u/ExpensiveTea6038

February 17, 1996

“Now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.” My wife may have taken the kids, the house, and half of my check, but I kept the book club. We finished our chapter discussion on *Frankenstein* and I retired back home. 

Flipping through the reviews of my latest publishings, I face the same thoughts that always follow the amount of red wine I consumed with the ladies of the club. Maybe my father was right. Maybe I should have gotten a real job or a real degree. As I flipped from page to page, an insert fell to the desk. *“*NEW LEASE ON LIFE. TESTERS NEEDED.” I flipped over the card and found the phone number. I’ve never been one for experimenting, but I have to admit I needed a change. No matter how chic therapy may be for the Hollywood elites, my father would kill me if he found out. It may not be much, but no good struggling author would turn down an inheritance. 

After a quick phone call, I booked a bus ticket and found my way to Tucson, Arizona. Across the street from the bus station stood a building that blotted out the sun. The desert heat radiating off of the road obscured the door to the entrance, but there was a line all the same. I made my way down the crowd and noticed a striking similarity. As the entrance came into view, I overheard someone’s radio playing a touch louder than polite. The cheery voices came across with an earsplitting shriek. “OH NO. We’ve been scaled!” The women cheered as a man’s voice cut in, ”At the C.W. clinic of prosthesis, we specialize in taking DNA from the mature *Egernia Kingii* and applying it to your lost limb via skin graft. Our tests have shown that within as little as 9 weeks, subjects are experiencing something that can only be described as regrowth. We need you. If you or a loved one have experienced limb loss, naturally or artificially, come on down to the corner of Alveron and 29th. With any luck, you too can be scaled!” 

I knew it was too good to be true. If nothing else, I had found my next story. I was either going to announce to the world that this clinic had discovered the key to regeneration, or I would get a tabloid headline about a doctor ripping people off. The annoyed crowd that I cut in front of gave way to a reception desk. In the middle of the giant marble space sat a 20-something blonde with giant doe eyes. She stood to greet me and was shorter than when she sat down. I explained to her my profession and asked for the head doctor. After some brief banter, she stepped out from behind the desk and took me down a long hallway. From the careful distance I kept, I could notice a slight limp. Her left leg, though both lead to the same short cut skirt, was longer than her right. When we passed an open office, I could almost make out a scaly pattern on her stockings. 

After a hollow knock and brief conversation, I was introduced to Dr. Eidechse. The doctor stood nearly 7 foot tall with a stiff, plastic head of platinum blond hair. The lines on his face created a picture perfect rendition of everything he had lived through. The sadness in his eyes told of what those things cost. He introduced himself and extended a large, calloused hand. I took it and sat down like I was in the principal's office. Without even a question, he began. “I am Dr. Charles W. Eidechse. Welcome
to the center for prosthesis. I’m sure you have plenty of questions, and there will be plenty of time. Tea?” He gestured to the cup that his receptionist manifested in the doorway. 

“Uh… no. No I’m good.”

“Suit yourself. Rebecca, I think we’re good for now. So Mr. Writer. Where do you want to start.”

“I mean I think it’s obvious. Everyone in the greater metro has heard the ad. What exactly is it that you do here?”

“We help people. Between war and workplace accidents, the injuries that cause the longest lasting impact is an amputation. We take in these people and, at no cost to them, improve their lives. The only thing we ask is for the research data.”

“Why? I mean if not for the money then why do it at all?”

“How about we take a tour. I think seeing our facility may help you understand a little better.” He stands from his desk, bending at the waist to get past the light fixtures, and lead me to the doors. 

“Here at the C.W. Institute, we are the leading innovators in all things improvement. As a matter of fact, that’s where my grandfather came up with our slogan ‘We fix what he overlooked.’ Grandfather was a religious man, but he always felt that His image was flawed. So he opened our first facility.” He outstretched his hands and the doors opened for him. We stepped over the threshold and a wave of calm came over me. I expected a corporate hellscape or a doctor’s waiting room. Instead I found a museum. As Eidechse and I walked he recounted years of history. There was a picture of his relatives with Henry Ford, a group of people outside of Tut’s Tomb, the group picture of Apollo 11, the list goes on. I couldn’t help but notice a large chunk of time missing. I had to stop him. 

“How did you make it through the Depression?”

“We simply explored some foreign endeavors that paid out when they needed to.” This was technically an answer, but not quite satisfactory. I decided to let sleeping dogs lie and we continued the tour. “This here, is what we’re really proud of” was all he said before throwing the doors open. 

As we entered the menagerie of lab coats and terrariums, he continued. “In 1983, we discovered the Kings Skink during a routine research trip in the outback. After watching it regrow its tail, we knew what needed done.” He gestured to a large bronze statue of a lizard. “Thomas was out first. Without him we never would have discovered the secrets to our work.” We continued walking and he continued talking. As we neared the exit to the lab, I noticed a side door with some very concerning warning labels. As his voice drew near, the door began to shake. I began to question it and he noticed. “Not all of our subjects are so easily domesticated. Unfortunately this is preferable to answering to the activists.”

Without realizing, we had circled around to his office. Rebecca was waiting to take me back and the Doctor and I parted ways. I followed her back to the lobby and asked for the restroom. She nodded down a back hallway and returned to her station. On the way to the restroom, I noticed another door with similar labels and my curiosity got the best of me. I approached with caution and noticed a subdued sliding opening. With it unsecured, I gave it a try. As it opened, what I saw shocked me to my core. 

Behind the door, sat a man. Bathed in warm red light, he was hunched in the corner. I called out and his head snapped. As his tongue recoiled into his mouth, I was aghast at his face. With the absence of a nose and the scales replacing his flesh, he was more lizard than man. On all fours he closed the gap with the speed of a predator. As he collided with the door I slammed it shut. Once I had caught my breath I stormed back to the doctors office. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled a little louder than required but the message was conveyed. The doctor fixed his tie, closed the door, and gestured for me to sit. His calm demeanor removed any aggression I had and I obeyed. He returned to his seat and pulled out a file from his desk. 

“Every scientific breakthrough requires some sacrifice. In 1942, the Japanese discovered that the human body was 73% water. That required sacrifice. The German military under the Reich discovered the science of blood transfusions and immune rejections. That required sacrifice. We are giving people back what was taken from them. That requires sacrifice.” He spoke with a sense of normalcy and an extremely matter of fact tone.

“They’re still people. This doesn’t look like ‘doing no harm.’” 

“Did Prometheus deserve to know the consequences of bringing us fire? Did Eve deserve to know the consequences of eating the apple? Man deserves happiness and the key is ignorance. If we can give 100 people back the use of a limb, none of them need to know about the 10 that failed.”

I couldn’t believe the disregard for what was being done. I stormed out and Rebecca stopped me in the lobby. Her bubbly nature had disappeared and now she resembled a wounded puppy. “Are we doing bad things? I thought we were helping.” She began to cry and I placed a hand on her shoulder. She pulled away and ran off to collect herself. I took advantage of the lack of supervision and took a walk with my camera. 

Down yet another hallway, I found the dirty secrets of this institution. Farther than the light could reach stood mirrored pairs of the same door. The same stickers. The same sliders. I could only imagine that each and every one had the same red light and figure in the corner. The only sight of an end to this corridor was a sliver of light peeking through a cracked door. As I approached, it became apparent that this door should’ve been locked. Peeking through the crack, I was appalled. In the words of Clive Barker, “there was pain without hope of healing.”

Inside sat what remained of a man. They had attempted to implant the lizard skin on the nubs attached to his shoulders. The scaly leather had not only covered his new arms, but had encompassed his entire body. I watched as his form convulsed and twisted as it attempted to reject the implant. His immune system was at full bore as it attempted to keep this foreign body from consuming everything in its path. He let out an inhuman wail as he lost the battle. I watched as his mammal brain was silenced and he lost everything that evolution had built over millions of years. In a heap of bones and flesh laid another tenant for the forbidden rooms. I closed the door and backed away. At the end of the hallway, I backed straight into the doctor. 

“I’m afraid you’re in a forbidden area.” His form appeared to have doubled as I stood before him, a sniveling teenager with one of dads beers. “No worries,” he removed his gloves, exposing the scales in his hand, “I’m sure you have learned a thing or two on discretion.” His massive lizard hands snatched my camera and reduced it to a pile of chips and glass. My film was stretched and crinkled beyond repair. I apologized and hurried for the door. Rebecca offered a brief farewell and I broke into the Arizona sun. 

In the heat of the day, I was reminded of the crowd forming. Dr. Eidechse had promised these people a solution and they were here to claim. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth, and for most of them it wouldn’t matter anyways. I looked down the line and viewed every tenth as one of them. I nearly vomited from the experience when the man next to me grabbed my arm. “Did you get scaled? How is it? Can I see?” He scrambled for my sleeves and I yanked my arm away. I ran from the building and got the first plane home. 

As I sit here, contemplating whether to submit this or trash it for my own safety, I am reminded of the story of Prometheus. What he did took a sacrifice that he had no way of knowing. Perhaps I am an Icarus with this submission, perhaps I am simply Arachne and the institute my Athena. I take the paper from my keyboard and lean back in my chair. The evening light from the window warmed my face and brought a sense of safety. I packed the papers into an envelope for my publisher and headed for the mailbox. As a car drove by full of teenagers with the windows down and radio high, all I could hear was “Oh No! We’ve been scaled!”

February 17, 1996

“Now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.” My wife may have taken the kids, the house, and half of my check, but I kept the book club. We finished our chapter discussion on *Frankenstein* and I retired back home. 

Flipping through the reviews of my latest publishings, I face the same thoughts that always follow the amount of red wine I consumed with the ladies of the club. Maybe my father was right. Maybe I should have gotten a real job or a real degree. As I flipped from page to page, an insert fell to the desk. *“*NEW LEASE ON LIFE. TESTERS NEEDED.” I flipped over the card and found the phone number. I’ve never been one for experimenting, but I have to admit I needed a change. No matter how chic therapy may be for the Hollywood elites, my father would kill me if he found out. It may not be much, but no good struggling author would turn down an inheritance. 

After a quick phone call, I booked a bus ticket and found my way to Tucson, Arizona. Across the street from the bus station stood a building that blotted out the sun. The desert heat radiating off of the road obscured the door to the entrance, but there was a line all the same. I made my way down the crowd and noticed a striking similarity. As the entrance came into view, I overheard someone’s radio playing a touch louder than polite. The cheery voices came across with an earsplitting shriek. “OH NO. We’ve been scaled!” The women cheered as a man’s voice cut in, ”At the C.W. clinic of prosthesis, we specialize in taking DNA from the mature *Egernia Kingii* and applying it to your lost limb via skin graft. Our tests have shown that within as little as 9 weeks, subjects are experiencing something that can only be described as regrowth. We need you. If you or a loved one have experienced limb loss, naturally or artificially, come on down to the corner of Alveron and 29th. With any luck, you too can be scaled!” 

I knew it was too good to be true. If nothing else, I had found my next story. I was either going to announce to the world that this clinic had discovered the key to regeneration, or I would get a tabloid headline about a doctor ripping people off. The annoyed crowd that I cut in front of gave way to a reception desk. In the middle of the giant marble space sat a 20-something blonde with giant doe eyes. She stood to greet me and was shorter than when she sat down. I explained to her my profession and asked for the head doctor. After some brief banter, she stepped out from behind the desk and took me down a long hallway. From the careful distance I kept, I could notice a slight limp. Her left leg, though both lead to the same short cut skirt, was longer than her right. When we passed an open office, I could almost make out a scaly pattern on her stockings. 

After a hollow knock and brief conversation, I was introduced to Dr. Eidechse. The doctor stood nearly 7 foot tall with a stiff, plastic head of platinum blond hair. The lines on his face created a picture perfect rendition of everything he had lived through. The sadness in his eyes told of what those things cost. He introduced himself and extended a large, calloused hand. I took it and sat down like I was in the principal's office. Without even a question, he began. “I am Dr. Charles W. Eidechse. Welcome
to the center for prosthesis. I’m sure you have plenty of questions, and there will be plenty of time. Tea?” He gestured to the cup that his receptionist manifested in the doorway. 

“Uh… no. No I’m good.”

“Suit yourself. Rebecca, I think we’re good for now. So Mr. Writer. Where do you want to start.”

“I mean I think it’s obvious. Everyone in the greater metro has heard the ad. What exactly is it that you do here?”

“We help people. Between war and workplace accidents, the injuries that cause the longest lasting impact is an amputation. We take in these people and, at no cost to them, improve their lives. The only thing we ask is for the research data.”

“Why? I mean if not for the money then why do it at all?”

“How about we take a tour. I think seeing our facility may help you understand a little better.” He stands from his desk, bending at the waist to get past the light fixtures, and lead me to the doors. 

“Here at the C.W. Institute, we are the leading innovators in all things improvement. As a matter of fact, that’s where my grandfather came up with our slogan ‘We fix what he overlooked.’ Grandfather was a religious man, but he always felt that His image was flawed. So he opened our first facility.” He outstretched his hands and the doors opened for him. We stepped over the threshold and a wave of calm came over me. I expected a corporate hellscape or a doctor’s waiting room. Instead I found a museum. As Eidechse and I walked he recounted years of history. There was a picture of his relatives with Henry Ford, a group of people outside of Tut’s Tomb, the group picture of Apollo 11, the list goes on. I couldn’t help but notice a large chunk of time missing. I had to stop him. 

“How did you make it through the Depression?”

“We simply explored some foreign endeavors that paid out when they needed to.” This was technically an answer, but not quite satisfactory. I decided to let sleeping dogs lie and we continued the tour. “This here, is what we’re really proud of” was all he said before throwing the doors open. 

As we entered the menagerie of lab coats and terrariums, he continued. “In 1983, we discovered the Kings Skink during a routine research trip in the outback. After watching it regrow its tail, we knew what needed done.” He gestured to a large bronze statue of a lizard. “Thomas was out first. Without him we never would have discovered the secrets to our work.” We continued walking and he continued talking. As we neared the exit to the lab, I noticed a side door with some very concerning warning labels. As his voice drew near, the door began to shake. I began to question it and he noticed. “Not all of our subjects are so easily domesticated. Unfortunately this is preferable to answering to the activists.”

Without realizing, we had circled around to his office. Rebecca was waiting to take me back and the Doctor and I parted ways. I followed her back to the lobby and asked for the restroom. She nodded down a back hallway and returned to her station. On the way to the restroom, I noticed another door with similar labels and my curiosity got the best of me. I approached with caution and noticed a subdued sliding opening. With it unsecured, I gave it a try. As it opened, what I saw shocked me to my core. 

Behind the door, sat a man. Bathed in warm red light, he was hunched in the corner. I called out and his head snapped. As his tongue recoiled into his mouth, I was aghast at his face. With the absence of a nose and the scales replacing his flesh, he was more lizard than man. On all fours he closed the gap with the speed of a predator. As he collided with the door I slammed it shut. Once I had caught my breath I stormed back to the doctors office. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled a little louder than required but the message was conveyed. The doctor fixed his tie, closed the door, and gestured for me to sit. His calm demeanor removed any aggression I had and I obeyed. He returned to his seat and pulled out a file from his desk. 

“Every scientific breakthrough requires some sacrifice. In 1942, the Japanese discovered that the human body was 73% water. That required sacrifice. The German military under the Reich discovered the science of blood transfusions and immune rejections. That required sacrifice. We are giving people back what was taken from them. That requires sacrifice.” He spoke with a sense of normalcy and an extremely matter of fact tone.

“They’re still people. This doesn’t look like ‘doing no harm.’” 

“Did Prometheus deserve to know the consequences of bringing us fire? Did Eve deserve to know the consequences of eating the apple? Man deserves happiness and the key is ignorance. If we can give 100 people back the use of a limb, none of them need to know about the 10 that failed.”

I couldn’t believe the disregard for what was being done. I stormed out and Rebecca stopped me in the lobby. Her bubbly nature had disappeared and now she resembled a wounded puppy. “Are we doing bad things? I thought we were helping.” She began to cry and I placed a hand on her shoulder. She pulled away and ran off to collect herself. I took advantage of the lack of supervision and took a walk with my camera. 

Down yet another hallway, I found the dirty secrets of this institution. Farther than the light could reach stood mirrored pairs of the same door. The same stickers. The same sliders. I could only imagine that each and every one had the same red light and figure in the corner. The only sight of an end to this corridor was a sliver of light peeking through a cracked door. As I approached, it became apparent that this door should’ve been locked. Peeking through the crack, I was appalled. In the words of Clive Barker, “there was pain without hope of healing.”

