5. Time Controls All, Even In Death

Something cool and wet licks at my hand that dangles from my bed.

"Egor, stop," I groan, shaking the slobber off before shoving it beneath my pillow.

With a crack of my lids, I'm assaulted by the day's forceful rays fighting their way through the blinds.

"It's still daytime," I whine in disgust and roll over, twisting the blanket around my head. However, Egor isn't having it as the mattress dips under his weight, and he nudges my side. I roll over once more to peek at him, and his muzzle eagerly attacks me. Long, moist streaks coat my cheeks, nose, and forehead, his love soaking my face.

"Okay, okay," I squeal. "I'm getting up!" My little poodle mix bounds from my bed and pounces on the hardwood, wiggling his butt as he does.

I slip my feet into my Baphomet slippers. They're my favorite. The adorable mouth flaps open with each step, showing its tiny fangs and lolling red tongue. With horns that jut up, they look like a cross between a lamb and the devil. They're cute and super comfortable. It's like having giant pillows on my feet as I lumber to the backdoor to let Egor out to potty.

Glancing at the clock over the stove, I discover It's only five in the afternoon.

"Only five?" I complain out loud, rubbing the sand from my eyes and huffing. "I needed to get up anyways, I guess." Brandon has covered for me all day, and I need to relieve him of his duties.

My gut churns at the thought of slipping away from my responsibilities. Guilt is a hard feeling to ignore. It comes in like a dark cloud, swallowing everything good in its path. I really need to fix that internal guilt of mine because there's no way my parents expected me to do it all myself. I'd assume they didn't want me to get rid of the funeral home since this was their life's work. I at least need to consider hiring another mortician to help instead of having my assistant pick up my slack when I sleep longer than I should. The only reason I haven't so far is I'm afraid of letting too many people in… or really anyone at all. Brandon is somewhat of a trial run since he's the first person I've hired for help. I don't need to give others ammunition so they can find new ways to make fun of me.

As soon as the door squeaks open, Egor darts out and begins jumping around my small yard. It's gated off and lined with bushes, giving it a sense of privacy from neighbors. I live in an apartment connected to the funeral home. It's been that way for years. It's how my parents could live here and keep the business for as long as they did.

The sky is an ombre of dark blue, purple, orange, and yellow as the fireball sets behind the buildings. Egor's fluffy white hair blows in chaotic directions from the warm breeze as he pounces around, looking for things to pursue. My heart is so full with him around. I rescued him last year, right after my parents were in that car wreck. He was the only chance of future happiness in my life then.

When I found Egor at a local shelter, they said he had to be some sort of poodle mix. By his calm demeanor, it was estimated he was about ten years old. He tricked everyone, though, because when he's with me, he's anything but calm. He's vibrant and lively, and it's as if he's just as happy to have found me as I am him. He didn't come with that name, though. He had some basic name like Chad. Until I claimed him as my own. Like an old scientist's assistant, Egor fit him. Egor scratching on the backdoor wakes me from my bittersweet thoughts, announcing he depleted his energy chasing after squirrels.

"Okay, come on," I say, letting him back in. "I have to get ready for work."

Now, I get to make my favorite Bones Coffee, Bananas Foster. It's a banana rum flavor with a hint of vanilla that's to die for. Coffee is something no undead person should go without. I pour it into my all-black mug with Keep out of direct sunlight emblazoned across the face in white, old English script. Bats and an upside-down cross adorn the lettering on each side. Black has always been my favorite color. It provides me with a certain level of comfort and an armor that no one can take away.

After chugging two cups of the magical elixir, I take a moment to let its effects take over me. The rich taste of bananas lingers on my tongue. I close my eyes, indulging in the tiny amount of instant gratification. I don't rely on many things for fulfillment. There's coffee, music, books, my dog, and work.

After loading the dishwasher, I set out to prepare for the night. I do my ritual of showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, combing my long, white hair, dressing in chain-mail, and donning war paint. Okay, it's not really chain mail, but it's close enough. My armor for the night is a black hoodie and jeans with combat boots to match. Not wanting to spend too much time on my hair, I throw it into a high ponytail and try to smooth back the two pieces that always seem to fall and frame my face. Then it's time to apply my war paint, which works like a shield against the names people call me when they don't think I can hear. A wall I put up to protect myself and make me appear more normal. More goth, in a way. It also helps to strip me of the emotion it takes to care about what people think about me.

I rummage through my makeup case for the next step in my process. The smokey eye with a hint of red is exaggerated with a bat wing. It's a look that's probably not everyone's cup of tea, but it's not like I'm dressing for anyone. It just makes me feel whole in a way. It also exaggerates my ice-blue, nearly white eyes. Putting on my makeup has the same effect as using my dildo. It leaves me satisfied yet empty inside.

Perfect. I'm ready for my graveyard shift.

Traipsing through the halls, I open the doors to the funeral home's observation room and continue on my way until I reach the morgue. I find Brandon relaxing. He's reclined on the mortuary desk chair, leaning back with his feet up. His eyes are glued to the phone in his hand, watching a movie. When he sees me enter, he clicks it off and clears his throat. Meeting my eyes, he gets to his feet with a pep in his step.

He gives me a bright smile. "I didn't expect you for a few more hours." He shoves his cell into his pocket and approaches me.

"Yeah, you know me. I can't seem to stay away from work," I confess as I use my Bluetooth to connect my phone to the surround-sound speakers in the morgue, per usual.

