Now And Again

There are time every now and again that The Dark Creature really must get out and play. It's like walking a dog. You can ignore the barking and scratching at the door for only so long, then you must take the beast outside. However, tonight is not the night I can allow my darker side to roam the streets. Police are already out in full force and I have a feeling it's going to only get worse. Alas, I am in a time out. Arsonus Interruptus. Soft whining and shivers down my spine keep coming from TDC. But there seems to be very little I can do except pace back and forth. This is not especially helpful for if I keep it up I will wear a hole in the carpet and I will never get my deposit back.

So tonight I am spending yet another new years eve alone. Since I'm not actually a real human being, my emotional responses are generally limited to what I have learned to fake. So I don't feel lonely. That's a very difficult emotion to do convincingly, and I have no audience to do it for, so why bother? Instead I intend to have a few drinks, relax, and welcome the new year.

Moving On

Sixteen days until I switch to the morgue. As the number dwindles closer my spine shutters. I crave cleanliness and order, neither I will find there. Why am I doing this? I was thoroughly reminded of that today. If anyone in Cincinnati heard a cry of ecstasy about 10am, that was me. A motorcyclist was brought in. The only part of his body that was left in good shape was his head. From his xiphoid process down was nearly demolished. All that kept his organs in was his jacket. I spent all day cleaning the blood off and prepping this foolish man who decided to ride his bike during winter.

I do love the morgue. I have to remember that. It's just been so long. I'm comfortable where I am, doing what I'm doing. It's the side effects of living such a normal life that I can't stand. At least I am able to play my piano again. That helps a lot. Now, to find my tools to bring the rest of my life into order...

Morals? Nope...

Having antisocial personality disorder AKA being a psychopath, I don't have the ability to feel sympathy (no conscience), I obviously don't react normally to things that should make me sad or distressed... That's been made quite clear lately. In fact, typically I respond with either finding the situation humorous or setting something on fire to amuse myself. But does that mean I don't have the ability to be happy? In a word, yes. Only as the emotion happy, though. I am very content and play 'happy' very well. Is it so I don't get sympathy from people? Not really. Though that would be awkward, for there is nothing to be sorry for and dealing with others emotions is difficult for me. Frankly, I don't understand most of them.

I'm not going to lie, there are times a little feeling tries to break through. Usually it's merely inconvenient and I push it aside, other times it's confusing because I don't have enough experience having emotion to know what it is. Then I shrug it off and move on. The closest thing that I have to deal with emotion-wise is what I call attachment toward a couple of my animals and possibly a person or two... which basically feels like you want whats best for them but you don't go out of your way to provide it. Everything and everyone else is insignificant to me and I have no capacity to really care what happens to them. Nor the desire.

It's A Beautiful Thing

I love the dead. I love embalming them, I love touching them, I love smelling them, I love cutting them open. The living are impossible to handle. Why do living people ever inhabit the same space as I do? It's so inconvenient. Getting back to cadavers was wonderful after the last few days. When I walked into the room I imagined taking the sheet off the old man, lifting him off the table and giving him one last dance.

My twin is still having problems so I stayed with her again last night, and brought her to work with me today. I had that thing to do and it was only 15 minutes from her house so it wasn't too inconvenient. I had her wait upstairs until we were done. The woman I had to, I suppose 'interview' would be the correct word, today was a compete waste of space. The ninety year old body could have embalmed himself better. What a waste of my time. My twin complained incessantly about the smell, the sounds, the sights, the thought of being there... blah blah blah. Shut the fuck up. Luckily her barn manager finally came back from Florida so I am home.

How can someone who has everything she claims to want and is doing something she claims to love be so damn miserable? I don't understand it. We obviously grew up in the same environment. Had the same abusive asshole parents. I am perfectly happy with myself. Hell, my self-esteem is great. Yet she is literally killing herself and is severely depressed. I don't understand.

Quick, Someone Die!