Inside sat what remained of a man. They had attempted to implant the lizard skin on the nubs attached to his shoulders. The scaly leather had not only covered his new arms, but had encompassed his entire body. I watched as his form convulsed and twisted as it attempted to reject the implant. His immune system was at full bore as it attempted to keep this foreign body from consuming everything in its path. He let out an inhuman wail as he lost the battle. I watched as his mammal brain was silenced and he lost everything that evolution had built over millions of years. In a heap of bones and flesh laid another tenant for the forbidden rooms. I closed the door and backed away. At the end of the hallway, I backed straight into the doctor. 

“I’m afraid you’re in a forbidden area.” His form appeared to have doubled as I stood before him, a sniveling teenager with one of dads beers. “No worries,” he removed his gloves, exposing the scales in his hand, “I’m sure you have learned a thing or two on discretion.” His massive lizard hands snatched my camera and reduced it to a pile of chips and glass. My film was stretched and crinkled beyond repair. I apologized and hurried for the door. Rebecca offered a brief farewell and I broke into the Arizona sun. 

In the heat of the day, I was reminded of the crowd forming. Dr. Eidechse had promised these people a solution and they were here to claim. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth, and for most of them it wouldn’t matter anyways. I looked down the line and viewed every tenth as one of them. I nearly vomited from the experience when the man next to me grabbed my arm. “Did you get scaled? How is it? Can I see?” He scrambled for my sleeves and I yanked my arm away. I ran from the building and got the first plane home. 

As I sit here, contemplating whether to submit this or trash it for my own safety, I am reminded of the story of Prometheus. What he did took a sacrifice that he had no way of knowing. Perhaps I am an Icarus with this submission, perhaps I am simply Arachne and the institute my Athena. I take the paper from my keyboard and lean back in my chair. The evening light from the window warmed my face and brought a sense of safety. I packed the papers into an envelope for my publisher and headed for the mailbox. As a car drove by full of teenagers with the windows down and radio high, all I could hear was “Oh No! We’ve been scaled!”

October 18, 1995

I sat in the desolate station of Alpine Texas and collected my thoughts. Though the road has been long thus far, it continues to drag in front of me. The life I chose has been kind to me financially, but the toll it takes is something I may never recover from. My spiral is interrupted by the squealing of the brakes and the call of the conductor. 

The train was a bustling metropolis compared to the station lobby. It took more time for the smokers to extinguish than it did for me to load. I settled into my economy seat and prayed that no one sat around me. I took out my recorder and attempted to dictate my notes when he sat down. Until this point, I had used the noise of the train to quiet my world. After him, the train was silent. 

“You-You’re that journalist right?” 

I met his eyes and only then realized how paranoid he looked. The gaze that escaped him was one of forbidden knowledge and the pain of a thousand wars. I stopped my tape and nodded. 

“You have to help me. I can’t handle it anymore. I’ve tried everything and nothing can get me out of here. Please. I need you.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but that ain’t my business friend. I’d be happy to let you vent, but I can’t promise a solution.” He took a deep shuddering breath and agreed. I restarted my tape and he began.

“6 A.M. I wake up. My cabin is three cars down and it’s the only place I feel safe anymore. I roll out of bed and do my morning niceties. It’s always the same. Shower. Teeth. Deodorant. Clothes. Every day. It always has been. Maybe I should’ve slept in later had I known. At least then it wouldn’t take as long.”

The Steward came up to take our lunch order and he held up a hand. “I’ll take a glass of water and he will have a reuben on white. Please cut it in half and bring him a glass of hot tea.” I stare at him dumbfounded. “It’s always the same. Your order may be particular, but it is always the same.” The steward walks away and gives him a side eye. “After that’s out of the way, I get to start my day. Sometimes I’ll see the engine. Sometimes I’ll take a trip to the caboose and watch west Texas. I never enjoyed the south but when it’s all you have…”

He continues rambling about his day and I started to fade out. Then he shocks me back with a comment. “Today I spent some time with the conductor. He really is a good guy. Sometimes he can come off as an ass but really he’s just stressed. His wife tells him to calm down and work less but he can’t leave the rails. Besides, his kids are in college and someone has to pay for it.”

The conductor comes walking through the train door. “Gentlemen, I need to see tickets.” We dig them out and he looks them over with the scrutiny of a cashier handed a fake bill. After a performatively long time, he hands the paper back to me. I look up and my new friend has a smile on his face as he places his hand in the air as soon as his ticket get’s handed back. The conductor huffs away and we continue.

“See. His wife is right, but god forbid I mention that. He acts like he doesn’t even know me. Right about now is when he gets to the dining car. He orders a ham and cheese and returns to our car to eat it. He stays close to the front. That’s a company policy. Once he’s finished, we can take a walk. It’s about the time when we’ve caught up and now I can just show you.” I was confused but my curiosity got the best of me. We used the time to exchange pleasantries and get to know a little bit of background. He grew up in Idaho. Came this way to find work. Lost his way and could only afford a train ticket. Now he is taking the long way home. The conductor stood up. He followed and gestured for me to do the same. With my tape recorder and notebook we trailed the worn out conductor. 

He entered the dining car and sat his plate on the counter. We stopped by the door and he leaned in to me. “I don’t like this part. I knew his wife was right but he wouldn’t listen.” The conductor reached for the door and stopped. His breathing became labored and he collapsed into the wall. He grabbed at his chest and slid down the wall. I ran to him and tried to talk to him in a rush. “Sir! Sir! Do you have medications? Are you okay? Someone call somebody! We need a doctor!” The man pushes a few labored breaths out and then falls limp. I shook him and he fell to the floor. The stranger walked up behind me. 

“His wife was right. Every Time it’s the same. I’ve tried changing his route. I’ve tried giving him the defibrillator. I’ve even tried having a doctor present. Nothing helps. This is where his trip ends.” I look back to him, wipe my eyes, and find him completely indifferent. “The first time, sure it sucked. By now it’s a fact of life. He should’ve listened to his wife. Thankfully I never see them arrive. We’re a full day until the next station. He rides the rest in the cooler and I’m sure somewhere there’s a woman crying. I’m sure that she then calls her kids and explains that their semester just got cut short. I’m sure this is ruining someone’s world. This is just 1:30.”

He steps over the conductor and continues down the cars. I am in either awe or shock of this man’s ability to compartmentalize and follow him in my stupor. We get into the crew quarters and he tells me more about his family. That’s when he stops me.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’ll be honest, I don’t know what I’m even supposed to believe in here.”

“Look. Let’s go up toward the engine and pay attention. Two young women will be exiting the car. They’re embarrassed but not because they did anything. The engineer  is an older gentleman. Recently divorced and with a Tom Selleck aura. They’ll be giggling and talking amongst each other until they see us. Through the door will be the engineer and his assistant. They’ll be talking about nacho recipes but we’ll interrupt right before they decide whether to add peppers or top with them. The assistant will attempt small talk by asking about our ride and where we’re from. You’ll start to answer and then the engineer will see a dial that requires attention. Theyll rush us out and mention how we have to come back when things are calmer. There will be a male steward waiting for us who will attempt to take us back to our car.”

It was the craziest thing I’d ever heard. Doomsday prophecy and cult suicides had desensitized most to the idea, besides this man was no Nostradamus. But what followed shook me to my core. The girls,Tom Selleck talking about nachos, awkward small talk with a worse excuse to end it. Just like he said. About the time the steward reached for my arm he spoke, “See. Tomorrow you’ll forget about this but I won’t. Because I’ll wake up at 6 A.M. Three cars from where you sat. Just like I have everyday.”

I was taken aback. In all of my years this was a first. I had interviewed every schizo and freak that could figure out my phone number. Never before had I been so dumbstruck by something as simple as a correct prediction. He didn’t have the body of Sylvia Browne but his guesses were actually correct. I had mustered up a question when he stopped me. 

 “I can’t figure it out. I grew up a christian. I was a good kid.” He reaches for the door. “I did everything right. I repented when prompted. I prayed before bed. Yet I wind up here. Manson, Ramirez, hell even Kaczynski get to live day after day. No prison cell can be as restricting as my personal hell.” He steps onto the gangway and begins yelling over the noise. “I’ve tried everything. I’m sorry you have to be here but this is better than what happens otherwise. Try not to panic. It’ll all be over by the time I reach the second set of wheels.” 

Then he jumped. I watched as his skull was caught between the wheel and the rail. The pop drowned out the noise of the day. Someone must have seen because the brakes locked up and I watched as the sets of wheels picked him up and cut him apart. His lifeless body was being prepared for the butcher's window and yet the train kept moving. What felt like hours later, we came to a halt and an important looking man went running from the engine. He took off his hat and stepped back. What followed is what you would expect. Cop cars. Ambulance. Witness statements. Phone calls. Someone’s world was ruined, but this is where his ride ended. The train company sent shuttles to get us back to civilization. As I sat on the seat, I attempted to configure my thoughts while they were fresh. 

We do not know why man does what he does. We know not what awaits us when it is all over. The only thing we can do is hope that we made the right choice and followed the right path. No man knows the day or the time, except he who decides it. For the stranger on that train, the only hope is that he woke up at 6 A.M. three cars down. Then he may have a chance to outrun his past. He may make it home. Until then, we can only hope. The night will drag on, just like every night. We push on and think of what could be. We wonder what the morning paper will say. My money is on the collapse at the quarry in New Braunfels. Early reports say it took everything with it, including the track.

When I got the call, I knew my troubles were over. For as long as I can remember, I had lived paycheck to paycheck. Concrete work pays well but the three rounds of child support made sure I had just enough to survive. When the government drops a project like this, everyone sees the payday. After what we had all been through, a paycheck was all anyone could see. This trip to Boulder was the ticket I had been praying for.

The job site was breathtaking. The walls of the canyon perfectly framed the mighty Colorado. Its layers of volcanic rock accentuated the sunset over the ridge. As the river flowed and deepened its path through Nevada, I was caught in awe of what nature can accomplish. These accomplishments stood in the way of man’s advancement and dominion over his surroundings. The ground shook as we asserted our explosive dominance over all of God’s creation. 

With the diversion channels dug and water redirected, the forms went in. I was at the site late one night, adjusting the third layer of boards. With the expected load, we had to get experimental with the work we did. Instead of letting the pieces cure fully and then joining, we needed to pour them together. With 125 feet between me and the dry riverbed, I went to work sealing the mold for the next day. My foot slipped into the semi-cured concrete and was absorbed into its warm mass. As I fought to save my new boots, the thunder in the distance reared its head from the diversion channel. The Colorado had become the Mississippi and I faced a wall of water attempting to reclaim its natural path. The force took away my breath and sent me fully into the wet concrete. 

My life played before me like the most depressing peep show. Failure after failure. Marriages, careers, everything that I could ruin I did. Hell, the only image I saw of my children was in the rearview mirror as their tears begged me to stay. It all came rushing back as the memories caught up with the harsh warm reality of my fate. That gray blanket engulfed me. As my lungs filled and became heavy, I was pulled into the abyss.

I was never a good negotiator. When faced with what I can only describe as the deal of a lifetime, I couldn’t pass it up. I was told by the voice that the option was mine and mine alone. No man could prevent the inevitable, but I could prolong it. A second chance. A small price for what most only dream of. I woke up in the man camp, sweaty and cold. The only thing that could clear my head was a walk through the brisk desert night. I felt the familiar rumble and convinced myself that it was all a bad dream. 

That morning, everything went the same as everyone before. Between layers and moisture checks, the whistle went out in the canyon. The shrill tone could mean only one thing, a man fell overboard. The crew tried to lower the ladder, but it was too late. When concrete lacks the proper moisture level, it acts more as quicksand. Thomas was swallowed by the thick gray beast and all we could do was take a moment and lower our hats. We continued working as the foreman penned a letter to his wife. She would receive the letter, his last month’s wages, and the task of restarting life as a widow. As I lay my head down that night, the void returned. 

“Your task is yours alone. The choice is yours alone. Chance can not complete all things we deem difficult.” These words echoed through the depths of my mind. I knew exactly what it meant. Thomas was the first of a series of workplace accidents. Johnathan, Christopher, and Steve all fell to the weight of our profession. Tyler slipped on a wet edge and Justin lost a fight with the diversion tunnels. The voices went away about the time that the guard rail went up. We had an all hands meeting about the dangers of a project like this. With my second chance cemented, I went back to work. Then the cracks started to form.

At first, we thought they were blasting another path. The rains in the north were forcing the water to crest. The blasting woke me up. I stepped out to see why they were digging so close to camp when the siren sounded. I watched the emergency team fail at patching a hole exactly where I had dreamed I fell in. The water had begun to rush into the diversion channel and the cracks only grew. 

I ran to the site and attempted to be useful. When it was obvious I was slowing everyone down, I stepped back and studied the water’s destruction path. Unbeknownst to us, they had built the first of a neighborhood about 3 miles down. I could just make out a car in a driveway with someone climbing out of the backseat. “Your Choice” echoed in my head. I walked up behind Travis and gave him a nudge. The official report read that he got caught up in the rush, but I knew. I alone knew the sacrifice of those actions. The men began to win the fight against the cracks and the next day it was business as usual. 

Over the next six months, countless workers became permanent installations of that great gray monument to man’s hubris. When the final form went up, I overheard talk of layoffs. Without concrete to lay, there was no need for men like me. While most worried about pay, I was left to worry about what would be left. Without food for its savage hunger, would the dam hold? Had the water truly been tamed?

The day I received my termination, I took one last walk on the dam. For the first time since that day, I looked down at the sprawling neighborhood. Swing sets and dog houses peppered the ignorant little settlement in the valley. I knew what needed done. As my foot left the lip, I heard the whistle and prayed that my children would know not of what happened. Time slowed to a halt as I flew toward the only answer. Once again I saw everything I had done wrong. This time, it filled me with pride. A waste of oxygen like me was given this task and I would finally be responsible for the safety and protection of someone else. Maybe my father would be proud. As the ground grew near, I looked to the results of our work. The gray wall of control that we had erected seemed to stretch for miles. So did the new forming crack in the bottom. 

\#12111950

January 25, 1998

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." When the target of my high school affection expressed an interest in nihilism, I adopted an interest in the writings of Nietzsche. Immortalized as my senior quote, the darkness within expired as she left for her east coast school. 

I was caught in a trip down memory lane when the envelope fell through the mail slot. Its crisp white edges accentuated the harsh black letter head and return address. As I stared at the name, I was consumed by a sense of dread and knowledge that the sender was in need of someone to listen. Though my career was built on the puff pieces of local sports, I had built a reputation that attracted those in need of an ear. This time, I was needed in New Jersey. 

As I approached the front gate of the Marlboro State Hospital, I was taken aback.  The cold wrought iron fence surrounding the property stood in stark contrast to the lovely cottage style buildings. Had they been shorter, they could have passed for a little Holland. Once through the main doors, there was no mistaking it. The air was full of an attempt to sterilize and human excrement. The patients wandering showed little in terms of hope or hygiene. The orderly at the desk greeted me with a fake smile and escorted me to the room of Mr. Terrell Simpson. 

As we neared the door, he stopped me. “Mr. Simpson has been here a long time and refuses to take his medication. If you need help, there’s a button by the door. Someone will be right down the hall and ready to assist.” Despite my newfound anxiety about what awaited, I knocked and entered. 

Mr. Simpson kept his room as a respite from the facility. The clean floors were accented by the pictures and drawings taped to his walls. Everything had a place, and everything was in it. He didn’t strike me as a reader, but the books on his shelf were dust free and organized alphabetically. In the corner by the window sat the man himself. Well over the age of 70, he was hunched over a drawing desk. What hair he had left dusted the top of his head like an early winter flurry. As I entered I called his name and his head snapped to meet my gaze. “What do you want?” He barked at me in a voice full of tar and a hint of despair. Sure that he wasn’t looking for an answer, I held up the letter. 

His face lit up. For what I’m sure is the first time here, he seemed excited for what the day held. “My apologies.” He struggled up from his chair. “I assumed they stole my mail like usual or that you had thrown it away. After all of these years, I had just accepted that no one cared what I had to say.” He grabbed my hand and introduced himself. I did the same and he showed me to a chair opposite the room. I sat up my recorder and notepad as he turned his chair and then resettled. His voice had lightened, almost showing a hint of joy. “They won’t listen to me out here. All they say is ‘take your pills’ and ‘you should really listen to the doctor.’ Those bastards, all they know are pills.”
“Why not just take your pills?” 