"Well, we didn't get any calls. It was a pretty slow day." Brandon removes his jacket, preparing for the June heat outside. He reaches for the door handle, and I think I'm getting away scot-free until he says, "Charles called. He said the body from last night can be burned. No one called the station to claim it." He arches a brow at me curiously, waiting for my response. There's a question in his eyes, and I worry that whatever I'm about to spew out of my mouth, he knows, will be a lie. If I don't think of something fast to tell him, I'll lose Johnny to the hungry flames in the iron chamber.

I suck in a sharp breath. "Oh yeah, I had already burned him." I try for an innocent expression. "Oops, I guess I really was tired this morning. I'm sorry." I shake my head as if the memory is just jumbled pieces in my head, and I'm trying to push them all back together.

He seems to accept my blunder because his eyes crinkle in the corners in a satisfied manner. "In that case, I'm glad I was able to cover for you and you got to sleep this morning. I'll see you," he says with a nod and a charming smile before adding, "Unless you want me to stay and hang out with you for a bit?"

Hang out with me? Like, for fun? Why would he want to do that?

My heart pounds against my ribs, and my eyes cut toward the freezer door. All I can think about is that guy on the table with his long shaft in his hand. The man I said I had burned. The one I'm hiding, and I'm not even sure why I'm doing it.

"That's okay, I'll be fine. Thanks, though." I chuckle nervously before grabbing the latest Stephen King book off my desk and putting on a show of making myself comfortable.

When my gaze wanders back to Brandon, his shoulders slump, and his chin almost rests on his chest. His whole aura radiates disappointment when he says, "Well, I got the newspaper for you, as always. It's on your desk. I'll see myself out."

What am I supposed to say to that? Seriously, did he actually want to spend time with me? I assumed he was being nice, doing it out of pity. But he looks a bit bereft. Silently, he opens the door and leaves. I free the breath I had kept locked in my lungs like a caged bird. I'm glad he's gone, even more so that he didn't check the broken freezer door.

How would I have explained that? What would I have told him? I'm not even sure how to explain why I'm hiding this body from anyone. It's not as if I committed a murder or anything. Maybe embarrassment? Like, Oh! Casper just wanted to look at the huge cock. That has to be it.

I shake the thought from my head. It's ridiculous. Absurd. I'll incinerate him soon.

The neatly folded newspaper sits on my desk. The crisp, white front page declares another girl missing. I squint at the small print but give up on it. No one reads these anymore, so I'm not sure why they keep printing them. I've also never told Brandon that I deposit these directly into the garbage and don't actually read them because I think that would crush him even more.

After what seems like several hours with no calls, no bodies to cut up, organs to jar up, or tissues to sample, I check the time on my phone. Only one hour has passed. I allow the arm holding my head up to flop to the desk with a loud thud. This night is going to last forever. Time is a volatile bitch. The moments you want to last forever are gone in the blink of an eye or the exhale of a breath. It's over before you get a chance to enjoy it. Then there are moments like this when Time feels like it's an entity all by itself. It passes so slowly as if it's army crawling along the floor of your brain, its legs cut off, only relying on its arms to pull itself to its destination. Or like the woman with long oily hair crawling from the television after seven days as you sit frozen in terror. In the instance of measuring happiness, there is never enough of Time. It seems to always be cut short. However, when it comes to fear, loathing, or boredom, Time is distastefully fickle.

This book doesn't alleviate any of the monotony. It's not grabbing my attention. I need to get up and do something. I push my chair beneath my desk and meander to the front door of the funeral home, checking to ensure Brandon had fastened the lock on his way out. Touching the old metal bolt, I turn it until it clicks into place. Note to self: remind Brandon to lock up when he leaves at night.

Or maybe he did it on purpose? Maybe he planned on coming back, sneaking in, and bending me over one of the gurneys. The thought has me twirling the end of my hair with my finger at the possibility of Brandon pulling down my pants and fucking me. His dick moving inside of me. My hands would be holding onto any solid surface for support and his teeth would leave marks on my shoulder.

Letting go of the silver strand, I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand.

Stop it. I shouldn't be thinking about him like that.

I wander back to the office and plop down in my chair, grabbing for the book again. The words on the page blur together. I'm not reading them. I can't focus. After scanning the room to find something else to occupy my mind, my eyes land on the freezer door. The one thing I've been avoiding but can't seem to stop thinking about it.

Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I roll it back and forth. Curiosity killed the cat, and I mentally chided myself. Oh, but satisfaction returns like a grinning devil perched on my shoulder.

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't, but there is something about the way his muscles stand out and his tattoos coat his chest. In my mind, I'm outlining and memorizing the contours of his face and sharp jawline, the valleys and dips of his abs, until I get to the thick shaft he's gripping. Involuntarily, I press my thighs together, rubbing, seeking that friction. I throb with the need to be touched. To be satisfied.

My phone, face up on the desk, displays that only an hour and ten minutes have passed since Brandon left. Time, my foe is there again with its domineering stance, feet spread apart and arms crossed. It's waiting. Waiting for me to set my decision into motion. It knows before I do, grinning down at me with a sinister glint in Its eyes. It uncrosses Its arms before It steeples its fingers and taps them against each other. Time has the luxury of waiting because it knows it will always catch you in the end. With my lip still between my teeth, I chew on it, pondering if I should open that forbidden freezer door.

Just a peek. That's what I tell myself as I rise from my chair.

Pleased by my acquiescence, Time's chest vibrates with a demonic cackle, preparing to snap Its fingers and make the minutes race by. Time marches on unyielding while death lurks in its shadow, a rival unbefriended.