. “Please, not now... I need... more... time,” He said, sweat forming on his face.

A second burst of migraine shot through his head; this time even more painful than the first one. The world was now spinning around him. The scratching sounds in his head were swiftly replaced by a multitude of whispers. Asking, yelling, judging, and demanding. He quickly shuffled through his bag grabbing his pills. Gulping a few of them without looking.

Omar exhaled, trying to slow his heartbeat. His breath was getting lighter when the sound of a metal tool hitting the ground startle him. Omar carefully turned around.

“You alright bud?” a voice said behind him.

“Oh, Alan...” Omar said with a fake smile.

Carefully putting the scalpel on the table. “Yeah; were... you expecting someone else?” Alan said.

“No, Uhm... just Uhm working — that’s all." He said calmly scanning the room.

“Talking to the dead again?” He said, cocking his head, looking at the body with judging eyes.

“Nice thing about them is they don’t talk back.”

“Why is... the heart still out?” He said wrinkled nosed, staring at the heart next to the lifeless body.

Omar crossed his arms. “You need something?”

“Listen I just... I wanted to check on you man. We barely see you anymore. You’re always here till late and...”

“I work here.”

“Omar... it wasn’t your fault. I know... you’re blaming yourself for what happened and...”

“Anything you need? Anything at all... Because I have work to do.” He said in a sharp tone.

“Sorry I... I didn’t mean to — I’ll let you work... Just be careful on your way home alright? Cops are looking for a guy on the run or something.” Alan said in a monotone voice.

Alan took his coat and finally walked out. Omar waited about two minutes; he was now visibly sweaty. He again rushed through his bag and studied the labels on his pill cups. He had ingested the wrong one, red instead of blue. He had somehow held it together — for what felt like an eternity — long enough to finish his macabre masterpiece.

The rattling in his head, the whispers, asking and demanding; they were getting louder. Could anyone hear them? He knew what he had to do. If he crawled into a corner, perhaps he would go away this time. He could beg, plead, offer something else in exchange. Omar now paced frenetically, rushing thoughts battling the whispers. Bargaining would be a pointless endeavor; he knew it.

Omar threw on his beige coat and studied the embalming table. The brunette’s heart was now the only item remaining on it. He wrapped it in a cloth and steadily placed it in his bag.

Omar now walked towards the reception; every move had to feel natural. Every step resonated throughout the morgue; the hallway looked like an infinite tunnel, flickering lights and all. Omar finally arrived at the desk. Louis the receptionist was a sickly-looking Hispanic fifty something; he always had sunken eyes, but something about the lights made them look like black bottomless portals to hell.

“Mr. Omar, late-day Uhm?” He slowly said with a heavy Spanish accent.

Omar leaned over, grabbing the register. “Yeah; busy day.” He said in a tremulous voice.

“You... have blood on your shirt.” He cocked his head looking at Omar’s forearm.

“Excuse me... what?”

“Blood. On your shirt...”

Omar twisted and looked at his forearm. “Oh... Uhm... I should probably get it cleaned up.” He said with a fake smile.

Omar signed the register, excused himself, and resumed his macabre procession towards the main entrance. The whispers were unbearable. Did Louis Know what he had done; the voices had to be wrong. They lie, they’ve always lied, yet he always — listened. He had to listen. He was now outside; the breeze caressed the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch, there was only about an hour left. It would have to do. He rushed to his car, locking himself inside. The cabin smelled of old leather and cheap cologne. He set his bag on the passenger seat, closed his eyes, and took heavy breaths while rubbing his trembling arm and frenetically tapping his foot.

The voices would not let up, they were whispering still, now mocking and cursing at him.

“Shut up... Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” He screamed, slamming his palm on the dashboard over and over and over and over again...

He had to focus. He turned the key; the engine stammered, then roared to life. Omar began his drive towards the southern border of the city. He tried to focus on the sounds of the countryside to drown the whispers, it was to no avail. Omar compulsively peeked at his watch every so often, as Pine trees flashed past his car; he was close, he could make it with about fifteen minutes to spare. A few meters away he could see a pickup truck crashed into a tree on the side of the road. He could just ignore it; it was none of his business after all. He could do what he had always done, listen to the whispers. The beautiful whispers.