“I did, back in ‘73. Never again.”

“I understand sir, but why?”

He took a long breath and focused himself back. I could tell I was upsetting him, but couldn’t see how. He took out a notepad of his own and began doodling. “Son, when I was much younger than you, they sent me a letter. *‘DRAFT NOTICE’* was scrawled across the top. My number had come in and it was my turn to sign a blank check for Uncle Sam. I’m no yuppie. I went straight down to the station and asked for infantry. If I was going to go to that god forsaken jungle, they were putting me in the fight. They sent me to training and then to the line. 11B. My AG and I were told to hump the M60 up and down that jungle every day. The days were great.” He began to drift off as he told this story. If I was mistaken, I would say that he enjoyed his time over there. “Every environment was target rich. We didn’t get hung up on classification. If you weren’t in an American uniform, you shouldn't have stayed. We warned them. We told them that anyone around would be treated as hostile. They chose to stay.”

His hand began shaking and the pencil fell to the ground. I stood to retrieve and he waved me down. “Won’t do me any good. The tremors seem to last longer and longer. The first time I came upon a village was outside of Da Nang. These people could have fooled you. They acted like they didn’t even know a war was going on. The translator shouted something and they all got riled up. The flamer took to a roof and everything scattered. My AG and I personally ensured that 35 Vietcong operatives had their plans foiled that day. Hell the sick freaks were even recruiting children back then. My actions that day got me a battlefield promotion to Sergeant. That meant they took my big gun but I got the NVD. Back then, they were a big clunky piece of metal. You didn’t want to wear the damn things but they helped you see at night.”

He paused. For the first time since he began, I could see some hesitation. His eyes stared off into the corner and I sat as still as possible. I could see him replaying every moment he had suffered like a movie reel. I managed to squeak out “Mr. Simpson? Are you alright?” That’s when he snapped.

“We shouldn’t have been there! The night was theirs! We got greedy!” The orderly’s heard the yelling and rushed into the room. Two escorted me outside while they gave him an injection. 

“I’m sorry honey but you’ll have to comeback later. Mr. Simpson is a little out of it.” She giggled at me and I returned her smile. I couldn’t see it but I felt it fade as soon as she turned away where no one could see. I took a brief trip to the employee break room and grabbed some vending machine gruel. I made my way back to Mr. SImpsons as he began his lunch.

“Please, come in my boy. You’ll have to excuse my prior behaviors. Harder and harder to control these days.” He returned to his ham sandwich and I resettled into my seat. “After I became accustomed to my new role, I returned to patrols. Now I was on the night shift. That’s where the NVD came in handy. I switched it on and the entire jungle lit up red. I could see for miles. THe eyes of the animals and every leaf on the trees. If I remember the manual right, they were Dicyanin. That’s about the time that I got close with Charles. Day three in the jungle and he came walking out of the brush. With his hands up he explained that he had been taken prisoner and that he had escaped. I talked with him about what he knew and we welcomed him into our fold. During the day, he would stay with himself. At night, he was right beside me. When I left, Charles came with me. Despite the anger and hatred that I had for those people, Charles was right there.”

He fumbled with his tray. I hadn’t noticed before but he was fidgeting with his silverware. After another deep breath and a swig of murky water, he continued. “When I made it back stateside, they gave me an evaluation. There had been some complaints from my men about my outbursts. According to them, I had a tendency to lash out. I spent a week in the hospital and Charles was right by my side. As luck would have it, he got the bed next to mine. We talked about home and the women we left behind. Most of all we talked about food. After time in the jungle, all you can think about is your favorite burger shop. They came in and gave me a pill that was supposed to help with my sleep and my anger. I didn’t know any better back then so I took them. That night Charles left. I didn’t see him for years.” He stopped and wiped at his eyes. I pretended not to see but noted it all the same. “Two months later I met my Sarah. She was a beauty. Long tanned legs joined together at a small toned waist, Her brain matched the excellence of everything else she possessed. We sat for hours and just talked. After they gave me my discharge, I proposed and we moved to Wyoming. For the next couple of years, I spent my days as a carpenter in town. At night I would sit on the back deck and remember the darkness of the jungle. Sarah made sure that I took my medication every day but they couldn’t get rid of the memories.”

“Did you and Sarah have any children?” 

“We had two beautiful boys. Terrell Jr. and Chucky. We lived the perfect suburban life for a couple of years and I had all but written my friend out of my life. Then my oldest ordered a set of night vision glasses from the back of a comic book. I took him outside to play with them and when I looked through them I was right back. My property was bathed in a coat of red and out of the underbrush walked Charles.”

“After all of those years, he was on your property?”

“I guess he had gotten my address from the VA. I sent the boys inside and we sat on the porch for hours. Between drinks, he told me the truth about the medication. He told me that they had given it to him and he had almost forgotten everything. He lost everything that had made him who he was so he stopped. I offered him the couch but he took off towards town as the sun came up. When Sarah woke, I told her about him. Her time as a nurse made her hesitant about Charles’ advice but I wasn’t having it. I flushed all of my pills and began my life as a free man. That’s when I got angry. I spent the next 6 months swinging and yelling at them about everything they did. The dishes were never done fast enough and dinner was never on time. She couldn’t do enough to please me. The boys began suffering in school and I made sure they knew how I felt. After a time, Sarah gave me an ultimatum. ‘Take your pills or we’re gone.’ I’ll never forget the day she told me that. That night, I snuck into the bathroom and took them. The next morning they were gone. I took them for a couple of months and I spent that time alone.”

“That must have been really hard on you.”

“She was gone. She took the boys with her, but left her things. I kept hope that she would come back and managed to keep everything clean and ready for her. I ran out of pills and that’s when Charles came back. He took up in our basement, said he needed a place. The next day, she came back. I apologized, she cried, the boys ran back to their rooms. My house was full of the joyful noise of a family again. Charles kept to himself and only came out after everyone else had gone to bed. He would come out of the basement and share my solitude. In the darkness, he told me what the pills were doing.”

They came in and took his tray. He wiped himself up and washed his hands. Once everyone was gone he made his way around the room cleaning everything anyone touched. I got caught up in the action and straightened my pencil alongside my notepad and brushed my eraser shavings into a pile. He glared at the pile and returned to his chair. “They took everything from me. The cycle repeated over and over. They’d leave when I took the pills. All of them. When I’d stop, they’d come back. I couldn’t stand losing them again so I started flushing them. My wife would get me my pills and I would palm them like a magician. After a good couple of weeks, Charles sat me down for another fireside chat. I’ll never forget when he looked me in the eyes and told me the truth.” He deepened his voice. “‘They’re not real Terry.’ No one had called me Terry since my dad passed. ‘They just want you to be alone. That’s why she’s so adamant about the pills.’ I couldn’t believe it. My beautiful Sarah. Could she really be capable of this? I watched her closer that night and damn if he wasn’t right. The next morning she tried to give me the pills and I snapped.”

At that moment I remember where I had heard the name. I remember the story. I didn’t want to stop him but I don’t know if I was ready for what came next. “I slapped her hand and grabbed her throat. The tighter I squeezed, the wider her eyes got. She tried to beg but all she could squeak out was a ‘why?’.” His hands grasped at the air and I watched his eyes glaze over. “Terrell jr. came out after he heard the commotion. He attempted to fight me off but his little 8 year old frame couldn’t do much. By that point she had gone limp and pale. By the time I noticed, I turned on him. Blow after blow his little body never stood a chance. Every strike I could feel my mind healing. These demons that haunted my brain were finally getting what they deserved. Once he had been reduced to a pile of flesh, I took a breath. My knuckles were hamburger and my face was warm with blood spatter. I wiped my eyes clean and thought to chucky. I walked into the dark of his room and watched him sleep. As he laid there, nestled in his Sesame Street blanket, I had a moment of doubt. I remembered the day he was born. All three of his birthdays. I remembered him unwrapping the Elmo that was firmly grasped by his tiny hands. I was brought back when I saw Charles. In the darkest corner, Charles sat in the chair we used to rock my boys to sleep with. In his hand was the knife we carried back then. ‘You know what needs to be done. Everything they’ve done to you.’ I rubbed my boys hair. He woke up as we stood there. ‘Daddy?’ Was the last thing I heard as Charles pressed my hand down through his ribs. I got a nod of approval and he walked away into the day. I sat on the porch and had the first cigarette in years while I waited for the cops.”

I was taken aback. Never before had I heard someone explain something so heinous in such detail. I was about to ask a question when he continued. “The police said I had a psychotic break. They forced me to take my medication during the trial. For the first time, I saw the photos of what I had done. They were still there, but Charles was no where to be seen.”

I finished my notes and we chatted for the better part of an hour. The orderly came and collected me around time for supper. I bid Mr. Simpson adieu and took off toward my car. Despite his crimes, I couldn’t help but feel bad for a man so far gone that reality is seemingly lost. Throughout my career, I’ve heard just about every tale under the sun. The part of this that stuck with me happened as I left. I passed a man that looked to be about the age of my host. I would swear that I heard him ask for Terry. It was only when I returned home that I realized I had forgotten to pack my own medications. 

#12111950

January 25, 1998

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." When the target of my high school affection expressed an interest in nihilism, I adopted an interest in the writings of Nietzsche. Immortalized as my senior quote, the darkness within expired as she left for her east coast school. 

I was caught in a trip down memory lane when the envelope fell through the mail slot. Its crisp white edges accentuated the harsh black letter head and return address. As I stared at the name, I was consumed by a sense of dread and knowledge that the sender was in need of someone to listen. Though my career was built on the puff pieces of local sports, I had built a reputation that attracted those in need of an ear. This time, I was needed in New Jersey. 

As I approached the front gate of the Marlboro State Hospital, I was taken aback.  The cold wrought iron fence surrounding the property stood in stark contrast to the lovely cottage style buildings. Had they been shorter, they could have passed for a little Holland. Once through the main doors, there was no mistaking it. The air was full of an attempt to sterilize and human excrement. The patients wandering showed little in terms of hope or hygiene. The orderly at the desk greeted me with a fake smile and escorted me to the room of Mr. Terrell Simpson. 

As we neared the door, he stopped me. “Mr. Simpson has been here a long time and refuses to take his medication. If you need help, there’s a button by the door. Someone will be right down the hall and ready to assist.” Despite my newfound anxiety about what awaited, I knocked and entered. 

Mr. Simpson kept his room as a respite from the facility. The clean floors were accented by the pictures and drawings taped to his walls. Everything had a place, and everything was in it. He didn’t strike me as a reader, but the books on his shelf were dust free and organized alphabetically. In the corner by the window sat the man himself. Well over the age of 70, he was hunched over a drawing desk. What hair he had left dusted the top of his head like an early winter flurry. As I entered I called his name and his head snapped to meet my gaze. “What do you want?” He barked at me in a voice full of tar and a hint of despair. Sure that he wasn’t looking for an answer, I held up the letter. 

His face lit up. For what I’m sure is the first time here, he seemed excited for what the day held. “My apologies.” He struggled up from his chair. “I assumed they stole my mail like usual or that you had thrown it away. After all of these years, I had just accepted that no one cared what I had to say.” He grabbed my hand and introduced himself. I did the same and he showed me to a chair opposite the room. I sat up my recorder and notepad as he turned his chair and then resettled. His voice had lightened, almost showing a hint of joy. “They won’t listen to me out here. All they say is ‘take your pills’ and ‘you should really listen to the doctor.’ Those bastards, all they know are pills.”
“Why not just take your pills?” 

“I did, back in ‘73. Never again.”

“I understand sir, but why?”

He took a long breath and focused himself back. I could tell I was upsetting him, but couldn’t see how. He took out a notepad of his own and began doodling. “Son, when I was much younger than you, they sent me a letter. *‘DRAFT NOTICE’* was scrawled across the top. My number had come in and it was my turn to sign a blank check for Uncle Sam. I’m no yuppie. I went straight down to the station and asked for infantry. If I was going to go to that god forsaken jungle, they were putting me in the fight. They sent me to training and then to the line. 11B. My AG and I were told to hump the M60 up and down that jungle every day. The days were great.” He began to drift off as he told this story. If I was mistaken, I would say that he enjoyed his time over there. “Every environment was target rich. We didn’t get hung up on classification. If you weren’t in an American uniform, you shouldn't have stayed. We warned them. We told them that anyone around would be treated as hostile. They chose to stay.”

His hand began shaking and the pencil fell to the ground. I stood to retrieve and he waved me down. “Won’t do me any good. The tremors seem to last longer and longer. The first time I came upon a village was outside of Da Nang. These people could have fooled you. They acted like they didn’t even know a war was going on. The translator shouted something and they all got riled up. The flamer took to a roof and everything scattered. My AG and I personally ensured that 35 Vietcong operatives had their plans foiled that day. Hell the sick freaks were even recruiting children back then. My actions that day got me a battlefield promotion to Sergeant. That meant they took my big gun but I got the NVD. Back then, they were a big clunky piece of metal. You didn’t want to wear the damn things but they helped you see at night.”

He paused. For the first time since he began, I could see some hesitation. His eyes stared off into the corner and I sat as still as possible. I could see him replaying every moment he had suffered like a movie reel. I managed to squeak out “Mr. Simpson? Are you alright?” That’s when he snapped.

“We shouldn’t have been there! The night was theirs! We got greedy!” The orderly’s heard the yelling and rushed into the room. Two escorted me outside while they gave him an injection. 

“I’m sorry honey but you’ll have to comeback later. Mr. Simpson is a little out of it.” She giggled at me and I returned her smile. I couldn’t see it but I felt it fade as soon as she turned away where no one could see. I took a brief trip to the employee break room and grabbed some vending machine gruel. I made my way back to Mr. SImpsons as he began his lunch.

“Please, come in my boy. You’ll have to excuse my prior behaviors. Harder and harder to control these days.” He returned to his ham sandwich and I resettled into my seat. “After I became accustomed to my new role, I returned to patrols. Now I was on the night shift. That’s where the NVD came in handy. I switched it on and the entire jungle lit up red. I could see for miles. THe eyes of the animals and every leaf on the trees. If I remember the manual right, they were Dicyanin. That’s about the time that I got close with Charles. Day three in the jungle and he came walking out of the brush. With his hands up he explained that he had been taken prisoner and that he had escaped. I talked with him about what he knew and we welcomed him into our fold. During the day, he would stay with himself. At night, he was right beside me. When I left, Charles came with me. Despite the anger and hatred that I had for those people, Charles was right there.”

He fumbled with his tray. I hadn’t noticed before but he was fidgeting with his silverware. After another deep breath and a swig of murky water, he continued. “When I made it back stateside, they gave me an evaluation. There had been some complaints from my men about my outbursts. According to them, I had a tendency to lash out. I spent a week in the hospital and Charles was right by my side. As luck would have it, he got the bed next to mine. We talked about home and the women we left behind. Most of all we talked about food. After time in the jungle, all you can think about is your favorite burger shop. They came in and gave me a pill that was supposed to help with my sleep and my anger. I didn’t know any better back then so I took them. That night Charles left. I didn’t see him for years.” He stopped and wiped at his eyes. I pretended not to see but noted it all the same. “Two months later I met my Sarah. She was a beauty. Long tanned legs joined together at a small toned waist, Her brain matched the excellence of everything else she possessed. We sat for hours and just talked. After they gave me my discharge, I proposed and we moved to Wyoming. For the next couple of years, I spent my days as a carpenter in town. At night I would sit on the back deck and remember the darkness of the jungle. Sarah made sure that I took my medication every day but they couldn’t get rid of the memories.”

“Did you and Sarah have any children?” 

“We had two beautiful boys. Terrell Jr. and Chucky. We lived the perfect suburban life for a couple of years and I had all but written my friend out of my life. Then my oldest ordered a set of night vision glasses from the back of a comic book. I took him outside to play with them and when I looked through them I was right back. My property was bathed in a coat of red and out of the underbrush walked Charles.”

“After all of those years, he was on your property?”

“I guess he had gotten my address from the VA. I sent the boys inside and we sat on the porch for hours. Between drinks, he told me the truth about the medication. He told me that they had given it to him and he had almost forgotten everything. He lost everything that had made him who he was so he stopped. I offered him the couch but he took off towards town as the sun came up. When Sarah woke, I told her about him. Her time as a nurse made her hesitant about Charles’ advice but I wasn’t having it. I flushed all of my pills and began my life as a free man. That’s when I got angry. I spent the next 6 months swinging and yelling at them about everything they did. The dishes were never done fast enough and dinner was never on time. She couldn’t do enough to please me. The boys began suffering in school and I made sure they knew how I felt. After a time, Sarah gave me an ultimatum. ‘Take your pills or we’re gone.’ I’ll never forget the day she told me that. That night, I snuck into the bathroom and took them. The next morning they were gone. I took them for a couple of months and I spent that time alone.”

