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.