I have the next two days off. What, nobody fucking dies over christmas? I'm a little more than pissed off about the whole ordeal. With the last owner I worked the holidays, but this one is too damn religious. Fuck me. I've decided that I'm going to drive my twin (and consequently, myself) insane tomorrow by going back down to her farm. There's a horse there I kind of like that she says nobody can handle or ride. I want to ride her.

No time like the present to get over my slight issue with dirt, I suppose. There's a chance for rain but my twin has an indoor arena so it will be okay either way. The mare, Ashleigh (ironic name if you knew my family), is a 4yo Arabian that has some problems with people telling her what to do. Twin said I can have her if I can handle her. Do I need a horse? No. Do I want a horse? Maybe... Really I will just be bored tomorrow and love chances to show her up.

On the 26th I will be shadowing my possible replacement that works an hour and a half away from my abode. I'm supposed to see if she is any good and if her personality will fit in with the rest of the staff. Umm... really? They think I'm the one for that? What the hell? When have I ever been one who can work with the living? That means I will be totally out of my element for the next three days. I don't believe in, or really have a concept of hell, but that has to be it.

Ten

I am really much too drunk to write about much, so I am sharing my favorite passage of the book I am currently reading...

"It looked like I would never be punished by God or Satan, and when we died our lives just flickered out. The sooner a person understands that there's no punishment after death and allows their own impulses to take over, the sooner they become an unstoppable serial killer. That's the point I'd reached. It was scary, but it was exciting too." - Keith Hunter Jesperson

Yes, it does sound exciting...

Nine

What a lovely thing death is. I had a female, mid-20's caucasian brunette and a male, one month old caucasian blond waiting for me when I arrived to work this morning. My coworkers must love me. Young flesh is always my favorite to prep. To mold into my deranged art.

Usually I would be most excited about the boy. Plump. Pink. Adorable blond curls. Ten perfect fingers and toes. Still and cool as granite in winter. And silent. Just like all babies should be. I prepped him first because I needed a good start to my day. After the hell I've been dealing with I wanted to calm the storm, and I found it in this gorgeous little boy. He died on his side so pooled blood had made his face look a little distorted. After some work he looked more perfect than the pictures his grieving parents brought in. As usual. I am good at my job.

When I uncovered the twenty-six year old I was taken aback. She was beautiful, even in death. Maybe even more so in death. Pale skin, bright red lips, straight dark brown hair, brilliant blue eyes... even after deaths haze. She is exactly the type I fantasize about killing so I can embalm later. I looked at her chart to see her cause of death and it wasn't homicide. Somehow, that was reassuring. It's good to know I am not going around killing people and forgetting. I considered not embalming her because she was already so close to perfection that I questioned my ability to make her look any better. I've never had that happen before.

Eight

Nineteen years ago, almost to the day, I found my love of fire. What eight year old doesn't like fire? I suppose I should be a little more clear. I discovered my love of setting fires. I was quite an apt little arsonist. It all started when my brother told me there was no santa. Yes, there was a time I believed that pathetic lie. Christmas time was the only time of year that brought any kind of joy into my angry life. I was livid. Not at my brother, and not that there wasn't a santa, but that my parents had lied to me. Every year my father took us out to cut down a tree and had us decorate it, demeaning us the whole time, so santa would come. Bastard! I knew I had to get even.

That night, after everyone was in bed I sneaked out of my room and tried to devise a plan to destroy my parents. Killing them wasn't an option. My father slept with a gun beside his bed and was faster than me, so that was out of the question. And my mother was sometimes kind, I couldn't think of a great reason to kill her. As I was sitting in the den staring at the ridiculous tree it dawned on me. Burn it. If the whole house burned and everyone died, so be it. I got a book of matches and a cigarette. I lit the cigarette, something I had done with my brother too many times, took a couple puffs, then set it under the match book like it was in a tent. I went back to bed, calm in my decision.

What seemed like hours passed, but it couldn't have been that long. I heard my older sister scream for our parents and that's when everything started happening really fast. Mother gathered up all us kids and father was trying to put out the fire. When the fire department arrived most of the den was in flames. I was thrilled. They had lied to me so that's what they had coming. A few days later we moved back in. There had been no serious structural damage to the house, but it was the last time we celebrated christmas. I eventually told father what I did because I wanted to see his face. I told him it was his fault for lying to me, he didn't see it that way and I didn't sit for a week. That was typical of our relationship, us lashing out at each other.