“That must have been really hard on you.”

“She was gone. She took the boys with her, but left her things. I kept hope that she would come back and managed to keep everything clean and ready for her. I ran out of pills and that’s when Charles came back. He took up in our basement, said he needed a place. The next day, she came back. I apologized, she cried, the boys ran back to their rooms. My house was full of the joyful noise of a family again. Charles kept to himself and only came out after everyone else had gone to bed. He would come out of the basement and share my solitude. In the darkness, he told me what the pills were doing.”

They came in and took his tray. He wiped himself up and washed his hands. Once everyone was gone he made his way around the room cleaning everything anyone touched. I got caught up in the action and straightened my pencil alongside my notepad and brushed my eraser shavings into a pile. He glared at the pile and returned to his chair. “They took everything from me. The cycle repeated over and over. They’d leave when I took the pills. All of them. When I’d stop, they’d come back. I couldn’t stand losing them again so I started flushing them. My wife would get me my pills and I would palm them like a magician. After a good couple of weeks, Charles sat me down for another fireside chat. I’ll never forget when he looked me in the eyes and told me the truth.” He deepened his voice. “‘They’re not real Terry.’ No one had called me Terry since my dad passed. ‘They just want you to be alone. That’s why she’s so adamant about the pills.’ I couldn’t believe it. My beautiful Sarah. Could she really be capable of this? I watched her closer that night and damn if he wasn’t right. The next morning she tried to give me the pills and I snapped.”

At that moment I remember where I had heard the name. I remember the story. I didn’t want to stop him but I don’t know if I was ready for what came next. “I slapped her hand and grabbed her throat. The tighter I squeezed, the wider her eyes got. She tried to beg but all she could squeak out was a ‘why?’.” His hands grasped at the air and I watched his eyes glaze over. “Terrell jr. came out after he heard the commotion. He attempted to fight me off but his little 8 year old frame couldn’t do much. By that point she had gone limp and pale. By the time I noticed, I turned on him. Blow after blow his little body never stood a chance. Every strike I could feel my mind healing. These demons that haunted my brain were finally getting what they deserved. Once he had been reduced to a pile of flesh, I took a breath. My knuckles were hamburger and my face was warm with blood spatter. I wiped my eyes clean and thought to chucky. I walked into the dark of his room and watched him sleep. As he laid there, nestled in his Sesame Street blanket, I had a moment of doubt. I remembered the day he was born. All three of his birthdays. I remembered him unwrapping the Elmo that was firmly grasped by his tiny hands. I was brought back when I saw Charles. In the darkest corner, Charles sat in the chair we used to rock my boys to sleep with. In his hand was the knife we carried back then. ‘You know what needs to be done. Everything they’ve done to you.’ I rubbed my boys hair. He woke up as we stood there. ‘Daddy?’ Was the last thing I heard as Charles pressed my hand down through his ribs. I got a nod of approval and he walked away into the day. I sat on the porch and had the first cigarette in years while I waited for the cops.”

I was taken aback. Never before had I heard someone explain something so heinous in such detail. I was about to ask a question when he continued. “The police said I had a psychotic break. They forced me to take my medication during the trial. For the first time, I saw the photos of what I had done. They were still there, but Charles was no where to be seen.”

I finished my notes and we chatted for the better part of an hour. The orderly came and collected me around time for supper. I bid Mr. Simpson adieu and took off toward my car. Despite his crimes, I couldn’t help but feel bad for a man so far gone that reality is seemingly lost. Throughout my career, I’ve heard just about every tale under the sun. The part of this that stuck with me happened as I left. I passed a man that looked to be about the age of my host. I would swear that I heard him ask for Terry. It was only when I returned home that I realized I had forgotten to pack my own medications. 

#12111950

January 25, 1998

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." When the target of my high school affection expressed an interest in nihilism, I adopted an interest in the writings of Nietzsche. Immortalized as my senior quote, the darkness within expired as she left for her east coast school. 

I was caught in a trip down memory lane when the envelope fell through the mail slot. Its crisp white edges accentuated the harsh black letter head and return address. As I stared at the name, I was consumed by a sense of dread and knowledge that the sender was in need of someone to listen. Though my career was built on the puff pieces of local sports, I had built a reputation that attracted those in need of an ear. This time, I was needed in New Jersey. 

As I approached the front gate of the Marlboro State Hospital, I was taken aback.  The cold wrought iron fence surrounding the property stood in stark contrast to the lovely cottage style buildings. Had they been shorter, they could have passed for a little Holland. Once through the main doors, there was no mistaking it. The air was full of an attempt to sterilize and human excrement. The patients wandering showed little in terms of hope or hygiene. The orderly at the desk greeted me with a fake smile and escorted me to the room of Mr. Terrell Simpson. 

As we neared the door, he stopped me. “Mr. Simpson has been here a long time and refuses to take his medication. If you need help, there’s a button by the door. Someone will be right down the hall and ready to assist.” Despite my newfound anxiety about what awaited, I knocked and entered. 

Mr. Simpson kept his room as a respite from the facility. The clean floors were accented by the pictures and drawings taped to his walls. Everything had a place, and everything was in it. He didn’t strike me as a reader, but the books on his shelf were dust free and organized alphabetically. In the corner by the window sat the man himself. Well over the age of 70, he was hunched over a drawing desk. What hair he had left dusted the top of his head like an early winter flurry. As I entered I called his name and his head snapped to meet my gaze. “What do you want?” He barked at me in a voice full of tar and a hint of despair. Sure that he wasn’t looking for an answer, I held up the letter. 

His face lit up. For what I’m sure is the first time here, he seemed excited for what the day held. “My apologies.” He struggled up from his chair. “I assumed they stole my mail like usual or that you had thrown it away. After all of these years, I had just accepted that no one cared what I had to say.” He grabbed my hand and introduced himself. I did the same and he showed me to a chair opposite the room. I sat up my recorder and notepad as he turned his chair and then resettled. His voice had lightened, almost showing a hint of joy. “They won’t listen to me out here. All they say is ‘take your pills’ and ‘you should really listen to the doctor.’ Those bastards, all they know are pills.”
“Why not just take your pills?” 

“I did, back in ‘73. Never again.”

“I understand sir, but why?”

He took a long breath and focused himself back. I could tell I was upsetting him, but couldn’t see how. He took out a notepad of his own and began doodling. “Son, when I was much younger than you, they sent me a letter. *‘DRAFT NOTICE’* was scrawled across the top. My number had come in and it was my turn to sign a blank check for Uncle Sam. I’m no yuppie. I went straight down to the station and asked for infantry. If I was going to go to that god forsaken jungle, they were putting me in the fight. They sent me to training and then to the line. 11B. My AG and I were told to hump the M60 up and down that jungle every day. The days were great.” He began to drift off as he told this story. If I was mistaken, I would say that he enjoyed his time over there. “Every environment was target rich. We didn’t get hung up on classification. If you weren’t in an American uniform, you shouldn't have stayed. We warned them. We told them that anyone around would be treated as hostile. They chose to stay.”

His hand began shaking and the pencil fell to the ground. I stood to retrieve and he waved me down. “Won’t do me any good. The tremors seem to last longer and longer. The first time I came upon a village was outside of Da Nang. These people could have fooled you. They acted like they didn’t even know a war was going on. The translator shouted something and they all got riled up. The flamer took to a roof and everything scattered. My AG and I personally ensured that 35 Vietcong operatives had their plans foiled that day. Hell the sick freaks were even recruiting children back then. My actions that day got me a battlefield promotion to Sergeant. That meant they took my big gun but I got the NVD. Back then, they were a big clunky piece of metal. You didn’t want to wear the damn things but they helped you see at night.”

He paused. For the first time since he began, I could see some hesitation. His eyes stared off into the corner and I sat as still as possible. I could see him replaying every moment he had suffered like a movie reel. I managed to squeak out “Mr. Simpson? Are you alright?” That’s when he snapped.

“We shouldn’t have been there! The night was theirs! We got greedy!” The orderly’s heard the yelling and rushed into the room. Two escorted me outside while they gave him an injection. 

“I’m sorry honey but you’ll have to comeback later. Mr. Simpson is a little out of it.” She giggled at me and I returned her smile. I couldn’t see it but I felt it fade as soon as she turned away where no one could see. I took a brief trip to the employee break room and grabbed some vending machine gruel. I made my way back to Mr. SImpsons as he began his lunch.

“Please, come in my boy. You’ll have to excuse my prior behaviors. Harder and harder to control these days.” He returned to his ham sandwich and I resettled into my seat. “After I became accustomed to my new role, I returned to patrols. Now I was on the night shift. That’s where the NVD came in handy. I switched it on and the entire jungle lit up red. I could see for miles. THe eyes of the animals and every leaf on the trees. If I remember the manual right, they were Dicyanin. That’s about the time that I got close with Charles. Day three in the jungle and he came walking out of the brush. With his hands up he explained that he had been taken prisoner and that he had escaped. I talked with him about what he knew and we welcomed him into our fold. During the day, he would stay with himself. At night, he was right beside me. When I left, Charles came with me. Despite the anger and hatred that I had for those people, Charles was right there.”

He fumbled with his tray. I hadn’t noticed before but he was fidgeting with his silverware. After another deep breath and a swig of murky water, he continued. “When I made it back stateside, they gave me an evaluation. There had been some complaints from my men about my outbursts. According to them, I had a tendency to lash out. I spent a week in the hospital and Charles was right by my side. As luck would have it, he got the bed next to mine. We talked about home and the women we left behind. Most of all we talked about food. After time in the jungle, all you can think about is your favorite burger shop. They came in and gave me a pill that was supposed to help with my sleep and my anger. I didn’t know any better back then so I took them. That night Charles left. I didn’t see him for years.” He stopped and wiped at his eyes. I pretended not to see but noted it all the same. “Two months later I met my Sarah. She was a beauty. Long tanned legs joined together at a small toned waist, Her brain matched the excellence of everything else she possessed. We sat for hours and just talked. After they gave me my discharge, I proposed and we moved to Wyoming. For the next couple of years, I spent my days as a carpenter in town. At night I would sit on the back deck and remember the darkness of the jungle. Sarah made sure that I took my medication every day but they couldn’t get rid of the memories.”

“Did you and Sarah have any children?” 

“We had two beautiful boys. Terrell Jr. and Chucky. We lived the perfect suburban life for a couple of years and I had all but written my friend out of my life. Then my oldest ordered a set of night vision glasses from the back of a comic book. I took him outside to play with them and when I looked through them I was right back. My property was bathed in a coat of red and out of the underbrush walked Charles.”

“After all of those years, he was on your property?”

“I guess he had gotten my address from the VA. I sent the boys inside and we sat on the porch for hours. Between drinks, he told me the truth about the medication. He told me that they had given it to him and he had almost forgotten everything. He lost everything that had made him who he was so he stopped. I offered him the couch but he took off towards town as the sun came up. When Sarah woke, I told her about him. Her time as a nurse made her hesitant about Charles’ advice but I wasn’t having it. I flushed all of my pills and began my life as a free man. That’s when I got angry. I spent the next 6 months swinging and yelling at them about everything they did. The dishes were never done fast enough and dinner was never on time. She couldn’t do enough to please me. The boys began suffering in school and I made sure they knew how I felt. After a time, Sarah gave me an ultimatum. ‘Take your pills or we’re gone.’ I’ll never forget the day she told me that. That night, I snuck into the bathroom and took them. The next morning they were gone. I took them for a couple of months and I spent that time alone.”

“That must have been really hard on you.”

“She was gone. She took the boys with her, but left her things. I kept hope that she would come back and managed to keep everything clean and ready for her. I ran out of pills and that’s when Charles came back. He took up in our basement, said he needed a place. The next day, she came back. I apologized, she cried, the boys ran back to their rooms. My house was full of the joyful noise of a family again. Charles kept to himself and only came out after everyone else had gone to bed. He would come out of the basement and share my solitude. In the darkness, he told me what the pills were doing.”

They came in and took his tray. He wiped himself up and washed his hands. Once everyone was gone he made his way around the room cleaning everything anyone touched. I got caught up in the action and straightened my pencil alongside my notepad and brushed my eraser shavings into a pile. He glared at the pile and returned to his chair. “They took everything from me. The cycle repeated over and over. They’d leave when I took the pills. All of them. When I’d stop, they’d come back. I couldn’t stand losing them again so I started flushing them. My wife would get me my pills and I would palm them like a magician. After a good couple of weeks, Charles sat me down for another fireside chat. I’ll never forget when he looked me in the eyes and told me the truth.” He deepened his voice. “‘They’re not real Terry.’ No one had called me Terry since my dad passed. ‘They just want you to be alone. That’s why she’s so adamant about the pills.’ I couldn’t believe it. My beautiful Sarah. Could she really be capable of this? I watched her closer that night and damn if he wasn’t right. The next morning she tried to give me the pills and I snapped.”

At that moment I remember where I had heard the name. I remember the story. I didn’t want to stop him but I don’t know if I was ready for what came next. “I slapped her hand and grabbed her throat. The tighter I squeezed, the wider her eyes got. She tried to beg but all she could squeak out was a ‘why?’.” His hands grasped at the air and I watched his eyes glaze over. “Terrell jr. came out after he heard the commotion. He attempted to fight me off but his little 8 year old frame couldn’t do much. By that point she had gone limp and pale. By the time I noticed, I turned on him. Blow after blow his little body never stood a chance. Every strike I could feel my mind healing. These demons that haunted my brain were finally getting what they deserved. Once he had been reduced to a pile of flesh, I took a breath. My knuckles were hamburger and my face was warm with blood spatter. I wiped my eyes clean and thought to chucky. I walked into the dark of his room and watched him sleep. As he laid there, nestled in his Sesame Street blanket, I had a moment of doubt. I remembered the day he was born. All three of his birthdays. I remembered him unwrapping the Elmo that was firmly grasped by his tiny hands. I was brought back when I saw Charles. In the darkest corner, Charles sat in the chair we used to rock my boys to sleep with. In his hand was the knife we carried back then. ‘You know what needs to be done. Everything they’ve done to you.’ I rubbed my boys hair. He woke up as we stood there. ‘Daddy?’ Was the last thing I heard as Charles pressed my hand down through his ribs. I got a nod of approval and he walked away into the day. I sat on the porch and had the first cigarette in years while I waited for the cops.”

I was taken aback. Never before had I heard someone explain something so heinous in such detail. I was about to ask a question when he continued. “The police said I had a psychotic break. They forced me to take my medication during the trial. For the first time, I saw the photos of what I had done. They were still there, but Charles was no where to be seen.”

I finished my notes and we chatted for the better part of an hour. The orderly came and collected me around time for supper. I bid Mr. Simpson adieu and took off toward my car. Despite his crimes, I couldn’t help but feel bad for a man so far gone that reality is seemingly lost. Throughout my career, I’ve heard just about every tale under the sun. The part of this that stuck with me happened as I left. I passed a man that looked to be about the age of my host. I would swear that I heard him ask for Terry. It was only when I returned home that I realized I had forgotten to pack my own medications. 

https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/qEEmhdb2VE

This may be a long shot and I’m not even sure if it’s allowed or not. In the Patreon episode this week, Isaiah said that his biggest nightmare is losing his wife and kid. I so happen to have two stories about that exact thing. If you feel so inclined, I would love to see what he thinks, even if they don’t get read. I don’t do Instagram or twitter so I can’t DM him. Can anyone help?

Go check out the Mesoscale Podcast. Great guys, great show. Also check out mesoscale podcast on Reddit.

When I got the call, I knew my troubles were over. For as long as I can remember, I had lived paycheck to paycheck. Concrete work pays well but the three rounds of child support made sure I had just enough to survive. When the government drops a project like this, everyone sees the payday. After what we had all been through, a paycheck was all anyone could see. This trip to Boulder was the ticket I had been praying for.

The job site was breathtaking. The walls of the canyon perfectly framed the mighty Colorado. Its layers of volcanic rock accentuated the sunset over the ridge. As the river flowed and deepened its path through Nevada, I was caught in awe of what nature can accomplish. These accomplishments stood in the way of man’s advancement and dominion over his surroundings. The ground shook as we asserted our explosive dominance over all of God’s creation. 

