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Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
I can do this.
I have to do this.
I wring my hands out, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. Sweat slides down my spine. No, not a job for an amateur at all.
Thankfully, I’ve read up on the bio-recovery industry. Most people refer to it as crime scene cleanup—biohazard remediation—trauma scene restoration. Point is—they’re the people who come out and clean blood, bodily fluids, and other potentially dangerous materials following less than desirable situations. It’s a specialty. A career path people actually chose. So many possibilities, when you think of it. So many paths one can take. I can almost hear my father saying, your imagination is your only limitation.
He may have been wrong about that, judging by the state of this room. The business of death cleanup requires a cold disposition and a strong stomach. And unfortunately, I have only one of the two.
What I also don’t have is time.
Twenty-four minutes. The clock is running down, and I have no timeouts left. Time marches on, reminding me even the best-laid plans rarely go off without a hitch.
Hitches. Now there’s something I’m familiar with. I just hadn’t expected one of this magnitude. That was my mistake. But it wasn’t the first one, and looking around, it isn’t going to be the last.
I slide my phone into my back pocket again and open the closet. I could stuff them in there. Maybe. Unfortunately, old houses have small closets, and it would take quite a bit of effort to make them fit. And perhaps a few broken bones.
For a second, I think I might actually be losing it and I wonder if this is what they mean by the term psychotic break. I consider calling someone. But who? What kind of friend do you call to get you out of a jam like this?
Problem is, I know exactly what kind of friend.
But I won’t go there. I can’t go there.
Bad things happen when I go there.
Things worse than this.
You wouldn’t think anything could be worse than this.
But again, you wouldn’t understand.
I hope you’re not offended. I’m not saying you're stupid or anything.
It’s not you.
Most people wouldn’t understand.
Probably not even these two, I tell myself, and then I don’t know why I do it, but I lean down, pull back the covers, and really take them in. The waxy skin, the bloated faces, or what’s left of them anyway, the transfixed eyes. You might think they look peaceful, but you would be wrong. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. And I see many in my future.
My phone dings. The sound startles me, and I practically leap into the bed with them. My knee bumps the mattress, and a hand flops over the side, brushing my bare skin. Every expletive I know floods my mind as I dance back. They’d come pouring out of my mouth, but I’m too afraid to open it. My phone dings again. I stare at the hand and think: this can’t be real. Then I back away and read the text. Where are you? I can’t believe this is happening. Finally.
He has no idea.
This is sick, he writes.
I look around the room. Truly.
Sick as in a BFD.
I know what you mean; I text back. He likes it when I’m up on my acronyms. He is not one who likes to explain himself, and he reads minds like it’s his profession.
It is a big effing deal.
It’s not every day that you hold an engagement party of this magnitude at your venue, but that is exactly what is happening in precisely twenty-one minutes. The entire town will be here. What a disaster this is going to turn out to be. Looking back, I should have said no. I tried to say no. I did say no.
It didn’t work. And anyway, as for him being here, it was a favor to make up for that other favor.