This is my most memorable christmas... what's yours?

Seven

Why is it that this time of year the christians come out in full force to convert you? My company had a christmas lunch in the lobby today and pretty much demanded everyone go. Everyone was scheduled to work and our secret santa picks were stapled to our checks a few weeks ago. I dropped my last minute gift off at the desk this morning and chose to work through lunch. Hell, bodies aren't going to embalm themselves, right? Some bitch I barely know who works with the living decided to come invade my space to preach to me about the word of her 'lord and savior' and demanded to know why I wasn't celebrated 'his day' with everyone else. Uhh... because I'm an atheist? Mainly because I find that if I'm stuck in a room with a bunch of people I have a hard time not wanting to kill one of them. I failed to mention that one in her 40 minute long interrogation.

If I wanted something to numb my brain I wouldn't choose religion. I would choose alcohol. Fuck me. Am I the only one who has rampant converters surrounding me? It takes a lot of self control to not hurt them when they start telling me how wrong I am in my beliefs. How do they know? They haven't died. I wish they had, but no such luck.

Six

I gave my notice today and told Dr. K that I will be joining him at the morgue come the 15th. TDC is thrilled but I still have a few doubts. At least I know I won't have to deal with as many whining women anymore. Word somehow got to Daniel that I was leaving and he suddenly decided that he likes me. Uhhh... come again? This is the same guy who has picked up on the fact that I am indeed a psychopath and probably in desperate need of some sort of psychological help. He is also the same guy I have turned on with what is considered a weapon numerous times and literally attacked once.

Needless to say I was taken aback. I'm not one that understands human mating rituals... the whole 'do you like me?' thing is very confusing. If I like you I don't curse you out and/or ignore you. It took him several times explaining to me what he meant before I realized he had a thing for me. He wants to date me... to fuck me. Hmmm... I don't think so Danny Boy. The only thing I want to do to you is stick a standard embalming needle through your carotid while you're still twitching. I asked him why he was even interested in me, since just a few days ago he was too afraid to be in the same room with me and he gave me a few reasons...

What is it about women with high self-esteem that turns men into love sick puppies?

Five

I fucking hated my father but I would rather be like him then like any woman I have met lately. Sure he was a sadistic, abusive deranged fucktard, but my mother is a pathetic, whining weakling. She would never stand up to him and neither would my twin sister or my older sister. It was just me and my brother to fend for ourselves. Women are weak.

Yeah, okay. I'm sexist. How many women can say that? All I hear from my women coworkers is 'I have a headache', 'this job is too hard', 'I'm depressed' and 'I can't handle this case because it's a baby and I'm on my period... I don't want to cry'. Well, you get the point. Whine whine whine. Shut the fuck up already. Either do your job or get the hell over yourself. I try my damnedest to not be weak, but I know I am. Shit, I'm 110 pounds soaking wet. I know I can't lift a 300 pound body and drain it properly. But do I cry and bitch that I'm too little for my job so I can't handle it? No. I work out. I can handle a rib spreader and keep up with most of the guys. I've knocked the biggest one unconscious when he challenged me to a wrestling match. But I feel like I'm judged for all the stupid shit all the other women in the office pull.

My superior decided that she was going to hire her niece. For the sake of this blog her name is going to be Sasha. So I get handed Sasha today after no sleep last night and told to show her around and prep a totally routine 70 something granny for burial. Nothing to it. Sasha starts flipping out when she sees granny. 'Oh my god... it looks like my grandma.' (No shit, she looks like everyones' grandma.) Then she starts crying. I haven't even had a chance to get started yet and she was already crying. By lunchtime I was finished, so was Sasha. She was moved upstairs to deal with the grieving families. I bet she won't last a week.

Four

Mortician versus morgue technician.