With the diversion channels dug and water redirected, the forms went in. I was at the site late one night, adjusting the third layer of boards. With the expected load, we had to get experimental with the work we did. Instead of letting the pieces cure fully and then joining, we needed to pour them together. With 125 feet between me and the dry riverbed, I went to work sealing the mold for the next day. My foot slipped into the semi-cured concrete and was absorbed into its warm mass. As I fought to save my new boots, the thunder in the distance reared its head from the diversion channel. The Colorado had become the Mississippi and I faced a wall of water attempting to reclaim its natural path. The force took away my breath and sent me fully into the wet concrete. 

My life played before me like the most depressing peep show. Failure after failure. Marriages, careers, everything that I could ruin I did. Hell, the only image I saw of my children was in the rearview mirror as their tears begged me to stay. It all came rushing back as the memories caught up with the harsh warm reality of my fate. That gray blanket engulfed me. As my lungs filled and became heavy, I was pulled into the abyss.

I was never a good negotiator. When faced with what I can only describe as the deal of a lifetime, I couldn’t pass it up. I was told by the voice that the option was mine and mine alone. No man could prevent the inevitable, but I could prolong it. A second chance. A small price for what most only dream of. I woke up in the man camp, sweaty and cold. The only thing that could clear my head was a walk through the brisk desert night. I felt the familiar rumble and convinced myself that it was all a bad dream. 

That morning, everything went the same as everyone before. Between layers and moisture checks, the whistle went out in the canyon. The shrill tone could mean only one thing, a man fell overboard. The crew tried to lower the ladder, but it was too late. When concrete lacks the proper moisture level, it acts more as quicksand. Thomas was swallowed by the thick gray beast and all we could do was take a moment and lower our hats. We continued working as the foreman penned a letter to his wife. She would receive the letter, his last month’s wages, and the task of restarting life as a widow. As I lay my head down that night, the void returned. 

“Your task is yours alone. The choice is yours alone. Chance can not complete all things we deem difficult.” These words echoed through the depths of my mind. I knew exactly what it meant. Thomas was the first of a series of workplace accidents. Johnathan, Christopher, and Steve all fell to the weight of our profession. Tyler slipped on a wet edge and Justin lost a fight with the diversion tunnels. The voices went away about the time that the guard rail went up. We had an all hands meeting about the dangers of a project like this. With my second chance cemented, I went back to work. Then the cracks started to form.

At first, we thought they were blasting another path. The rains in the north were forcing the water to crest. The blasting woke me up. I stepped out to see why they were digging so close to camp when the siren sounded. I watched the emergency team fail at patching a hole exactly where I had dreamed I fell in. The water had begun to rush into the diversion channel and the cracks only grew. 

I ran to the site and attempted to be useful. When it was obvious I was slowing everyone down, I stepped back and studied the water’s destruction path. Unbeknownst to us, they had built the first of a neighborhood about 3 miles down. I could just make out a car in a driveway with someone climbing out of the backseat. “Your Choice” echoed in my head. I walked up behind Travis and gave him a nudge. The official report read that he got caught up in the rush, but I knew. I alone knew the sacrifice of those actions. The men began to win the fight against the cracks and the next day it was business as usual. 

Over the next six months, countless workers became permanent installations of that great gray monument to man’s hubris. When the final form went up, I overheard talk of layoffs. Without concrete to lay, there was no need for men like me. While most worried about pay, I was left to worry about what would be left. Without food for its savage hunger, would the dam hold? Had the water truly been tamed?

The day I received my termination, I took one last walk on the dam. For the first time since that day, I looked down at the sprawling neighborhood. Swing sets and dog houses peppered the ignorant little settlement in the valley. I knew what needed done. As my foot left the lip, I heard the whistle and prayed that my children would know not of what happened. Time slowed to a halt as I flew toward the only answer. Once again I saw everything I had done wrong. This time, it filled me with pride. A waste of oxygen like me was given this task and I would finally be responsible for the safety and protection of someone else. Maybe my father would be proud. As the ground grew near, I looked to the results of our work. The gray wall of control that we had erected seemed to stretch for miles. So did the new forming crack in the bottom. 

When I got the call, I knew my troubles were over. For as long as I can remember, I had lived paycheck to paycheck. Concrete work pays well but the three rounds of child support made sure I had just enough to survive. When the government drops a project like this, everyone sees the payday. After what we had all been through, a paycheck was all anyone could see. This trip to Boulder was the ticket I had been praying for.

The job site was breathtaking. The walls of the canyon perfectly framed the mighty Colorado. Its layers of volcanic rock accentuated the sunset over the ridge. As the river flowed and deepened its path through Nevada, I was caught in awe of what nature can accomplish. These accomplishments stood in the way of man’s advancement and dominion over his surroundings. The ground shook as we asserted our explosive dominance over all of God’s creation. 

With the diversion channels dug and water redirected, the forms went in. I was at the site late one night, adjusting the third layer of boards. With the expected load, we had to get experimental with the work we did. Instead of letting the pieces cure fully and then joining, we needed to pour them together. With 125 feet between me and the dry riverbed, I went to work sealing the mold for the next day. My foot slipped into the semi-cured concrete and was absorbed into its warm mass. As I fought to save my new boots, the thunder in the distance reared its head from the diversion channel. The Colorado had become the Mississippi and I faced a wall of water attempting to reclaim its natural path. The force took away my breath and sent me fully into the wet concrete. 

My life played before me like the most depressing peep show. Failure after failure. Marriages, careers, everything that I could ruin I did. Hell, the only image I saw of my children was in the rearview mirror as their tears begged me to stay. It all came rushing back as the memories caught up with the harsh warm reality of my fate. That gray blanket engulfed me. As my lungs filled and became heavy, I was pulled into the abyss.

I was never a good negotiator. When faced with what I can only describe as the deal of a lifetime, I couldn’t pass it up. I was told by the voice that the option was mine and mine alone. No man could prevent the inevitable, but I could prolong it. A second chance. A small price for what most only dream of. I woke up in the man camp, sweaty and cold. The only thing that could clear my head was a walk through the brisk desert night. I felt the familiar rumble and convinced myself that it was all a bad dream. 

That morning, everything went the same as everyone before. Between layers and moisture checks, the whistle went out in the canyon. The shrill tone could mean only one thing, a man fell overboard. The crew tried to lower the ladder, but it was too late. When concrete lacks the proper moisture level, it acts more as quicksand. Thomas was swallowed by the thick gray beast and all we could do was take a moment and lower our hats. We continued working as the foreman penned a letter to his wife. She would receive the letter, his last month’s wages, and the task of restarting life as a widow. As I lay my head down that night, the void returned. 

“Your task is yours alone. The choice is yours alone. Chance can not complete all things we deem difficult.” These words echoed through the depths of my mind. I knew exactly what it meant. Thomas was the first of a series of workplace accidents. Johnathan, Christopher, and Steve all fell to the weight of our profession. Tyler slipped on a wet edge and Justin lost a fight with the diversion tunnels. The voices went away about the time that the guard rail went up. We had an all hands meeting about the dangers of a project like this. With my second chance cemented, I went back to work. Then the cracks started to form.

At first, we thought they were blasting another path. The rains in the north were forcing the water to crest. The blasting woke me up. I stepped out to see why they were digging so close to camp when the siren sounded. I watched the emergency team fail at patching a hole exactly where I had dreamed I fell in. The water had begun to rush into the diversion channel and the cracks only grew. 

I ran to the site and attempted to be useful. When it was obvious I was slowing everyone down, I stepped back and studied the water’s destruction path. Unbeknownst to us, they had built the first of a neighborhood about 3 miles down. I could just make out a car in a driveway with someone climbing out of the backseat. “Your Choice” echoed in my head. I walked up behind Travis and gave him a nudge. The official report read that he got caught up in the rush, but I knew. I alone knew the sacrifice of those actions. The men began to win the fight against the cracks and the next day it was business as usual. 

Over the next six months, countless workers became permanent installations of that great gray monument to man’s hubris. When the final form went up, I overheard talk of layoffs. Without concrete to lay, there was no need for men like me. While most worried about pay, I was left to worry about what would be left. Without food for its savage hunger, would the dam hold? Had the water truly been tamed?

The day I received my termination, I took one last walk on the dam. For the first time since that day, I looked down at the sprawling neighborhood. Swing sets and dog houses peppered the ignorant little settlement in the valley. I knew what needed done. As my foot left the lip, I heard the whistle and prayed that my children would know not of what happened. Time slowed to a halt as I flew toward the only answer. Once again I saw everything I had done wrong. This time, it filled me with pride. A waste of oxygen like me was given this task and I would finally be responsible for the safety and protection of someone else. Maybe my father would be proud. As the ground grew near, I looked to the results of our work. The gray wall of control that we had erected seemed to stretch for miles. So did the new forming crack in the bottom. 

\#08201890

November 5, 1996

The only thing worse than a painful death, is unknowingly inflicting pain on those who make life worth living. I remember my father speaking these words, perhaps a bit louder than appropriate, after his father’s wake. Though masked by layers of grief and scotch, my father had finally told the truth. For the past 9 months, he had been the sole caretaker of my grandfather as he spiraled into the darkness of his dementia ridden mind. Despite his objections, we could all see the toll it was taking on him. His personal superman had devolved into a sniveling, angry little baby that filled his waking hours with curses and threats. My father never claimed that his father was a kind man, but this was too much for even him. 12 years later, that apple finally fell at the base of my family tree. I was helping my mother through the affairs at the funeral home when I met him.

The Mortician stepped out to meet us. His thin frame, paired with the plastic black hair, sent a chill down my spine. His cold hand was outstretched and I noticed a tremor. Through the cigarettes on his breath, I caught his condolences. With the handshake of a man that had gone too long away from the living, this man could’ve passed for one of his clientele. My mother and I shared a glance and I followed him outside for a smoke. I pulled the last pack my  father bought from my shirt pocket and leaned against the hood of his car. “I’ve tried to send you letters but could never narrow down an address.” He ended his sentence as abruptly as it started. I caught an inhale in my throat and fell into a coughing fit. When I collected myself he seemed embarrassed. “My apologies. This isn’t the time. I’m sure you have so much on your mind.”

I shook my head. “No, please. I welcome the distraction and haven’t had a good story in months.” Hoping not to come off too desperate, I gave him a smile. This show of affection, though forced it may be, seemed to warm something in his eyes. We planned to meet that evening for drinks and I rejoined my mother. She scolded me for smoking and I agreed to try and quit. After sitting through the salesman’s spiel, we settled on something simple and went our own separate ways. I’m sure my mother needed the time as much as I did.

I met Tony at the bar that night as planned. When I walked in he waved me to a dark booth in the far corner of the room. The beer in his hand had lost more volume through sweat than it had via consumption. His frail torso was swallowed by the shadow cast from the small lamp above the table. “Th-thank you for meeting me.” He refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t expect you to come. With everything you’re going through, I figured you’d forget or be too busy.” I reassured him once again that this was a welcome distraction and shouted a drink order to the bartender. 

Once every excuse not to start had been exhausted and there was no other way to talk about the weather, I clicked on my recorder. “My name is Tony Hayes and I am the mortician at the All Faiths Funeral Chapel. I have been with the chapel for 35 years and have processed well over 2900 cadavers. The owners are family to me and I would never leave them without a mortician, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this job.” The tremor I noticed earlier had gotten worse. His beer would be overflowing with foam, had it not gone flat hours before. He stepped to the bar, threw back a small glass that the bartender seemed to have ready, and returned with a much darker glass in hand. 

We talked about his new choice in libation and I notice that the courage seems to strengthen with his BAC. With a newfound sense of self, Tony began again. “Sorry about that. I’m not myself until I can get a couple in me. Habit from my old man. Guess all of them are the same around here huh.” He chuckled and nudged my arm. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Your old man liked the sauce. Just like his. So did mine. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He seemed to lose the facade that the whiskey had built. I didn’t know his family. I didn’t know that he knew mine. 

“You must’ve been closer than I realized. I’m sorry I didn’t realize before.”

“Nonsense. I may have noticed him a time or two here but we weren’t close. Folks don’t keep a lot of secrets once they get to my office.” He stopped himself. Assuming that he was cautious about speaking too frankly about the body of my father, I moved on. 

“Tony, why have you brought me here tonight?”

“I’ve never told anyone about this before. No one else needed to be stuck with this but you’ve seen so much that I’m sure you can handle it. Like I said, I have handled more bodies than this town has ever housed. As of the last few years, things have changed. I used to love my job. I’ve never been one to require a lot of conversation. The mortuary is a perfect place when you enjoy the quiet. The only sounds most nights were the vacuum tubes pumping fluids and the field mice outside the windows. Then I worked on Mr. Stephenson.” He knocked back his drink and grabbed another. 

After an awkward amount of time at the bar, Tony sat back down and offered me a cigarette. I refused but offered my lighter and he continued between pulls. “Mr. Stephenson was a standard case. 87 years old with a wife, kids, grandkids, and a pomeranian that took on the brunt of his empty nesting. He was brought to me following a heart attack. Peaceful way to go really. I’ve seen the faces of death and it’s always the quick ones that give me hope. I was working on his mouth when I heard it. Behind me, I would swear that I heard someone whistle.”

“Obviously you would be unsettled by that but you didn’t bring me all the way out here to tell me about John working late on his coffin quotas.”

“The building was empty. I walked around the place myself. Doors were locked and windows secured. I wrote it off as the wind and went back downstairs. Sitting on the chair beside the door was Mr. Stephenson.” I looked up from my notepad and he raised his hands. “I know. I didn’t want to buy it at first either. Hell I brushed him off. The entire time he looked over my shoulder and commented on my work. Eventually I had finished preparations and went to return him to the wall locker. He seemed scared. ‘Son please don’t put me in there.’ Where an old man laid on my table, the voice of a child seemed to come from the man behind me. I looked into the body and apologised. ’Mr. Thompson, I have to. I’m sorry.’ Then I shut the door and he was gone. I never saw him again.”

He sat down his drink and I noticed a tattoo on his arm that the long white shirt of his profession hid during the working hours. “What’s on your arm there?” He seemed surprised and almost offended that I noticed. After his hand decided that I could see it, he rolled his sleeve and uncovered a series of carvings. Each one more intricate than the last. Doing what I do, I have encountered strange symbols in the oddest of places, but these had me stumped.

“Those are a past life. Something I try every day to forget. I can’t escape what I’ve done, but every job puts me closer to being square.” Feeling like his answer satisfied my curiosity, he left for a refill. I tried to scrawl the symbols down to find them at a library, but my artistry is ranked above only my penmanship. When the bench squeaked under his weight, I abandoned the effort and returned to the work at hand. “My next encounter was Mrs. Stephenson. She was a vehicle accident that left most of her earthly form to the imagination. Thankfully, the family decided on a closed casket so my job was only to preserve. I pulled back the sheet and her eyes bored holes into my forehead. I pulled what was left of her eyelids closed and went about my business. With my slurry prepped, I turned back and she was sitting upright on the table. ‘Why would you do this to me?’ I tried to explain to her that none of this was my fault and it’s what had to happen. ‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.’ Most people are surprised by their death. In her case though, I don’t think that’s what surprised her when she looked at the remainder of the body on my bench.”

We continued for the better half of the night, discussing the odds and ends of his spectral visitors. What he never did though was go into the details of his process. As he loosened beyond control, I found a window to push. “So Tony, I’ve heard the stories of your encounters. What I don’t know is how an embalming is done.” His face lit up at the opportunity to explain his work.

“Before everything went pear shaped, it was a simple task really. I started in, oh, ‘73. Back then it was a lot of cotton stuffing and hand pumps. The job was messier, but you got to really feel like you worked with your hands.” I glanced as he held them up, half expecting blood and bile to spill over his well trimmed nails. “Back then there wasn’t nearly as much oversight. He was satisfied with a cat or a couple of birds. Work stayed work and my personal life was at home. Then the chapel purchased a crematory oven and things became complicated.” I paused my writing and looked in his eyes. “The state tends to frown on unauthorized cremations and it’s hard to explain the ashes when nothing was scheduled. Thankfully they always bought the story of ‘I lost my dear bitsy and couldn’t bring myself to bury her.’ Then they caught me loading in a full goat and I did a short stint in the county lockup. When I got out, the owners were gracious enough to give me my old position. It helped that I took a significant cut in pay. Then He came to me in a dream.”

“When you say he, who are we talking?”

