The Mortuary

She walked down the old, creaky steps, into the dark, damp basement. The smell of mold and formaldehyde greeted her; like an old friend, and true love wrapped into one.

It was the one place she felt most at peace, allowed to be her true self, and at home.

As she moved closer to the door, the familiar smells filled her entire being. Blood. Decomp. Death. Pine. It exhilarated her. It made her feel even more alive.

She approached the door but stopped short. She looked at the door, like a child who longed for the mystery and excitement of Christmas morning. She turned the knob and walked through to see what was waiting for her today.

She looked at the table and saw a man. She did her observations, looking him over, and evaluating. She looked for anything that may slow the process or complicate it- standard procedure. He was about 5'9", 180 pounds, light brown hair, but didn't look familiar to her. She knew most of the locals.

She looked into the corner, and asked the man in the suit, “What is this you've brought for me today, Clyde?" She smiled, big green eyes lit up, and looking around excitedly for additional gifts he always treated her to.

Alcohol. It had been difficult to get since the war, and even more so since the ban.

Especially for women.

She saw a stack of 3 boxes in the corner and felt a warmth that only Clyde and the alcohol bring her.

"Oh, this one must have been a really, really bad boy." She winked at Clyde, as she moved towards the man.

She ran her fingers down his chest and put her face close to his. He opened his eyes, and almost got a look of relief across his face, as he saw the beautiful woman in front of him. He looked around and saw that Clyde was sitting in the corner: watching and waiting.

"I love the way they always have that glimmer of hope, when they see me. They always think they're safe." She gave out a soft laugh. She was still at eye level with the man on the table; close enough that they could feel each other's breath.

Clyde loved the way she was relentless, yet, remained unsuspecting out in the world.

She stood up tall, walked over to the shelf filled with embalming supplies, hesitated, and turned back to Clyde.

"Who do we have here today?"

"A 4-year-old girl."

"A child?" Her entire demeanor changed, as her eyes flew open with rage. She looked back at the man on the table, shook her head, and slowly walked towards him. His eyes filled with fear, as he watched each step. Hers held nothing but a soulless darkness, as she stared through him.

She was beautiful, but deadly. Tall, curvy, with a dark bob cut, beautiful green eyes, full red lips, a form fitting dress that hit just below the knee, as well as, in all the right places, with t-strap heels. She got close to his face again, and when she went to remove the binding from his mouth, he saw perfectly filed oval shaped nails, with the tips painted. They reminded him of the last moon he ever saw: the crescent. She used the sharp nail to pull down the gag, scratching his face, and drawing a drop of blood in the process. She smelled unlike anything he had ever smelled before. It was intoxicating.

Yet, he screamed as soon as it was released.

She got in closer, placed 2 fingers over his mouth, and whispered, "Nobody can hear you down here, darling." She took a step back, stood up straight, crossed her arms, and asked, "Why would you do that to a child?"

He looked up at her, mouth gaped open, as if her coldness had stolen his breath and his words.

She took a step towards him once again and said, "That's okay, darling, there is no explanation for such horrid behavior."

She turned to walk away, with a stride that was hypnotizing, despite the fact that he knew she was about to do no good. He watched. He was mesmerized. It was almost as if she had placed a spell on him.

She looked him in the eyes, as she unraveled the threading, and as she cut it with the knife that she had pulled slowly from her garter belt.

That was always Clyde's favor part to watch. He thought about it later, when home alone, and nobody else watching him.

She took a needle out of the drawer and dipped it in iodine. She threaded the needle, continued to walk towards the man, never breaking eye contact. The terror built up in his eyes; he didn't know what she was doing. But his heart raced for other reasons. She wanted their heart to race. It made it all easier and faster.

Clyde knew the process. He had already opened a bottle of Absinthe and had her first drink ready- sugar cube and all. She smiled at him as she took the drink. He licked his lips, as he thought of the other things he would rather be doing, but sat back in his place.

She started her drink, as she started the process.

The man on the table screamed, as she sewed his mouth shut. She asked him if the 4-year-old screamed while he did what he did? She asked him if he felt remorse?

But at no time did she show any herself.

When she finished sewing his mouth, she slowly walked around to the other side of the man, and made a large incision on his right collarbone.

He tried to scream in agony, but his mouth wouldn't open or move. The screams were muffled; nobody would have heard them anyway.

She smiled with the satisfaction of knowing how well she had sutured his mouth shut. She looked up at Clyde with the same smile and saw that he was just as pleased. He had made himself a drink, as well. He was enjoying the show, as he slowly sipped, and watched her every move. He lit a cigarette.

She used her crocheting needles to pull up his artery, and then the jugular vein. She looked at the pocket watch she left on the table, to see she had done both in under one minute and was quite pleased with herself. She loved timing herself.

She walked back to the shelf, and pulled down 3 glass bottles, then looked back at the man again. The original plan was too kind for him.

She pulled out a trocar and tubing. She wanted to watch the blood drain directedly from the heart.

Clyde smiled at her, knowingly. He walked over and allowed her to take a drag from his cigarette. The way she wrapped her mouth around it. The way she blew out the smoke.

Clyde wondered what had happened to her, to turn her into this, but he also loved it about her. She could handle any job he brought to her, wash her hands, return to the world with the sweetest smile anyone had ever known, and freshly baked cookies for anyone who came around to visit.

Nobody ever suspected the sweet, little wife of the mortician; not even the husband who had trained her.