Omar violently slammed the breaks. He had almost run into the back of the truck. Against his better judgment, he rushed out of his car. Omar tried forcing the — already caved in — driver’s door. The slumped-over body of the silver-haired passenger was unresponsive. Following multiple unsuccessful attempts, the door had finally given way. He placed two fingers on the passenger’s neck; no pulse. He had been dead for some time.

While attempting to extract the man’s body from the car, Omar glanced at the back seat and saw and a black travel bag; filled with dollars. Omar placed the body against the side of the car. He then rushed back in and grabbed the bag. It looked to contain at least twenty thousand dollars, the bag also contained a pistol and what appeared to be fake passports. It didn’t feel right — none of what had happened to him did. This would be it; the day he didn’t listen to the voices. Omar closed the bag and walked to his car, the whispers asking him to focus on his purpose and “return it”. Omar was resolute, this could be his ticket out of this madness.

the gentle rustling of leaves became noticeably violent. He looked at his watch, he only had ten minutes left, he could still make it. Suddenly, Omar heard laughter from behind him. Three voices talking on three distinct pitches.

“Well... well... well... you meat bags just — don’t learn...” The distorted voices said in unison.

Omar's legs went cold. It’s as if they had morphed into cast iron shoes. His breath was fast, bordering on hyperventilation and his eyes darting from left to right. The incoming footsteps were now right behind him.

A cold hand gently wrapped around his neck. “Stealing from a defenseless man, are we?” The distorted voices said.

The hand increased its pressure. “No... It’s not what it looks like.” He said with wide eyes and a trembling voice.

The immediate surrounding gradually felt like winter time and every breath formed clouds of mist. The figure was now in front of him; it was the silver-haired man he attempted to save earlier. Omar kept his eyes locked on the ground.

The figure carefully raised Omar’s chin. “Look at me...” He said bared teeth.

The man’s eyes had turned glowing yellow. Omar sobbed uncontrollably.

“Crying? Really? Oh, come on Omar... You broke the rules of our little game.” He said with a chuckle, leaning forward.

“Please... I... I was going to the alter with the heart — I...” He said stammering.

“Liar...” The man shouted.

The whispers in his head intensified, snatching a scream from Omar’s mouth. He was trapped in his own body and the notion of movement seemed alien.

“Please... don’t take me back down there. I did everything you asked...” Omar wept.

The man laughed. “Kill you? Oh no, no, no little man. You're already dead... And your wife’s soul will keep roasting in hell.” He said chin held high. “Thirteen days. It’s all you get for the heart you brought.”

Omar wiped his tears. “Oh God... why?”

Blood ran from his eyes. “Don’t you dare say his name in vain! He gave you free will! Not like us, forced to kiss the ground, living like pariahs; wasting for all eternity.” The man snapped venomously, remaining on his otherworldly pitch.

Omar bowed at the man’s feet. “Please, I’ll do anything... please.”

The man now towered over Omar. “Sacrifice me this vessel, and I will grant you a year.” He said looking down at the whimpering mess that was now Omar.

“Cut his flesh, drink his blood, and prays my name — Leviathan.” He said with a mocking grin. “On the eve of the witches sabbath; you shall summon me. Only then will your wife’s soul be granted eternal rest. Should you fail, I will personally grant you an eternity of nightmare in the deepest pits of Gehenna.”

The man threw a black notebook on the ground. He explained that it contained all the rituals and ingredients he would need for the current sacrifice, including the one on the witches' sabbath's eve. He would also need to find the goat rider. He was the key to Lilith. The body Leviathan had possessed then collapsed; it had dried bloody tears.

The smell of burning flesh from the strange symbols remaining on his body was noticeable. Defeated, Omar began dragging the body to his car. The leaves, now back to their gentle rustle, seemed to cheer him on in this divine comedy. This was madness, but it was for her. He packed the body in his trunk, the bag of money on his back seat, and the black notebook in his glove box. He gently grabbed the wheel and leaned his head on it. He sobbed uncontrollably. Why had he brought this on himself? What would Nia think of him?

Leviathan had shown him her torment in those pits... She was skeletal — almost unrecognizable with those shackles and soared feet; forced to walk in maggots carrying a boulder on her back like a criminal. If only he had not driven drunk that night... He was truly cursed.