“He has no name. I only say He because of the depth of the words. He speaks with the voice of a church organ.” His eyes glazed over and I could see something else take over. “The space that He consumed left no room for light. His eyes pointed in all directions, encompassing all of time in his sight. The angles at which his form settles mimic the creationary lines left behind by the creator of the universe. His meer essence is that of power. The aura which He emits is both enchanting and frightening. I have only seen his full face once, and it falls outside the berth of the english language. The only description I could muster was carved into my arm by the blades of punishment and damnation themselves.” He woke up, cleared his throat, and offered a half hearted apology. “That night, He called for more. His hunger had grown and his power was following. If I was to fulfill my task, I needed to increase my feedings. That is where the oven came in handy.”

He stared at his drink. I stared at my notepad. “So.” I tried to start. “I guess… well… wow.” I sat down my pen. “What exactly do you mean ‘his hunger had grown’?”

“Simply put, pets weren’t enough. First it was Mr. Thompson’s leg. Then Mrs. Stephenson’s torso. Parts and pieces. The state accepts the explanation that it was a ‘bio-hazard’ when justifying crematory burn hours. The organs are always destroyed by the time they reach me and it becomes standard practice to destroy them anyways. When the family comes in for a viewing, they never check below the waist anyways. The grief blinds them to the sudden weight loss of their dearly departed.” He spoke of these people with a callousness I had not seen in him before. “The closed caskets and the cremations are the simplest. When they enter the mortuary, I simply carve his symbol into their chest and do what He requires. If there is any religious paraphernalia present at the time, He simply requests that I remove it and keep the offering pure.” His drink emptied once again, he stood to walk out. “That seems to be the end of my tale. This is usually the part of the night I get cut off and stumble back home. Though I can’t forget, the numbing sensation often quiets those who torment me. At the end we all want to be part of something bigger. We just aren’t prepared for the cost of admission. I’m sure your old man felt the same way. Why else would he ask me for a cremation?”

“I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Your father. He asked that he be cremated rather than his family going through seeing him in pieces.” 

“You spoke to my father?”

“Your father spoke to me. I don’t make the mistake of talking back anymore.” He stumbled off the table. “Besides, the preparations are complete. A full offering is all He needs. If not him, then the next poor sap that can’t afford the box.” As he began to walk out, he slid a card across the table and I hollered after him.

“Preparations? For what?”

“We’ll all see soon enough. I only hope you’ll make the right decision when the time comes for your judgement.” I picked up the card as he walked into the night. In ink from a printer in desperate need of a toner refill it read “35% Off Full Cremation and Urn Preparation Services.” I flipped it over and found the symbols from his arm scrawled in red ink. I threw the card into the trash can and ran out the door after him. I never did see that old man again. All I found in the night of this quiet town was the lights of traffic, intermittently obscured by a plume of smoke. When the wind shifted, I caught the faintest hint of burnt pork and a wail of sorrow. The preparations were already complete. We will all see soon enough.

#08201890

November 5, 1996

The only thing worse than a painful death, is unknowingly inflicting pain on those who make life worth living. I remember my father speaking these words, perhaps a bit louder than appropriate, after his father’s wake. Though masked by layers of grief and scotch, my father had finally told the truth. For the past 9 months, he had been the sole caretaker of my grandfather as he spiraled into the darkness of his dementia ridden mind. Despite his objections, we could all see the toll it was taking on him. His personal superman had devolved into a sniveling, angry little baby that filled his waking hours with curses and threats. My father never claimed that his father was a kind man, but this was too much for even him. 12 years later, that apple finally fell at the base of my family tree. I was helping my mother through the affairs at the funeral home when I met him.

The Mortician stepped out to meet us. His thin frame, paired with the plastic black hair, sent a chill down my spine. His cold hand was outstretched and I noticed a tremor. Through the cigarettes on his breath, I caught his condolences. With the handshake of a man that had gone too long away from the living, this man could’ve passed for one of his clientele. My mother and I shared a glance and I followed him outside for a smoke. I pulled the last pack my  father bought from my shirt pocket and leaned against the hood of his car. “I’ve tried to send you letters but could never narrow down an address.” He ended his sentence as abruptly as it started. I caught an inhale in my throat and fell into a coughing fit. When I collected myself he seemed embarrassed. “My apologies. This isn’t the time. I’m sure you have so much on your mind.”

I shook my head. “No, please. I welcome the distraction and haven’t had a good story in months.” Hoping not to come off too desperate, I gave him a smile. This show of affection, though forced it may be, seemed to warm something in his eyes. We planned to meet that evening for drinks and I rejoined my mother. She scolded me for smoking and I agreed to try and quit. After sitting through the salesman’s spiel, we settled on something simple and went our own separate ways. I’m sure my mother needed the time as much as I did.

I met Tony at the bar that night as planned. When I walked in he waved me to a dark booth in the far corner of the room. The beer in his hand had lost more volume through sweat than it had via consumption. His frail torso was swallowed by the shadow cast from the small lamp above the table. “Th-thank you for meeting me.” He refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t expect you to come. With everything you’re going through, I figured you’d forget or be too busy.” I reassured him once again that this was a welcome distraction and shouted a drink order to the bartender. 

Once every excuse not to start had been exhausted and there was no other way to talk about the weather, I clicked on my recorder. “My name is Tony Hayes and I am the mortician at the All Faiths Funeral Chapel. I have been with the chapel for 35 years and have processed well over 2900 cadavers. The owners are family to me and I would never leave them without a mortician, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this job.” The tremor I noticed earlier had gotten worse. His beer would be overflowing with foam, had it not gone flat hours before. He stepped to the bar, threw back a small glass that the bartender seemed to have ready, and returned with a much darker glass in hand. 

We talked about his new choice in libation and I notice that the courage seems to strengthen with his BAC. With a newfound sense of self, Tony began again. “Sorry about that. I’m not myself until I can get a couple in me. Habit from my old man. Guess all of them are the same around here huh.” He chuckled and nudged my arm. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Your old man liked the sauce. Just like his. So did mine. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He seemed to lose the facade that the whiskey had built. I didn’t know his family. I didn’t know that he knew mine. 

“You must’ve been closer than I realized. I’m sorry I didn’t realize before.”

“Nonsense. I may have noticed him a time or two here but we weren’t close. Folks don’t keep a lot of secrets once they get to my office.” He stopped himself. Assuming that he was cautious about speaking too frankly about the body of my father, I moved on. 

“Tony, why have you brought me here tonight?”

“I’ve never told anyone about this before. No one else needed to be stuck with this but you’ve seen so much that I’m sure you can handle it. Like I said, I have handled more bodies than this town has ever housed. As of the last few years, things have changed. I used to love my job. I’ve never been one to require a lot of conversation. The mortuary is a perfect place when you enjoy the quiet. The only sounds most nights were the vacuum tubes pumping fluids and the field mice outside the windows. Then I worked on Mr. Stephenson.” He knocked back his drink and grabbed another. 

After an awkward amount of time at the bar, Tony sat back down and offered me a cigarette. I refused but offered my lighter and he continued between pulls. “Mr. Stephenson was a standard case. 87 years old with a wife, kids, grandkids, and a pomeranian that took on the brunt of his empty nesting. He was brought to me following a heart attack. Peaceful way to go really. I’ve seen the faces of death and it’s always the quick ones that give me hope. I was working on his mouth when I heard it. Behind me, I would swear that I heard someone whistle.”

“Obviously you would be unsettled by that but you didn’t bring me all the way out here to tell me about John working late on his coffin quotas.”

“The building was empty. I walked around the place myself. Doors were locked and windows secured. I wrote it off as the wind and went back downstairs. Sitting on the chair beside the door was Mr. Stephenson.” I looked up from my notepad and he raised his hands. “I know. I didn’t want to buy it at first either. Hell I brushed him off. The entire time he looked over my shoulder and commented on my work. Eventually I had finished preparations and went to return him to the wall locker. He seemed scared. ‘Son please don’t put me in there.’ Where an old man laid on my table, the voice of a child seemed to come from the man behind me. I looked into the body and apologised. ’Mr. Thompson, I have to. I’m sorry.’ Then I shut the door and he was gone. I never saw him again.”

He sat down his drink and I noticed a tattoo on his arm that the long white shirt of his profession hid during the working hours. “What’s on your arm there?” He seemed surprised and almost offended that I noticed. After his hand decided that I could see it, he rolled his sleeve and uncovered a series of carvings. Each one more intricate than the last. Doing what I do, I have encountered strange symbols in the oddest of places, but these had me stumped.

“Those are a past life. Something I try every day to forget. I can’t escape what I’ve done, but every job puts me closer to being square.” Feeling like his answer satisfied my curiosity, he left for a refill. I tried to scrawl the symbols down to find them at a library, but my artistry is ranked above only my penmanship. When the bench squeaked under his weight, I abandoned the effort and returned to the work at hand. “My next encounter was Mrs. Stephenson. She was a vehicle accident that left most of her earthly form to the imagination. Thankfully, the family decided on a closed casket so my job was only to preserve. I pulled back the sheet and her eyes bored holes into my forehead. I pulled what was left of her eyelids closed and went about my business. With my slurry prepped, I turned back and she was sitting upright on the table. ‘Why would you do this to me?’ I tried to explain to her that none of this was my fault and it’s what had to happen. ‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.’ Most people are surprised by their death. In her case though, I don’t think that’s what surprised her when she looked at the remainder of the body on my bench.”

We continued for the better half of the night, discussing the odds and ends of his spectral visitors. What he never did though was go into the details of his process. As he loosened beyond control, I found a window to push. “So Tony, I’ve heard the stories of your encounters. What I don’t know is how an embalming is done.” His face lit up at the opportunity to explain his work.

“Before everything went pear shaped, it was a simple task really. I started in, oh, ‘73. Back then it was a lot of cotton stuffing and hand pumps. The job was messier, but you got to really feel like you worked with your hands.” I glanced as he held them up, half expecting blood and bile to spill over his well trimmed nails. “Back then there wasn’t nearly as much oversight. He was satisfied with a cat or a couple of birds. Work stayed work and my personal life was at home. Then the chapel purchased a crematory oven and things became complicated.” I paused my writing and looked in his eyes. “The state tends to frown on unauthorized cremations and it’s hard to explain the ashes when nothing was scheduled. Thankfully they always bought the story of ‘I lost my dear bitsy and couldn’t bring myself to bury her.’ Then they caught me loading in a full goat and I did a short stint in the county lockup. When I got out, the owners were gracious enough to give me my old position. It helped that I took a significant cut in pay. Then He came to me in a dream.”

“When you say he, who are we talking?”

“He has no name. I only say He because of the depth of the words. He speaks with the voice of a church organ.” His eyes glazed over and I could see something else take over. “The space that He consumed left no room for light. His eyes pointed in all directions, encompassing all of time in his sight. The angles at which his form settles mimic the creationary lines left behind by the creator of the universe. His meer essence is that of power. The aura which He emits is both enchanting and frightening. I have only seen his full face once, and it falls outside the berth of the english language. The only description I could muster was carved into my arm by the blades of punishment and damnation themselves.” He woke up, cleared his throat, and offered a half hearted apology. “That night, He called for more. His hunger had grown and his power was following. If I was to fulfill my task, I needed to increase my feedings. That is where the oven came in handy.”

He stared at his drink. I stared at my notepad. “So.” I tried to start. “I guess… well… wow.” I sat down my pen. “What exactly do you mean ‘his hunger had grown’?”

“Simply put, pets weren’t enough. First it was Mr. Thompson’s leg. Then Mrs. Stephenson’s torso. Parts and pieces. The state accepts the explanation that it was a ‘bio-hazard’ when justifying crematory burn hours. The organs are always destroyed by the time they reach me and it becomes standard practice to destroy them anyways. When the family comes in for a viewing, they never check below the waist anyways. The grief blinds them to the sudden weight loss of their dearly departed.” He spoke of these people with a callousness I had not seen in him before. “The closed caskets and the cremations are the simplest. When they enter the mortuary, I simply carve his symbol into their chest and do what He requires. If there is any religious paraphernalia present at the time, He simply requests that I remove it and keep the offering pure.” His drink emptied once again, he stood to walk out. “That seems to be the end of my tale. This is usually the part of the night I get cut off and stumble back home. Though I can’t forget, the numbing sensation often quiets those who torment me. At the end we all want to be part of something bigger. We just aren’t prepared for the cost of admission. I’m sure your old man felt the same way. Why else would he ask me for a cremation?”

“I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Your father. He asked that he be cremated rather than his family going through seeing him in pieces.” 

“You spoke to my father?”

“Your father spoke to me. I don’t make the mistake of talking back anymore.” He stumbled off the table. “Besides, the preparations are complete. A full offering is all He needs. If not him, then the next poor sap that can’t afford the box.” As he began to walk out, he slid a card across the table and I hollered after him.

“Preparations? For what?”

“We’ll all see soon enough. I only hope you’ll make the right decision when the time comes for your judgement.” I picked up the card as he walked into the night. In ink from a printer in desperate need of a toner refill it read “35% Off Full Cremation and Urn Preparation Services.” I flipped it over and found the symbols from his arm scrawled in red ink. I threw the card into the trash can and ran out the door after him. I never did see that old man again. All I found in the night of this quiet town was the lights of traffic, intermittently obscured by a plume of smoke. When the wind shifted, I caught the faintest hint of burnt pork and a wail of sorrow. The preparations were already complete. We will all see soon enough.

I am jealous of my child. 

Don’t get me wrong, being a father is the best job in the world. Every morning, being met with the sweetest little smile and the feeling that the day holds nothing but new adventures. As she brushed the sleep out of her eyes, we began the day that would cement my feelings forever.

My wife had an early meeting out of town, so it was me and her for breakfast. We sat at the table for oatmeal and blueberries, her favorite. I finished some work as she watched her cartoons and pet her stuffed cat. Blinky was the animal that she had latched on to since birth. When she laid in her warmer at the hospital, Blinky was there to provide the warm touch that we weren’t able to until she gained some weight. We packed everything up into the car and set out for the pool.

We arrived before the crowds and she suited up for the adventure. I sat in the pool as she approached the edge. Her one piece swimsuit with a little tutu was complimented by the water wings and full face goggles that we had purchased for this specific outing. As I assured her that I would always be there to catch her, she leapt into my arms and proceeded to splash around. We swam laps, played Marco Polo, and swam ourselves silly. 

When lunch time came around, we packed up and went to her favorite place. She had always loved the chicken nuggets at Burger King, so for her I choked down a burger. The crown was a little big for her head, but she wore it like a trophy for finishing all of her food. I met the smile in her giant eyes and told her how proud I was that she was growing so big. 

After lunch was the park. Children do have enough energy to power a small city. She ran too and fro from the slide to the swings and back. I chased her around the monkey bars three or four times until she met another kid her age and they took off after one another. I retired to the benches with the other parents and watched her build a relationship that would outlive this trip to the park. 

My wife had made it home by this point and she called to confirm that everything was in place. We had decided to surprise her with a birthday party. This year she was old enough for her first bike so my wife was at home assembling that and finishing the cake. Her mother would have been arriving around then and was starting the decorating. Lilo and Stitch made for a Hawaiian theme with Leis and Hibiscus dotting the living room. We said goodbye to her new best friend and loaded back up. 

Driving home, she started to doze off in the back seat. I looked into the rearview and saw her head cant off to the side as she lost the battle. I turned down the music and cranked the Air Conditioning. She always liked to sleep a little bit cold and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. We made it onto the highway and almost immediately hit traffic. With her in the back, my normal road rage was kept to a hush and we made our way down the interstate to the exit that took us home. 

At the exit, we met a stop light. I took a look around, the road was clear, so I made a right turn. Three more intersections and we turned onto the road that she had always known as home. Three houses down was where she took her first step. That’s where she learned to talk and where she first told me that she loved me. Her bedroom waited where every night she had a bedtime story and we sang her to sleep. She was almost halfway through learning Green Eggs and Ham. She was so proud of herself when she figured out “Boat.” 

As I made the final turn, I didn’t see the truck. Everything slowed. I saw the cattle guard make contact with my passenger side and crumple in the seat where my wife would have been. It ripped off the roof as I saw the passenger tire crest the window. Before I knew it, I was looking up at the custom exhaust that he had undoubtedly spent nearly a month’s wages on. The sounds of metal fighting for superiority and glass was deafening. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the fearful “Daddy?” that came from the back. They cut me out of the mangled mess and sat me on the gurney. Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was. Little did they know how the only thing I felt was jealousy. When they cut off the rear door, I couldn’t bear to look. By now my wife had made it to my side, and we both looked as they took out what couldn’t have been bigger than a dinner napkin to cover her. As she laid there, my wife broke down and I just stared. For the first time in 7 years, I was unemployed. 

