"They aren't really in there, are they?"
The question hung in the air like mist hung around the riverside first thing in the morning. You'd hoped nobody would ask about the closed casket, hope they'd just think you were too overcome with grief to want to see their face again. You should have seen this coming really.
"No."
To admit that outloud was a weight lifted from your shoulders, guilt eased and fear reignited as you wondered if they'd tell other people. Telling people meant that somebody might want to dig up the casket and check and then they'd all wonder where the body was.
"So where are they?"
Of course they'd want to know right away, just in case they might be alive but they were definitely dead when you left the morgue. Their brain was sitting on the examiner's table while they all muttered away about some kind of fungus or tumour - joke's on them, it was both.
"Close by."
They'd been watching the whole farce of a funeral from the relative anonymity of the church tower. They even had the audacity to send you a text, telling you to look sadder. You sent one back saying that they were being ungrateful and that you should have let their brain be donated to the university.
"How close?"
Sometimes grief makes you do stupid things, makes you cling onto the most useless of items because they hold sentimental value. You don't know why you made them out the brain back. Maybe the fungus is in you too? Maybe this guy needs to stop asking question? Maybe you should walk away?
"How close."
They sound impatient, their voice suddenly a lot deeper and rougher and... you get the feeling you shouldn't turn around but you really want to. Just to see if they are who you think they are and if they were who you think they are this whole time.
"How. Close."
"Here."
The question hung in the air like mist hung around the riverside first thing in the morning. You'd hoped nobody would ask about the closed casket, hope they'd just think you were too overcome with grief to want to see their face again. You should have seen this coming really.
"No."
To admit that outloud was a weight lifted from your shoulders, guilt eased and fear reignited as you wondered if they'd tell other people. Telling people meant that somebody might want to dig up the casket and check and then they'd all wonder where the body was.
"So where are they?"
Of course they'd want to know right away, just in case they might be alive but they were definitely dead when you left the morgue. Their brain was sitting on the examiner's table while they all muttered away about some kind of fungus or tumour - joke's on them, it was both.
"Close by."
They'd been watching the whole farce of a funeral from the relative anonymity of the church tower. They even had the audacity to send you a text, telling you to look sadder. You sent one back saying that they were being ungrateful and that you should have let their brain be donated to the university.
"How close?"
Sometimes grief makes you do stupid things, makes you cling onto the most useless of items because they hold sentimental value. You don't know why you made them out the brain back. Maybe the fungus is in you too? Maybe this guy needs to stop asking question? Maybe you should walk away?
"How close."
They sound impatient, their voice suddenly a lot deeper and rougher and... you get the feeling you shouldn't turn around but you really want to. Just to see if they are who you think they are and if they were who you think they are this whole time.
"How. Close."
"Here."
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