Chapter 4
Alina is heavy on my mind as I pull into the carpark of Nocturnal Mortuary, just like she always is. I’ve been working here as an assistant for the past year. It pays well and I don’t have to deal with a living soul, plus being around all things cold and dead is one of my favourite things.
I wanted to go to college, to experience that side of life.
To fit in and lead a normal life, but my dad never allowed it.
Instead I had to find my own route in life and it couldn’t have worked out better for me.
The moment I walked through those wooden doors of Nocturnal, I knew I belonged here, even if I had no experience in dealing with the dead.
Mr Wilson must have felt sorry for me at the time when I practically begged for a job, and he offered to give me all the training I would need to become a mortician. I think he was lonely if I’m being honest, but who am I to question his choice? He saved a little part of me that day.
Cutting the engine on the bike, I kick the stand down and swing my leg over before pulling off my helmet, then I slip my gloves inside.
A coldness from the winter air settles deep into my bones and I inhale the sharpness through my nose, allowing it to settle into my lungs.
Halloween is fast approaching and I can’t wait to wreak havoc in this shit hole of a town.
Once everything is secure, I grab my bike keys and slip them into my back pocket, then enter through the double doors of Nocturnal Mortuary.
Various chemical smells hit me like a battering ram the moment I enter the quiet building.
Even after a year of being here, the toxic scent still manages to tackle me.
We’re the only mortuary in our small town and it’s been a family run business for decades, so every death that comes our way, we have the task of doing it from start to finish. No doctors, or surgeons, just me and Mr Wilson.
My boots squeak on the shiny floor as I pass by the small desk that’s situated at the front where I find Mr Wilson clicking away on the keyboard of his computer.
“You’re a little late this morning, Ethan.” Mr Wilson says with his head down, focusing solely on the keyboard. I stop in my tracks and peer over the desk. “Apologies, Frank. My dad’s a dick.” I say so nonchalantly.
My statement has Mr Wilson chuckling before he pushes his wire-framed glasses up his nose, then he looks at me with a small smile. His face is weathered, like he’s already seen too much of this life.
“That’s quite alright, my boy. Remember, there’s always a space in the fridge for when his time is up.”
Anyone else would be appalled if their boss told them those exact words, but me?
I’m more than ready to drain the blood out of my father and shove him into one of our fridges.
Mr Wilson knows all about my dad’s behaviour and the way he has treated me throughout my entire life.
I know he has this underlying urge to protect me, seeing as he has no kids of his own, but I can do that all by myself.
A rare smile pulls at my lips and I snigger at his comment. “Don’t you worry, I’ve already picked the perfect spot for him.”
“Atta boy.” He chirps, “well, get scrubbed up and meet me in the backroom.”
With that, I nod my head and stride into the little cloak room we have at the back where I place my helmet into the locker and pull out my black leather apron to put on once I’ve hung up my hoodie.
The scent of death lingers in the fibers as I pull it over my head and fasten the belt at the back.
It clings to me like a second skin, bringing us both together as one.
As I enter the autopsy room, the hinges creak on the old door and I head over to the sink where I flick on the tap to allow the water to heat up before grabbing the surgical soap and begin to scrub it over my inked hands, watching the foam gather between my fingers.
With each swipe of the soap, I can feel the grime of my home slip away from me but I’ll never be able to rid the deeper wounds away, not unless I use one of the scalpels to dig into my flesh and bleed myself dry.
Steam begins to rise from the metal sink and I place the soap back down and allow the water to rinse away the white suds.
Once my hands are scrubbed clean, I grab a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall to pat them dry before throwing them away into the yellow bin under the sink, then pluck a pair of black gloves from the box.
The latex stretches easily over my long fingers, covering the ink that sits under my skin.
I snap each glove at my wrist and head over to Mr Wilson who stands at the foot of the metal table with a white coat covering his frail body with a clipboard in his hand.
“Ready for your first autopsy?” He questions and my brows furrow in confusion. I’ve always been his assistant, passing tools, making notes, bagging bodies. I didn’t think I was ready to be handed the reins.