The next week was full of condolences and prayer. We pretended to be christian and filled that tiny hole with my baby girl. When I returned home, all I felt was jealousy. I may never know what she went through in the end, but I know she would never have to deal with what we went through afterwards. Now I am jealous of my wife. After she finds me, she will have the chance to move on. At least I won’t be jealous anymore. I can only hope that when my eyes open, I’ll be met with the sweetest smile that’s ready to meet the adventures of the day.

I am jealous of my child. 

Don’t get me wrong, being a father is the best job in the world. Every morning, being met with the sweetest little smile and the feeling that the day holds nothing but new adventures. As she brushed the sleep out of her eyes, we began the day that would cement my feelings forever.

My wife had an early meeting out of town, so it was me and her for breakfast. We sat at the table for oatmeal and blueberries, her favorite. I finished some work as she watched her cartoons and pet her stuffed cat. Blinky was the animal that she had latched on to since birth. When she laid in her warmer at the hospital, Blinky was there to provide the warm touch that we weren’t able to until she gained some weight. We packed everything up into the car and set out for the pool.

We arrived before the crowds and she suited up for the adventure. I sat in the pool as she approached the edge. Her one piece swimsuit with a little tutu was complimented by the water wings and full face goggles that we had purchased for this specific outing. As I assured her that I would always be there to catch her, she leapt into my arms and proceeded to splash around. We swam laps, played Marco Polo, and swam ourselves silly. 

When lunch time came around, we packed up and went to her favorite place. She had always loved the chicken nuggets at Burger King, so for her I choked down a burger. The crown was a little big for her head, but she wore it like a trophy for finishing all of her food. I met the smile in her giant eyes and told her how proud I was that she was growing so big. 

After lunch was the park. Children do have enough energy to power a small city. She ran too and fro from the slide to the swings and back. I chased her around the monkey bars three or four times until she met another kid her age and they took off after one another. I retired to the benches with the other parents and watched her build a relationship that would outlive this trip to the park. 

My wife had made it home by this point and she called to confirm that everything was in place. We had decided to surprise her with a birthday party. This year she was old enough for her first bike so my wife was at home assembling that and finishing the cake. Her mother would have been arriving around then and was starting the decorating. Lilo and Stitch made for a Hawaiian theme with Leis and Hibiscus dotting the living room. We said goodbye to her new best friend and loaded back up. 

Driving home, she started to doze off in the back seat. I looked into the rearview and saw her head cant off to the side as she lost the battle. I turned down the music and cranked the Air Conditioning. She always liked to sleep a little bit cold and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. We made it onto the highway and almost immediately hit traffic. With her in the back, my normal road rage was kept to a hush and we made our way down the interstate to the exit that took us home. 

At the exit, we met a stop light. I took a look around, the road was clear, so I made a right turn. Three more intersections and we turned onto the road that she had always known as home. Three houses down was where she took her first step. That’s where she learned to talk and where she first told me that she loved me. Her bedroom waited where every night she had a bedtime story and we sang her to sleep. She was almost halfway through learning Green Eggs and Ham. She was so proud of herself when she figured out “Boat.” 

As I made the final turn, I didn’t see the truck. Everything slowed. I saw the cattle guard make contact with my passenger side and crumple in the seat where my wife would have been. It ripped off the roof as I saw the passenger tire crest the window. Before I knew it, I was looking up at the custom exhaust that he had undoubtedly spent nearly a month’s wages on. The sounds of metal fighting for superiority and glass was deafening. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the fearful “Daddy?” that came from the back. They cut me out of the mangled mess and sat me on the gurney. Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was. Little did they know how the only thing I felt was jealousy. When they cut off the rear door, I couldn’t bear to look. By now my wife had made it to my side, and we both looked as they took out what couldn’t have been bigger than a dinner napkin to cover her. As she laid there, my wife broke down and I just stared. For the first time in 7 years, I was unemployed. 

The next week was full of condolences and prayer. We pretended to be christian and filled that tiny hole with my baby girl. When I returned home, all I felt was jealousy. I may never know what she went through in the end, but I know she would never have to deal with what we went through afterwards. Now I am jealous of my wife. After she finds me, she will have the chance to move on. At least I won’t be jealous anymore. I can only hope that when my eyes open, I’ll be met with the sweetest smile that’s ready to meet the adventures of the day.

I am jealous of my child. 

Don’t get me wrong, being a father is the best job in the world. Every morning, being met with the sweetest little smile and the feeling that the day holds nothing but new adventures. As she brushed the sleep out of her eyes, we began the day that would cement my feelings forever.

My wife had an early meeting out of town, so it was me and her for breakfast. We sat at the table for oatmeal and blueberries, her favorite. I finished some work as she watched her cartoons and pet her stuffed cat. Blinky was the animal that she had latched on to since birth. When she laid in her warmer at the hospital, Blinky was there to provide the warm touch that we weren’t able to until she gained some weight. We packed everything up into the car and set out for the pool.

We arrived before the crowds and she suited up for the adventure. I sat in the pool as she approached the edge. Her one piece swimsuit with a little tutu was complimented by the water wings and full face goggles that we had purchased for this specific outing. As I assured her that I would always be there to catch her, she leapt into my arms and proceeded to splash around. We swam laps, played Marco Polo, and swam ourselves silly. 

When lunch time came around, we packed up and went to her favorite place. She had always loved the chicken nuggets at Burger King, so for her I choked down a burger. The crown was a little big for her head, but she wore it like a trophy for finishing all of her food. I met the smile in her giant eyes and told her how proud I was that she was growing so big. 

After lunch was the park. Children do have enough energy to power a small city. She ran too and fro from the slide to the swings and back. I chased her around the monkey bars three or four times until she met another kid her age and they took off after one another. I retired to the benches with the other parents and watched her build a relationship that would outlive this trip to the park. 

My wife had made it home by this point and she called to confirm that everything was in place. We had decided to surprise her with a birthday party. This year she was old enough for her first bike so my wife was at home assembling that and finishing the cake. Her mother would have been arriving around then and was starting the decorating. Lilo and Stitch made for a Hawaiian theme with Leis and Hibiscus dotting the living room. We said goodbye to her new best friend and loaded back up. 

Driving home, she started to doze off in the back seat. I looked into the rearview and saw her head cant off to the side as she lost the battle. I turned down the music and cranked the Air Conditioning. She always liked to sleep a little bit cold and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. We made it onto the highway and almost immediately hit traffic. With her in the back, my normal road rage was kept to a hush and we made our way down the interstate to the exit that took us home. 

At the exit, we met a stop light. I took a look around, the road was clear, so I made a right turn. Three more intersections and we turned onto the road that she had always known as home. Three houses down was where she took her first step. That’s where she learned to talk and where she first told me that she loved me. Her bedroom waited where every night she had a bedtime story and we sang her to sleep. She was almost halfway through learning Green Eggs and Ham. She was so proud of herself when she figured out “Boat.” 

As I made the final turn, I didn’t see the truck. Everything slowed. I saw the cattle guard make contact with my passenger side and crumple in the seat where my wife would have been. It ripped off the roof as I saw the passenger tire crest the window. Before I knew it, I was looking up at the custom exhaust that he had undoubtedly spent nearly a month’s wages on. The sounds of metal fighting for superiority and glass was deafening. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the fearful “Daddy?” that came from the back. They cut me out of the mangled mess and sat me on the gurney. Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was. Little did they know how the only thing I felt was jealousy. When they cut off the rear door, I couldn’t bear to look. By now my wife had made it to my side, and we both looked as they took out what couldn’t have been bigger than a dinner napkin to cover her. As she laid there, my wife broke down and I just stared. For the first time in 7 years, I was unemployed. 

The next week was full of condolences and prayer. We pretended to be christian and filled that tiny hole with my baby girl. When I returned home, all I felt was jealousy. I may never know what she went through in the end, but I know she would never have to deal with what we went through afterwards. Now I am jealous of my wife. After she finds me, she will have the chance to move on. At least I won’t be jealous anymore. I can only hope that when my eyes open, I’ll be met with the sweetest smile that’s ready to meet the adventures of the day.

I am jealous of my child. 

Don’t get me wrong, being a father is the best job in the world. Every morning, being met with the sweetest little smile and the feeling that the day holds nothing but new adventures. As she brushed the sleep out of her eyes, we began the day that would cement my feelings forever.

My wife had an early meeting out of town, so it was me and her for breakfast. We sat at the table for oatmeal and blueberries, her favorite. I finished some work as she watched her cartoons and pet her stuffed cat. Blinky was the animal that she had latched on to since birth. When she laid in her warmer at the hospital, Blinky was there to provide the warm touch that we weren’t able to until she gained some weight. We packed everything up into the car and set out for the pool.

We arrived before the crowds and she suited up for the adventure. I sat in the pool as she approached the edge. Her one piece swimsuit with a little tutu was complimented by the water wings and full face goggles that we had purchased for this specific outing. As I assured her that I would always be there to catch her, she leapt into my arms and proceeded to splash around. We swam laps, played Marco Polo, and swam ourselves silly. 

When lunch time came around, we packed up and went to her favorite place. She had always loved the chicken nuggets at Burger King, so for her I choked down a burger. The crown was a little big for her head, but she wore it like a trophy for finishing all of her food. I met the smile in her giant eyes and told her how proud I was that she was growing so big. 

After lunch was the park. Children do have enough energy to power a small city. She ran too and fro from the slide to the swings and back. I chased her around the monkey bars three or four times until she met another kid her age and they took off after one another. I retired to the benches with the other parents and watched her build a relationship that would outlive this trip to the park. 

My wife had made it home by this point and she called to confirm that everything was in place. We had decided to surprise her with a birthday party. This year she was old enough for her first bike so my wife was at home assembling that and finishing the cake. Her mother would have been arriving around then and was starting the decorating. Lilo and Stitch made for a Hawaiian theme with Leis and Hibiscus dotting the living room. We said goodbye to her new best friend and loaded back up. 

Driving home, she started to doze off in the back seat. I looked into the rearview and saw her head cant off to the side as she lost the battle. I turned down the music and cranked the Air Conditioning. She always liked to sleep a little bit cold and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. We made it onto the highway and almost immediately hit traffic. With her in the back, my normal road rage was kept to a hush and we made our way down the interstate to the exit that took us home. 

At the exit, we met a stop light. I took a look around, the road was clear, so I made a right turn. Three more intersections and we turned onto the road that she had always known as home. Three houses down was where she took her first step. That’s where she learned to talk and where she first told me that she loved me. Her bedroom waited where every night she had a bedtime story and we sang her to sleep. She was almost halfway through learning Green Eggs and Ham. She was so proud of herself when she figured out “Boat.” 

As I made the final turn, I didn’t see the truck. Everything slowed. I saw the cattle guard make contact with my passenger side and crumple in the seat where my wife would have been. It ripped off the roof as I saw the passenger tire crest the window. Before I knew it, I was looking up at the custom exhaust that he had undoubtedly spent nearly a month’s wages on. The sounds of metal fighting for superiority and glass was deafening. It wasn’t loud enough to drown out the fearful “Daddy?” that came from the back. They cut me out of the mangled mess and sat me on the gurney. Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was. Little did they know how the only thing I felt was jealousy. When they cut off the rear door, I couldn’t bear to look. By now my wife had made it to my side, and we both looked as they took out what couldn’t have been bigger than a dinner napkin to cover her. As she laid there, my wife broke down and I just stared. For the first time in 7 years, I was unemployed. 

The next week was full of condolences and prayer. We pretended to be christian and filled that tiny hole with my baby girl. When I returned home, all I felt was jealousy. I may never know what she went through in the end, but I know she would never have to deal with what we went through afterwards. Now I am jealous of my wife. After she finds me, she will have the chance to move on. At least I won’t be jealous anymore. I can only hope that when my eyes open, I’ll be met with the sweetest smile that’s ready to meet the adventures of the day.

#08201890

November 5, 1996

The only thing worse than a painful death, is unknowingly inflicting pain on those who make life worth living. I remember my father speaking these words, perhaps a bit louder than appropriate, after his father’s wake. Though masked by layers of grief and scotch, my father had finally told the truth. For the past 9 months, he had been the sole caretaker of my grandfather as he spiraled into the darkness of his dementia ridden mind. Despite his objections, we could all see the toll it was taking on him. His personal superman had devolved into a sniveling, angry little baby that filled his waking hours with curses and threats. My father never claimed that his father was a kind man, but this was too much for even him. 12 years later, that apple finally fell at the base of my family tree. I was helping my mother through the affairs at the funeral home when I met him.

The Mortician stepped out to meet us. His thin frame, paired with the plastic black hair, sent a chill down my spine. His cold hand was outstretched and I noticed a tremor. Through the cigarettes on his breath, I caught his condolences. With the handshake of a man that had gone too long away from the living, this man could’ve passed for one of his clientele. My mother and I shared a glance and I followed him outside for a smoke. I pulled the last pack my  father bought from my shirt pocket and leaned against the hood of his car. “I’ve tried to send you letters but could never narrow down an address.” He ended his sentence as abruptly as it started. I caught an inhale in my throat and fell into a coughing fit. When I collected myself he seemed embarrassed. “My apologies. This isn’t the time. I’m sure you have so much on your mind.”

I shook my head. “No, please. I welcome the distraction and haven’t had a good story in months.” Hoping not to come off too desperate, I gave him a smile. This show of affection, though forced it may be, seemed to warm something in his eyes. We planned to meet that evening for drinks and I rejoined my mother. She scolded me for smoking and I agreed to try and quit. After sitting through the salesman’s spiel, we settled on something simple and went our own separate ways. I’m sure my mother needed the time as much as I did.

I met Tony at the bar that night as planned. When I walked in he waved me to a dark booth in the far corner of the room. The beer in his hand had lost more volume through sweat than it had via consumption. His frail torso was swallowed by the shadow cast from the small lamp above the table. “Th-thank you for meeting me.” He refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t expect you to come. With everything you’re going through, I figured you’d forget or be too busy.” I reassured him once again that this was a welcome distraction and shouted a drink order to the bartender. 

Once every excuse not to start had been exhausted and there was no other way to talk about the weather, I clicked on my recorder. “My name is Tony Hayes and I am the mortician at the All Faiths Funeral Chapel. I have been with the chapel for 35 years and have processed well over 2900 cadavers. The owners are family to me and I would never leave them without a mortician, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this job.” The tremor I noticed earlier had gotten worse. His beer would be overflowing with foam, had it not gone flat hours before. He stepped to the bar, threw back a small glass that the bartender seemed to have ready, and returned with a much darker glass in hand. 

We talked about his new choice in libation and I notice that the courage seems to strengthen with his BAC. With a newfound sense of self, Tony began again. “Sorry about that. I’m not myself until I can get a couple in me. Habit from my old man. Guess all of them are the same around here huh.” He chuckled and nudged my arm. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Your old man liked the sauce. Just like his. So did mine. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He seemed to lose the facade that the whiskey had built. I didn’t know his family. I didn’t know that he knew mine. 

“You must’ve been closer than I realized. I’m sorry I didn’t realize before.”

“Nonsense. I may have noticed him a time or two here but we weren’t close. Folks don’t keep a lot of secrets once they get to my office.” He stopped himself. Assuming that he was cautious about speaking too frankly about the body of my father, I moved on. 

“Tony, why have you brought me here tonight?”

“I’ve never told anyone about this before. No one else needed to be stuck with this but you’ve seen so much that I’m sure you can handle it. Like I said, I have handled more bodies than this town has ever housed. As of the last few years, things have changed. I used to love my job. I’ve never been one to require a lot of conversation. The mortuary is a perfect place when you enjoy the quiet. The only sounds most nights were the vacuum tubes pumping fluids and the field mice outside the windows. Then I worked on Mr. Stephenson.” He knocked back his drink and grabbed another. 

After an awkward amount of time at the bar, Tony sat back down and offered me a cigarette. I refused but offered my lighter and he continued between pulls. “Mr. Stephenson was a standard case. 87 years old with a wife, kids, grandkids, and a pomeranian that took on the brunt of his empty nesting. He was brought to me following a heart attack. Peaceful way to go really. I’ve seen the faces of death and it’s always the quick ones that give me hope. I was working on his mouth when I heard it. Behind me, I would swear that I heard someone whistle.”

“Obviously you would be unsettled by that but you didn’t bring me all the way out here to tell me about John working late on his coffin quotas.”

