Page 2 of Grave Love
A flash of black hair crosses over the windows of the mortuary, leaving the break room. I quickly power off the machine and remove my gloves, then head inside. The scent of burnt coffee fills the air. I leave the break room and turn toward the crematory.
I see her.
Black hair cascades over her shoulders, stringy and thick with natural oils, framing her face like the strands of Spanish moss gripping the branches of a tree. Her cheeks full. Round face. Pink lips pursed in pensiveness as she studies the dials of the retort. Hands fidgeting in front of her. Those two tattoos—a noose and a gun—like beacons of certainty. The little masturbatory trespasser. Her dull brown eyes focus on the numbers in front of her like she’s done this a million times before, the same thing day in, day out.
I wait for a few minutes, my nose finally growing numb to the acrid stench in the air, curiously entertained by the woman in front of me working her magic. She mumbles to herself, perhaps speaking to the cooking body. My gaze sears into her, encouraging her to look at me. To confirm my suspicions.
She never once looks up. So focused on her own little world.
Physically, she’s different from the others. Perhaps somewhat behaviorally too.
That doesn’t make her special.
What interests me is that instinctual emptiness inside of her—herlack.It calls to me. I recognize that absence in myself. It’s lust, in a way. A need. Sailing through life as if nothing else exists besides desire. Pleasure. And pain.
Her eyes flick over the door frame briefly, immediately returning to her work. Assuming I’m another mourning customer.
I knock on the director’s office door. The redhead flashes a soft smile. She opens her mouth ready to regurgitate her standard response.
I stop her. “Who’s the crematory operator?”
“Oh, Ren?” she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ren’s a good girl. Been here for years, actually. Always does her work. Here on time. Never asks questions if I need her to stay late. Hasn’t even asked for a raise, actually. Oh! By the way—” The funeral director takes off her glasses, giving more thought to our conversationnowthat it’s on her terms. “How are you liking it here?”
I didn’t come to Last Spring Mortuary for manufactured pleasantries, nor for the discount on my own prepaid plot. I don’t need the comfort of knowing my corpse will enjoy a seaside view of the sunset. I get sunburned easily, and the thought of my meat roasting in the sun annoys me.
In this industry, there’s typically a high turnover rate until you find someone solid. Someone like Ren. The groundskeeper before me lasted a month, and the employee before that? Even quicker to flee. In the death industry, they’re always desperate for more bodies, living and dead.
Finally, the director learned to advertise the job for what it is: gravedigging. I jumped at the chance.
Without answering the director’s question, I shift the conversation back to my interests: “Would Ren be willing to teach me the ropes?”
The ropes.Like that deathly tattoo.
The funeral director laughs. “Have you cut the grass yet? I’ve got a showing today, and I—”
“Ren,” I repeat. “Does shelikeit here?”
The director pauses, finding a respectful way to explain her hesitation. Half-hearted amusement tugs at my mouth. The phone rings, and the director holds up her hand.
“Just a second,” she whispers. She answers the phone, her voice both solemn and friendly as the caller wails on the other end. She gives her full attention to the potential customer, thwarting my attempt to gather more information on Ren.
Not that I give a shit. All I care about is keeping my record clean until I find my new rhythm. A craving like mine doesn’t go away overnight. Going on seven months of being this wholesome,cleanperson in this tourist-filled town, the desireachesinside of me. The itch to do more. To gut a woman until a scream shudders out of her body. It gnaws on my bones until they’re chewed up glass.
It’s only getting worse.
I rake leaves. Reposition a headstone. Pull weeds around the mausoleum. Hours pass.
I watch the windows, waiting until the funeral director is in the showroom with a new client, then I slip inside of her office and take a quick picture on my phone of Ren’s driver’s license. You never know what you might need when it comes to these things.
That night, I park across the street from the mortuary. Ren exits her car, her black hair swishing as she draws toward the funeral home. She checks both ways before reaching the entrance, cautious of being caught, and yet there’s a fluidity to her movements that indicates a definite pattern.
She grabs her key. Twists the lock. Opens the door and disappears inside.
A smirk paints my lips. I don’t care what she does in her free time. It is amusing, though.
The masturbator of all things dead and dying.
The lights in Last Spring stay dark. Eventually, I glance down at my phone. I’ve been sitting in the Margarita Shack’s parking lot for over an hour. I should leave. I should try to think of my other victims. To remember why I came to this vapid town in the first place.