“Me?” I point my finger to my chest. “Why now?”
Mr Wilson huffs a laugh and places the clipboard on the small metal table before coming to stand in front of me.
He’s not much taller than me and I know in a few years time, I’ll be towering over him.
A smile graces his face as he speaks to me, his hands moving as he talks.
“You’re a highly intelligent young man, Ethan.
And throughout this past year that you’ve been with me, I’ve been impressed with everything that you’ve done. ”
Warmth like I’ve never felt before fills my chest at his words and I grind my back teeth together to keep myself in check. I can’t remember the last time someone told me that they were proud of me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the words before.
“I know you’ve probably never heard that in your life, but I’m proud of you and you’re going to go far in this business. I can see it.”
If Mr Wilson ever wanted to go into mind reading, he’d be great at that, that’s for sure.
I flex my hands, causing the gloves to squeak and give him a sharp nod.
I don’t trust myself to not spew all the sordid thoughts I’m feeling, or how much I want to skin my father alive, or the way my sister infiltrates my system like a fucking virus.
So instead, I keep silent which he accepts.
Over the next couple of minutes, Mr Wilson gives me a quick run through of the bloated body that sits cold on the autopsy table.
Purple veins like a spiderweb cover the corpse’s skin, spreading out like vines.
His skin is grey and cold to the touch as I pull off the tag that’s wrapped around his toe.
I read from the tag. “Mr Jacob Palmer. Fifty six, blue eyes and brown hair.” Mr Wilson scribbles the notes onto his clipboard as I wrap the tag back around the corpse’s toe and move onto the table that has an array of surgical tools on the top.
Scalpels, a bone saw, scissors and rib shears are lined up in perfect order along with a Hagedorn needle and a hooked hammer.
Each instrument gleams under the fluorescent lights of the morgue and I imagine them covered in blood and brain matter, heavy droplets of crimson splashing onto the floor every time I use each tool.
Mr Wilson’s footsteps break the heavy silence that surrounds us as he comes to stand across from me at the table.
“What do we need first?” He waits for me to choose and I quickly pick up the scalpel and bring it to the cold corpse.
Mr Wilson nods. “Correct. Now, we need to slice through the skin, muscle and fat. Start at the chest until you reach the lower abdomen.”
Listening to the instructions, and after a year of watching Mr Wilson do this job over and over again, I press the tip of the scalpel into the tough skin just underneath Jacob’s neck, right where his clavicle sits.
Immediately, thick blood begins to pool around the incision, covering his translucent skin in a rich red shade.
I place my hand on either side of the cut and drag the scalpel down, over the chest and down towards the abdomen.
The skin peels open like a banana peel, revealing layers of pink juicy meat.
As smooth as butter, the scalpel glides through the corpse's tissue.
Once I reach the lower abdomen, I move back up to the chest to cut two more incisions across Jacob’s collar bone to create a perfect Y shape across his body.
Once I’m happy with my work, I place the bloodied scalpel down onto the metal tray and grab a pair of forceps and slip them in between the open folds of the skin.
It takes a bit of force to get them fully inside but I manage just fine.
“Excellent work, Ethan. The incisions are very clean.” Mr Wilson complements my work and a flicker of pride blooms in my chest. He continues to scribble notes across the paper that’s attached to his clipboard whilst I make a start on pulling the skin away from the meat.
Pink sinew and white marbling like an aged steak is slowly revealed as I pull at the tough skin of the corpse’s chest, splaying him open like a newspaper.
Beads of sweat begin to gather across my brows and I lift my arm to swipe it away before making a start on cracking open Jacob’s ribs.
With each snap and slice of flesh, images of my dad quickly take over Jacob’s corpse.
I can see him clear as day, lying on the table as I shred him apart, pulling at his yellowing skin to reveal his toxic insides.
His liver is black and wrinkly from the years of excessive drinking, and the urge to stab it until foamy bile pours out of it is almost too strong for me to deny.
He screams and begs for me to end his life, but what about all the times I begged him?
To put an end to my suffering, to just stop. . hurting me.
“Ethan?”
I can’t breathe.