2. Let Them Talk

You only get one first cut, so I always try to make it memorable. I reposition the angle of my scalpel and draw a diagonal line along the collarbone and then down his chest. The way the coagulated blood oozes from the incision sends goosebumps along my skin. With precision and practice, I make the next cut. I've always admired the body and how delicate yet strong it is. A human body can get riddled with numerous bullets and survive, yet if one tiny vessel implodes, life can end in the blink of an eye.

More than likely, the elderly man lying on my table died from a heart attack, a common occurrence for someone his age. However, the family is convinced it's malpractice, thus necessitating an autopsy. I reach for the instrument that will help me cut through the sternum, but the shrill sound of the landline ringing brings me to a stop. My hand hovers over the tray of tools, contemplating whether I should ignore it.

I already have a lot on my plate, or table, I should say. My intern is at home sleeping peacefully while I'm up for my third late night in a row, or I'd let him get it. I can't deny I do love the idea of cutting into another body or getting an actual case of malpractice. The thrill of finding the clues, piecing them together, and being able to bring forth the truth of what really happened is one high I'll never get over.

Rolling my eyes at the disturbance, I decide it could be important and snap off my powder blue gloves before picking up the phone. "Hello?." I answer, forgetting my normal, chipper greeting of "Thank you for calling Adam's Family Funeral Parlor and Crematory. Monica speaking. How can I help you?

"Monica? Is Monica there?" Charles.

The sound of my name on his tongue makes me grit my teeth. He's one of the older cops that frequently calls. One that never gets my sense of humor and thinks I'm odd just like everyone else does. I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off with his gruffness.

"That fucking witchy bitch, isn't there." He explains to someone near him. Either he didn't hear me or just decided to be an asshole and ignore me. With him, it's more than likely the latter.

"Just tell me where to go," I let out with a huff.

"St. Elms in room 454. Get your ass here within ten minutes." No apology, not that I'm expecting one.

There's a click before the line dies. I toss the cordless phone on the counter with a loud clatter. Another day of the world revolves around Charles. Nice, I think sarcastically. At least this case may be interesting. That address is the old abandoned hotel on the industrial side of town. Some say it's haunted, which might make it worth being in Charles's presence.

Leaving old gramps open and exposed on my table, I stroll through the main part of the funeral home. I'm not one to put away the bodies until I'm completely finished with my work so I don't lose my place in the autopsy process. Plus, it's not like he will get up and walk away. At least he's not alive to get an infection from being left wide open for so long. He will be ready for when I get back to finish my examination.

The parlor is empty as I stroll through the area. Some would find the silence eerie, but I find it comforting. Stopping by my messy desk in the main office, I grab my keys to the hearse. This place has been in my family for centuries, but I think I'll be the last to carry this business on. I'm an only child, conceived late in my parent's life. They tried conceiving for years and even tried fertility treatments to no avail. A year after they quit, I was created. My mother always said I was the product of a happy accident, leading me to believe Bob Ross was their therapist at some point. Regardless of all the darkness, I surrounded myself with, they never shied away from letting me know I was the light of their life. That I brought so much love into their failing marriage. I never saw the failing part, though. They were so happy and loving to one another that I couldn't imagine them ever being unhappy. Seeing them dancing to old songs in the middle of the night made my heart full, especially when I would wake up with one of my night terrors.

It's been a year since they died in a fatal car wreck. The accident was so horrendous an open casket showing wasn't an option. Well, for the most part, one thing was left out. My father's hand showed up on my doorstep after I thought I lost all of them in the furnace. The tears never stopped until I held that piece of him with several deep gashes marring its flesh, and that sadness became a little more bearable. I knew it was his because the wedding band I'd always admired with its intricate carving and swirls remained intact. I stitched up the large gash around his wrist neatly, jarred it in embalming fluid, and set it with the rest of my collection. I couldn't bring myself to burn it with the rest or call the cops. They would've taken it under investigation. I would've never seen it again, and It felt too significant somehow.

With my fingertips, I rub a trail across the dust, coating their gold urns. Knowing they are so close to me fills me with peace. If only they could see me now, following in their morbid footsteps. Finishing my stroll down memory lane, I lock up and head for the separate building that houses the hearse.

The drive through this part of town is bleak. It's the middle of the night. No cars are on the streets, and there's an eerie presence as I pass the dilapidated structures. The buildings are crumbling and in significant disrepair, with boarded-up windows and an aggressive landscape trying desperately to consume every nearby structure. A chill runs down my spine, causing me to shake, and I readjust my sweaty palms on the wheel. This feeling is unlike any other I have experienced. Considering I work with the dead, that's got to say something about the severity of this area. The black cloud that lingers in my mind swiftly dissipates when the red and blue flashing lights from the cop cars come into focus. I park the hearse beside them and breathe deeply before opening the door. My black Dr. Martens crunch on the rubble, littering the ground. No one is standing at the entrance, so I waltz right into the hotel with the reputation for its ghostly delights. As soon as I step over the threshold, I'm met with a glaring bright light in my eyes.

"Oh, it's just you. I thought I saw a ghost." I blink away the white dots burned into my retinas and discover a young, freshly shaven officer. He must be the rookie who's keeping guard. He sounds disappointed that I'm a living entity. I'm not sure who else he was expecting. Maybe he was hoping for my trainee since he has a more bubbly personality. The officer shoves something hard into my chest, and I glance down at a heavy-duty metal flashlight. "You'll need this."

