Page 3 of Melancholia

“Did you say something?”

Fuck.

“Yeah.” I hold up my hand, showing off the reddened skin around my thumbnail from chewing on it. “I’m telling myself to stop it before I do more damage here. I’m fine,” I add, not wanting to give him more of an excuse to hover. “Have fun on your trip. I promise the mortuary will still be here when you get back.”

“It better be,” he chuckles, easily mollified. “Otherwise, what will my grandfather have to say from beyond the grave?”

“A lot, probably.” A few more traded jokes send Cecil on his way, then seconds after the lobby door closes behind him, rain starts to tap against the windows, light and sparing, not quite a steady downpour but close enough.

Mary saunters back over to me, staring down at the clipboard I’m holding again. “You forgot to add one.” She taps the line to denote any identifying marks on her right lower leg. “You really are tired. Not like you to forget that.”

I only sigh and flip up the sheet to see the cluster of scars on her lower leg, which I’m pretty sure are from an old dog bite. “Are you going to be here all night?”

“Maybe.” Mary doesn’t move. “Depends on you, I guess. Now, could you get to wiring my jaw shut? I’m not a fan of seeing myself all slack-jawed like this. Thanks in advance, Nell.”

2

If looks could kill a piece of technology, the laptop on Cecil’s desk would be dead and buried. Somehow, the fact the lid is covered in all kinds of random stickers—from merch logos to cartoon animals—only makes it more aggravating that clocking out is this difficult.

“Maybe you should⁠—”

“Shut up, Mary,” I groan. "Your time is coming, you know?”

“Right,” the dead woman agrees, sitting on the embalming table where her body had been. “Because you’re going to pop that little pill waiting in your medicine cabinet, then I’ll just fade on out, won’t I?”

“And hopefully I’ll forget your face so you don’t make a return visit.” I smack the enter key once. Then twice. Then thrice, trying not to slam down on it as the little wheel on the screen spins and spins.

I am just trying to fucking clock out. It should not be so difficult.

“Let it never be said that Eleanor⁠—”

“Nell—”

“Collins shied away from getting her hands dirty. But also never let it be said that she’s a master of technology.”

Finally, the wheel stops spinning, and after a few more seconds, I’ve successfully clocked out. “Good night, Mary. Sorry you died,” I sigh as I meet her eyes where she’s sitting on the embalming table. She just looks at me with her head cocked, her eyes pale in the fluorescent light that buzzes above us.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s real.

But unfortunately, my psychiatrist and I know better.

By the time I flip off the light and shoulder my backpack, she’s vanished, though I don’t even consider that she might be gone for good. I worry that tonight, the only way to get my guests to stop showing up will be by chemical intervention.

In my car, I lean back, closing my eyes and just let myself sit there in the near-quiet of the night. Cecil was right. Any storms tonight had blown by quickly, aligning with the weatherman’s warning that the real storms are still starting tomorrow and no one in the area should get comfortable enough not to expect them.

Instead of going straight back to my apartment, I find myself pulling into the parking lot of Honey Clove, unsurprised to find it almost dead at nearly 4 am. And yet, even though most of their customers eat between seven in the morning and nine at night, the diner always remains open. One time following a hard nightshift, Cecil decided I was too pale, so brought me here to "get some food in you and offer support."

Support for who? I remember asking, gazing at the old, laminated menu that had seen way better days.

Us. The cops. Anyone who has to work this late.

It’s easy to get a booth to myself in the corner considering the fact there are only three other customers inside. I sit down with a sigh, not really hungry, but not wanting to go home. Not yet.

Not quite yet, though I don’t have a real reason tonight for wanting to stay out. I’m not really hungry. Not really dying for a caffeine fix, but⁠—

“Mornin’, Nell,” my waitress greets, making me jump with how she so easily snuck up on me,

“Jeez, Betty,” I murmur. “Warn a person next time.”