by Syna Majumder
Content warning: Death.
the job is a thankless one, and people
sweep in and out, asking if the cold
bodies her fingers are on are really gone.
she thinks that it would all be nicer if
they learnt to use their brains, saw the
unmoving disrobed chests on her tables.
when it is time to look at skin, they never
do. she has been asked about love at parties,
the sticky, physical parts of it, and it seems
to consume every person in the room. why,
then, is the morgue any different? do you
stop aching when breath goes away, or does
the pain take on a different shade–there is a
long chemical shift that turns a lover’s face
to a widow’s shroud. if all was ideal, it would
happen slowly, after a life spent happily,
all the kisses in the sun collected and pressed
into the mental family albums. but too much
of her work is blood leaking out from under
taut, unfortunate skin. her interest in her job
is surgical, and so is her grief. it’s more about
finding out what people want from gorgeous
cellular decay, taking in the purpling at the base
of the neck, and solving a part of the mystery.
it makes her more careful, looking at the things
everyone leaves behind without even realising.
she’d make a great robber, but she isn’t patient.
she’d make a refreshing killer, but it takes work.
by the end of the day, it is her and the autopsy,
and the only question that she’ll never have
an answer to: who will do this later, when
she will be the one on the cold steel?