“The building was empty. I walked around the place myself. Doors were locked and windows secured. I wrote it off as the wind and went back downstairs. Sitting on the chair beside the door was Mr. Stephenson.” I looked up from my notepad and he raised his hands. “I know. I didn’t want to buy it at first either. Hell I brushed him off. The entire time he looked over my shoulder and commented on my work. Eventually I had finished preparations and went to return him to the wall locker. He seemed scared. ‘Son please don’t put me in there.’ Where an old man laid on my table, the voice of a child seemed to come from the man behind me. I looked into the body and apologised. ’Mr. Thompson, I have to. I’m sorry.’ Then I shut the door and he was gone. I never saw him again.”

He sat down his drink and I noticed a tattoo on his arm that the long white shirt of his profession hid during the working hours. “What’s on your arm there?” He seemed surprised and almost offended that I noticed. After his hand decided that I could see it, he rolled his sleeve and uncovered a series of carvings. Each one more intricate than the last. Doing what I do, I have encountered strange symbols in the oddest of places, but these had me stumped.

“Those are a past life. Something I try every day to forget. I can’t escape what I’ve done, but every job puts me closer to being square.” Feeling like his answer satisfied my curiosity, he left for a refill. I tried to scrawl the symbols down to find them at a library, but my artistry is ranked above only my penmanship. When the bench squeaked under his weight, I abandoned the effort and returned to the work at hand. “My next encounter was Mrs. Stephenson. She was a vehicle accident that left most of her earthly form to the imagination. Thankfully, the family decided on a closed casket so my job was only to preserve. I pulled back the sheet and her eyes bored holes into my forehead. I pulled what was left of her eyelids closed and went about my business. With my slurry prepped, I turned back and she was sitting upright on the table. ‘Why would you do this to me?’ I tried to explain to her that none of this was my fault and it’s what had to happen. ‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.’ Most people are surprised by their death. In her case though, I don’t think that’s what surprised her when she looked at the remainder of the body on my bench.”

We continued for the better half of the night, discussing the odds and ends of his spectral visitors. What he never did though was go into the details of his process. As he loosened beyond control, I found a window to push. “So Tony, I’ve heard the stories of your encounters. What I don’t know is how an embalming is done.” His face lit up at the opportunity to explain his work.

“Before everything went pear shaped, it was a simple task really. I started in, oh, ‘73. Back then it was a lot of cotton stuffing and hand pumps. The job was messier, but you got to really feel like you worked with your hands.” I glanced as he held them up, half expecting blood and bile to spill over his well trimmed nails. “Back then there wasn’t nearly as much oversight. He was satisfied with a cat or a couple of birds. Work stayed work and my personal life was at home. Then the chapel purchased a crematory oven and things became complicated.” I paused my writing and looked in his eyes. “The state tends to frown on unauthorized cremations and it’s hard to explain the ashes when nothing was scheduled. Thankfully they always bought the story of ‘I lost my dear bitsy and couldn’t bring myself to bury her.’ Then they caught me loading in a full goat and I did a short stint in the county lockup. When I got out, the owners were gracious enough to give me my old position. It helped that I took a significant cut in pay. Then He came to me in a dream.”

“When you say he, who are we talking?”

“He has no name. I only say He because of the depth of the words. He speaks with the voice of a church organ.” His eyes glazed over and I could see something else take over. “The space that He consumed left no room for light. His eyes pointed in all directions, encompassing all of time in his sight. The angles at which his form settles mimic the creationary lines left behind by the creator of the universe. His meer essence is that of power. The aura which He emits is both enchanting and frightening. I have only seen his full face once, and it falls outside the berth of the english language. The only description I could muster was carved into my arm by the blades of punishment and damnation themselves.” He woke up, cleared his throat, and offered a half hearted apology. “That night, He called for more. His hunger had grown and his power was following. If I was to fulfill my task, I needed to increase my feedings. That is where the oven came in handy.”

He stared at his drink. I stared at my notepad. “So.” I tried to start. “I guess… well… wow.” I sat down my pen. “What exactly do you mean ‘his hunger had grown’?”

“Simply put, pets weren’t enough. First it was Mr. Thompson’s leg. Then Mrs. Stephenson’s torso. Parts and pieces. The state accepts the explanation that it was a ‘bio-hazard’ when justifying crematory burn hours. The organs are always destroyed by the time they reach me and it becomes standard practice to destroy them anyways. When the family comes in for a viewing, they never check below the waist anyways. The grief blinds them to the sudden weight loss of their dearly departed.” He spoke of these people with a callousness I had not seen in him before. “The closed caskets and the cremations are the simplest. When they enter the mortuary, I simply carve his symbol into their chest and do what He requires. If there is any religious paraphernalia present at the time, He simply requests that I remove it and keep the offering pure.” His drink emptied once again, he stood to walk out. “That seems to be the end of my tale. This is usually the part of the night I get cut off and stumble back home. Though I can’t forget, the numbing sensation often quiets those who torment me. At the end we all want to be part of something bigger. We just aren’t prepared for the cost of admission. I’m sure your old man felt the same way. Why else would he ask me for a cremation?”

“I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Your father. He asked that he be cremated rather than his family going through seeing him in pieces.” 

“You spoke to my father?”

“Your father spoke to me. I don’t make the mistake of talking back anymore.” He stumbled off the table. “Besides, the preparations are complete. A full offering is all He needs. If not him, then the next poor sap that can’t afford the box.” As he began to walk out, he slid a card across the table and I hollered after him.

“Preparations? For what?”

“We’ll all see soon enough. I only hope you’ll make the right decision when the time comes for your judgement.” I picked up the card as he walked into the night. In ink from a printer in desperate need of a toner refill it read “35% Off Full Cremation and Urn Preparation Services.” I flipped it over and found the symbols from his arm scrawled in red ink. I threw the card into the trash can and ran out the door after him. I never did see that old man again. All I found in the night of this quiet town was the lights of traffic, intermittently obscured by a plume of smoke. When the wind shifted, I caught the faintest hint of burnt pork and a wail of sorrow. The preparations were already complete. We will all see soon enough.

#08201890

November 5, 1996

The only thing worse than a painful death, is unknowingly inflicting pain on those who make life worth living. I remember my father speaking these words, perhaps a bit louder than appropriate, after his father’s wake. Though masked by layers of grief and scotch, my father had finally told the truth. For the past 9 months, he had been the sole caretaker of my grandfather as he spiraled into the darkness of his dementia ridden mind. Despite his objections, we could all see the toll it was taking on him. His personal superman had devolved into a sniveling, angry little baby that filled his waking hours with curses and threats. My father never claimed that his father was a kind man, but this was too much for even him. 12 years later, that apple finally fell at the base of my family tree. I was helping my mother through the affairs at the funeral home when I met him.

The Mortician stepped out to meet us. His thin frame, paired with the plastic black hair, sent a chill down my spine. His cold hand was outstretched and I noticed a tremor. Through the cigarettes on his breath, I caught his condolences. With the handshake of a man that had gone too long away from the living, this man could’ve passed for one of his clientele. My mother and I shared a glance and I followed him outside for a smoke. I pulled the last pack my  father bought from my shirt pocket and leaned against the hood of his car. “I’ve tried to send you letters but could never narrow down an address.” He ended his sentence as abruptly as it started. I caught an inhale in my throat and fell into a coughing fit. When I collected myself he seemed embarrassed. “My apologies. This isn’t the time. I’m sure you have so much on your mind.”

I shook my head. “No, please. I welcome the distraction and haven’t had a good story in months.” Hoping not to come off too desperate, I gave him a smile. This show of affection, though forced it may be, seemed to warm something in his eyes. We planned to meet that evening for drinks and I rejoined my mother. She scolded me for smoking and I agreed to try and quit. After sitting through the salesman’s spiel, we settled on something simple and went our own separate ways. I’m sure my mother needed the time as much as I did.

I met Tony at the bar that night as planned. When I walked in he waved me to a dark booth in the far corner of the room. The beer in his hand had lost more volume through sweat than it had via consumption. His frail torso was swallowed by the shadow cast from the small lamp above the table. “Th-thank you for meeting me.” He refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t expect you to come. With everything you’re going through, I figured you’d forget or be too busy.” I reassured him once again that this was a welcome distraction and shouted a drink order to the bartender. 

Once every excuse not to start had been exhausted and there was no other way to talk about the weather, I clicked on my recorder. “My name is Tony Hayes and I am the mortician at the All Faiths Funeral Chapel. I have been with the chapel for 35 years and have processed well over 2900 cadavers. The owners are family to me and I would never leave them without a mortician, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this job.” The tremor I noticed earlier had gotten worse. His beer would be overflowing with foam, had it not gone flat hours before. He stepped to the bar, threw back a small glass that the bartender seemed to have ready, and returned with a much darker glass in hand. 

We talked about his new choice in libation and I notice that the courage seems to strengthen with his BAC. With a newfound sense of self, Tony began again. “Sorry about that. I’m not myself until I can get a couple in me. Habit from my old man. Guess all of them are the same around here huh.” He chuckled and nudged my arm. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Your old man liked the sauce. Just like his. So did mine. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He seemed to lose the facade that the whiskey had built. I didn’t know his family. I didn’t know that he knew mine. 

“You must’ve been closer than I realized. I’m sorry I didn’t realize before.”

“Nonsense. I may have noticed him a time or two here but we weren’t close. Folks don’t keep a lot of secrets once they get to my office.” He stopped himself. Assuming that he was cautious about speaking too frankly about the body of my father, I moved on. 

“Tony, why have you brought me here tonight?”

“I’ve never told anyone about this before. No one else needed to be stuck with this but you’ve seen so much that I’m sure you can handle it. Like I said, I have handled more bodies than this town has ever housed. As of the last few years, things have changed. I used to love my job. I’ve never been one to require a lot of conversation. The mortuary is a perfect place when you enjoy the quiet. The only sounds most nights were the vacuum tubes pumping fluids and the field mice outside the windows. Then I worked on Mr. Stephenson.” He knocked back his drink and grabbed another. 

After an awkward amount of time at the bar, Tony sat back down and offered me a cigarette. I refused but offered my lighter and he continued between pulls. “Mr. Stephenson was a standard case. 87 years old with a wife, kids, grandkids, and a pomeranian that took on the brunt of his empty nesting. He was brought to me following a heart attack. Peaceful way to go really. I’ve seen the faces of death and it’s always the quick ones that give me hope. I was working on his mouth when I heard it. Behind me, I would swear that I heard someone whistle.”

“Obviously you would be unsettled by that but you didn’t bring me all the way out here to tell me about John working late on his coffin quotas.”

“The building was empty. I walked around the place myself. Doors were locked and windows secured. I wrote it off as the wind and went back downstairs. Sitting on the chair beside the door was Mr. Stephenson.” I looked up from my notepad and he raised his hands. “I know. I didn’t want to buy it at first either. Hell I brushed him off. The entire time he looked over my shoulder and commented on my work. Eventually I had finished preparations and went to return him to the wall locker. He seemed scared. ‘Son please don’t put me in there.’ Where an old man laid on my table, the voice of a child seemed to come from the man behind me. I looked into the body and apologised. ’Mr. Thompson, I have to. I’m sorry.’ Then I shut the door and he was gone. I never saw him again.”

He sat down his drink and I noticed a tattoo on his arm that the long white shirt of his profession hid during the working hours. “What’s on your arm there?” He seemed surprised and almost offended that I noticed. After his hand decided that I could see it, he rolled his sleeve and uncovered a series of carvings. Each one more intricate than the last. Doing what I do, I have encountered strange symbols in the oddest of places, but these had me stumped.

“Those are a past life. Something I try every day to forget. I can’t escape what I’ve done, but every job puts me closer to being square.” Feeling like his answer satisfied my curiosity, he left for a refill. I tried to scrawl the symbols down to find them at a library, but my artistry is ranked above only my penmanship. When the bench squeaked under his weight, I abandoned the effort and returned to the work at hand. “My next encounter was Mrs. Stephenson. She was a vehicle accident that left most of her earthly form to the imagination. Thankfully, the family decided on a closed casket so my job was only to preserve. I pulled back the sheet and her eyes bored holes into my forehead. I pulled what was left of her eyelids closed and went about my business. With my slurry prepped, I turned back and she was sitting upright on the table. ‘Why would you do this to me?’ I tried to explain to her that none of this was my fault and it’s what had to happen. ‘This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.’ Most people are surprised by their death. In her case though, I don’t think that’s what surprised her when she looked at the remainder of the body on my bench.”

We continued for the better half of the night, discussing the odds and ends of his spectral visitors. What he never did though was go into the details of his process. As he loosened beyond control, I found a window to push. “So Tony, I’ve heard the stories of your encounters. What I don’t know is how an embalming is done.” His face lit up at the opportunity to explain his work.

“Before everything went pear shaped, it was a simple task really. I started in, oh, ‘73. Back then it was a lot of cotton stuffing and hand pumps. The job was messier, but you got to really feel like you worked with your hands.” I glanced as he held them up, half expecting blood and bile to spill over his well trimmed nails. “Back then there wasn’t nearly as much oversight. He was satisfied with a cat or a couple of birds. Work stayed work and my personal life was at home. Then the chapel purchased a crematory oven and things became complicated.” I paused my writing and looked in his eyes. “The state tends to frown on unauthorized cremations and it’s hard to explain the ashes when nothing was scheduled. Thankfully they always bought the story of ‘I lost my dear bitsy and couldn’t bring myself to bury her.’ Then they caught me loading in a full goat and I did a short stint in the county lockup. When I got out, the owners were gracious enough to give me my old position. It helped that I took a significant cut in pay. Then He came to me in a dream.”

“When you say he, who are we talking?”

“He has no name. I only say He because of the depth of the words. He speaks with the voice of a church organ.” His eyes glazed over and I could see something else take over. “The space that He consumed left no room for light. His eyes pointed in all directions, encompassing all of time in his sight. The angles at which his form settles mimic the creationary lines left behind by the creator of the universe. His meer essence is that of power. The aura which He emits is both enchanting and frightening. I have only seen his full face once, and it falls outside the berth of the english language. The only description I could muster was carved into my arm by the blades of punishment and damnation themselves.” He woke up, cleared his throat, and offered a half hearted apology. “That night, He called for more. His hunger had grown and his power was following. If I was to fulfill my task, I needed to increase my feedings. That is where the oven came in handy.”

He stared at his drink. I stared at my notepad. “So.” I tried to start. “I guess… well… wow.” I sat down my pen. “What exactly do you mean ‘his hunger had grown’?”

“Simply put, pets weren’t enough. First it was Mr. Thompson’s leg. Then Mrs. Stephenson’s torso. Parts and pieces. The state accepts the explanation that it was a ‘bio-hazard’ when justifying crematory burn hours. The organs are always destroyed by the time they reach me and it becomes standard practice to destroy them anyways. When the family comes in for a viewing, they never check below the waist anyways. The grief blinds them to the sudden weight loss of their dearly departed.” He spoke of these people with a callousness I had not seen in him before. “The closed caskets and the cremations are the simplest. When they enter the mortuary, I simply carve his symbol into their chest and do what He requires. If there is any religious paraphernalia present at the time, He simply requests that I remove it and keep the offering pure.” His drink emptied once again, he stood to walk out. “That seems to be the end of my tale. This is usually the part of the night I get cut off and stumble back home. Though I can’t forget, the numbing sensation often quiets those who torment me. At the end we all want to be part of something bigger. We just aren’t prepared for the cost of admission. I’m sure your old man felt the same way. Why else would he ask me for a cremation?”

“I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Your father. He asked that he be cremated rather than his family going through seeing him in pieces.” 

“You spoke to my father?”

“Your father spoke to me. I don’t make the mistake of talking back anymore.” He stumbled off the table. “Besides, the preparations are complete. A full offering is all He needs. If not him, then the next poor sap that can’t afford the box.” As he began to walk out, he slid a card across the table and I hollered after him.

“Preparations? For what?”

“We’ll all see soon enough. I only hope you’ll make the right decision when the time comes for your judgement.” I picked up the card as he walked into the night. In ink from a printer in desperate need of a toner refill it read “35% Off Full Cremation and Urn Preparation Services.” I flipped it over and found the symbols from his arm scrawled in red ink. I threw the card into the trash can and ran out the door after him. I never did see that old man again. All I found in the night of this quiet town was the lights of traffic, intermittently obscured by a plume of smoke. When the wind shifted, I caught the faintest hint of burnt pork and a wail of sorrow. The preparations were already complete. We will all see soon enough.