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We relocated to Ruston, Louisiana, much to my brother’s annoyance. My dad had found a job as a truck driver, and left my brother and I home alone nine out of twelve months a year. My brother was a year older than I was, but he acted as if he was four years younger.
When I turned eighteen, I’d moved out to go to school in Monroe, about an hour away from our new home. I’d graduated witha cosmetology degree within a year. Ever since, I’d been working my ass off.
My newest gig, which brought me to Benton in the first place, was an unusual one.
After struggling for two years trying to make a clientele, I branched out, trying my hardest to save up for my future house and pay my insurance out of pocket.
I had asthma. And with the changing of seasons, I ended up having attacks that sent me to the hospital at least once a year. I also couldn’t lapse on my coverage, or I’d never get it again without paying outrageously for it.
My car groaned as I pulled it into my usual parking spot at the back of the building and died once I no longer had constant pressure on the gas.
It coughed, sputtered, and shook as it wheezed its final revolution before I turned the key and shoved my shoulder against the door. My car was a beast.
It was a 1975 Pontiac Firebird with gold worn out paint and black accents. It had a T-top, and it was my baby.
I had the best of intentions when I’d purchased the vehicle off the side of the road when I was twenty, but as the years went by, I only had enough money to keep the car working. Not make it pretty.
There were springs coming out in the seats, I’d replaced both seatbelts with junkyard finds, and the dash was so cracked that it didn’t even resemble much of a dash anymore. And don’t even get me started on the engine work the car needed.
Angling myself out of the car, I stood and bent inside for my purse.
Hitting the lock with the palm of my hand, I slammed the door hard, glad to see that it actually closed all the way, and walked inside.
The smell was always the first thing to get me when I walked in the door.
The sickly sweet scent of flowers.
I hated flowers now.
After seven years on the job, I could never see another flower again and be happy.
In fact, I’d go as far as to say I loathed flowers.
Why, you ask?
Because the smell reminds me of death.
I am a beautician.
My clientele were dead people.
Black Water Funeral Home had been my home away from home for over five years now.
Walking down the back hallway, I keyed in my entry code and walked into the back room. We called it the locker room. This was where we housed all the bodies. This was where all the magic happened.
I was alone when I entered, which was how I liked it.
The only person that was usually here at this hour was Brittany, the mortician.
However, she was nowhere in sight when I arrived; so I stowed my purse and jacket in the staff lounge room and walked to the computer to pull up who I was to work on first.
Ahh, a Mrs. Rose Abernathy, 23.
I blanched when I saw the cause of death.
God, I hated suicides.
I guess all I could be thankful for was that she hadn’t shot herself. Instead, she’d hung herself, which was nearly as bad, but easily covered with makeup and clothing.