I have the opportunity, yet again, to transfer to the morgue. It wouldn't be until January 15th but I can bide my time. I keep asking myself why I went through the extra two years of school if I wasn't planning on using my education. Do I want to embalm bodies forever? Sure I love it... but in the morgue I get to cut them open. I would also be under a closer watch. I would be a tech, not my own entity. And I am compulsive about making the bodies perfect. Posing and reposing. Filling in concave areas. Making the deceased more beautiful than they were in life, because really... isn't death more beautiful than life? I wouldn't be doing that in the morgue. I would be wrecking the bodies. I'm not sure I could make myself walk away from them in such a disarrayed state.

However, The Dark Creature would love to work at the morgue. Simply the thought of sawing through someones scull cap or cracking ribs after a Y incision is enough to make it quiver with pleasure. My monster and me... as usual fighting over which path to choose. My neurotic compulsions with cleanliness and order or it's compulsion with destruction and blood lust.

Three

I love babies. No, I'm not maternal by any means. Put a live baby within 20 feet of me and I'm likely thinking of ways to asphyxiate it (pillow, strangulation with its bib, hands around mouth or throat...). I have no desire to procreate. Anyone who has read my blog before probably knows I mean a dead infant on my slab to be prepped for burial.

They are perfect. Once they are drained of all their annoying fluids and can no longer squirm and cry, babies are quite beautiful. Add a little blush and... breathtaking. When I prep a body under 8 months for an open casket I always leave the mouth a little open. They look more alive. If you lean in close enough you can smell a hint of formaldehyde. So much sweeter than babies breath. Why can't all children be that charming?

Today I let The Dark Creature and my calm side play together as one. After satisfying the darker side yesterday I am at peace. I didn't work at keeping a mask of normality, hell... humanity... on today, because it didn't seem all that important. Daniel called me a deranged sociopath because of it. Do I care? No. My dark side and I are one. Who the fuck cares what people think about my love for the job. My love for dead babies. My love of anything that sates my shadow friend.

Two

I don't understand the allure of christmas. A true christian would have no need to flaunt their wealth by buying outrageous gifts and have no right putting up a pagan based tree. Everyone else is just taking advantage of a commercial holiday. And the songs. The songs really annoy the fuck out of me.

Christmas songs. A sure sign that it's the time of the year that I will want to destroy every living being around me. Daniel arrived to work before me and changed my CD's out with his so there was a brief moment of time where I was forced to listen to the horrible drivel. Let's just say I had a violent reaction. My mask came off. I was unable to hold my false front up. I'm not sure Daniel will be working so closely with me for awhile.

He compared me to some TV character. I've repeatedly told him I don't have a television and have no interest in listening to him drone on about what he watches on the boob tube, but he was bound and determined to describe this person to me. Someone named Dexter. I googled him and was slightly amused. Unfortunately that only shows that I am not acting human enough. I need to fake more human emotion.

One

Work was fun today. I prepped a body that shouldn't have been able to have had an open casket funeral. The whole left side of his head was caved in. Actually, most the left upper body was caved in as well. It was a beautiful process to reposition and fill in all the missing areas. My coworker... for the sake of this blog I'm going to call him Daniel... was beside himself. He couldn't stop saying how sad it was that this life was taken at such a young age and was repulsed at the damage done to the body in the accident. I, however, could barely keep from bursting out in song.

It truly was beautiful.

The transformation from something dead and broken into something closer to perfection than he had ever been in life pleased me. I didn't understand Daniels' grief. He didn't know the teenage body or his family. It doesn't make sense. We are paid to make bodies presentable. It's a great job. I don't think he's cut out for it.

Me? I love being so close to the dead. I thrive being around death. Being able to be hands on with bodies keeps my never ending homicidal thoughts a lot more manageable. Taking a vacation isn't an option for me... even being away for a few days feels like a few decades and I get antsy. I was made for it.

Dealing with the grieving... that I was not made for. I have to act as if I understand, though I don't. Then there are my coworkers and superiors who think I should be horrified when small children or gruesome bodies come in, when I am actually elated and excited. I'm tired of having to behave the opposite of how I feel.