"Thanks," I quip, not wanting to linger. And this is why no one likes you. I mentally scream at myself.

I've never been one for socializing. After years of being bullied for my appearance and the field that my family and I worked in, I never saw the point of connecting with people. My appearance probably doesn't help, with my ghostly eyes that are the palest of blues and my almost silver hair. I also chose to dress myself in black clothing to help with my endeavor to keep everyone at arm's length.

That's why I love the dead. They don't judge, bully, or tease me about my appearance.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I eventually make it to the fourth floor. The lights are nonexistent in this old abandoned shit hole, and the only thing guiding my way is the borrowed flashlight. Spiderwebs decorate the corners. Their delicate strands glimmer as I pass. The room I'm headed for is swarming with activity. With determined steps, I clomp in.

I nervously readjust the strap of my bag filled with supplies I have slung over my shoulder. "I'm here. What do we have?" I ask, announcing my presence.

A couple of officers I've never seen before glance my way. Then Charles rounds the corner with his head down, eyes on his phone. Silver hair sprinkles his dark brown hair at his temples, along with his goatee, displaying his years of hard work for everyone to see. His face is etched with a scowl, and deep grooves in his brow and forehead are evidence of his distaste for having to wait on someone.

"Is Casper fucking coming or what?" he sneers, and someone near him clears their throat, causing Charles to rip his eyes from his screen.

His gaze pierces me, and a grin slashes across his face—one that only serves to add to my distaste for him, and it makes my stomach clench with apprehension. He has that fake aura of charm that draws you in like a rattler, only to pierce your unsuspecting soul with his poison.

"Monica, nice of you to finally join us." His sarcasm isn't lost on me or anyone within hearing distance. He doesn't wait for an answer, not that I was going to give him one anyway. He just turns and stomps away.

This is our usual dance. He berates me with acid, lacing his tone, then walks away, expecting me to follow, which I do with no fuss. Done. It's simple, and it works for us.

Our steps reverberate off the bare walls as we leave the rest of his team in the living room of this single suite. He leads me to the bedroom. The empty bedroom. I cross my arms over my chest and look around skeptically. "So, where is the corpse?"

He smirks before grasping the handle of the closet door. "I don't think you're ready for this."

The pause he conducts is full of theatrics. I huff and give him my most exaggerated eye roll. Then he opens the door and stands back, allowing me to lean in and peer inside. I stifle the gasp that unexpectedly tries to escape my lips. Right in front of me is the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He's naked, giving me carte blanche to run my eyes up and down the corded muscles along his thighs and upper half. Intricate tattoos adorn the adonis's chest, elaborate designs in black ink.

It will be such a shame when I have to slice through them with my scalpel.

My gaze leaves the rope wrapped around his neck, the obvious reason for his demise, and trails his body until they land on the lethal weapon he's holding in his grasp. His cock has to be at least twelve inches. The way I soak him in is ungodly, and this foreign part of my brain sparks with interest. My thoughts should be illegal with all the dirty things I imagine I could have done to him while he was alive. Then I think it's a shame he's dead because maybe he could've been mine.

Officer Charles chuckles beside me, and I realize my jaw is hanging open. "I told you. You weren't ready for this."

I close my gaping maw and pull myself together, layering myself in professionalism. Examining my surroundings further, I take a step closer to the body. A dried spattering stains the floor beneath him, which I'd assume is from his release.

"This is definitely a predicament. Do you think it was foul play or…" I trail off, wondering why anyone would come to an abandoned hotel for autoerotic asphyxiation. Most cases I've read about have been a person in their own home with no plans of killing themselves. This location, though, seems very deliberate. Very final.

"Well, we received an anonymous call, but I was sure it was made by some pesky teenagers. Everyone in the department thought it was a prank call. I even sent out one of my rookies to check because I didn't believe it myself." He admits his shortcomings freely, which is extremely unlike him. I almost dropped my jaw again from the shock.

Quickly composing myself, I say, "Well, let me get the stretcher and load him up." I fling my finger in the air and give it a nice swirl as if to say: let's wrap this up.

"Watkins! Higgins!" he bellows to his partners lingering in the hall, "Go down and get the stretcher for Ms. Adams so we can get out of here." To my surprise, I won't have to lug that heavy hunk of metal up four flights of stairs. With a few more officer's help, they carried the body to my hearse, and I didn't even have to assist. I'm not sure what has gotten into Charles tonight. First, admitting to his shortcomings and then ordering people to help me. Usually, he would sit back and watch me struggle by myself until my stumbling no longer entertained him.

Charles salutes with his two fingers pushed away from his forehead. "Until next time, Monica." He turns, leading his pack of minions to their patrol cars.

‘Fucking creepy, bro.' ‘She's just as weird as everyone says.' ‘I heard she sits the bodies up in the pews when no one is there.' ‘Those are probably the only friends she has.' ‘Casper is a good name for her.' ‘I wonder how white her pussy is.'

The comments they whisper as the helpers stroll away go in one ear and out the other because I don't care. I've heard their comments a million times before. This has been a constant my whole life. People are uncomfortable when confronted with something they don't understand. At least, that's what my father always told me. Moni, chin up. They are merely afraid, and those that are afraid are weak. Success only blesses the brave, and you, my darling, are truly blessed. You are the fiercest of them all.

I glance down at my Dr. Martens while I grip the door handle tightly with the haunting memory. My lungs fill, expand, stretch, and release like a well-used accordion. With my newly acquired specimen, I drive back to the funeral home, ready to stick my scalpel in another body.