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Self-care is important. Even in the afterlife.
If only I’d follow my own advice and wash my face every once in a while, do some yoga, journal my feelings... put on something other than leggings and a T-shirt.
Even my work uniform consists of that, except with the added details of a smock, face mask, and clear shield protector sporting the morgue’s logo.
Even my little makeup brushes have the morgue’s logo stamped on them.
There’s just an artistry to the details of death that’s unmatched.
“Thanks for helping me.”
I jolt out of my own thoughts, the voice startling me from the trance I seem to put myself under every time there are tools in my hands.
It’s one of the reasons I love this job. It’s mindless. It steals away my thoughts and worries.
I give a soft smile to Anna , though there’s really no happiness behind the gesture. I won’t be a dick to her and blame her for my late assignment or Nathan’s shitty behavior. Even if she’s a tad too naive for this serious of a job.
We were all new once, I suppose. Not everyone has four toxic years of mall makeup training like I did. The smell of hot pretzels and the screaming Karens have scarred me for life. So yeah, we can’t all be so lucky to have trained on annoyingly alive subjects like I have. Personally, I think the dead are easier clients.
Honestly when I first started, I didn’t even feel qualified for the job. Unlike my mall experience, a degree is needed to be a mortuary cosmetologist. Thankfully, my boss is lenient.Too lenientif he’s letting Anna break off corpse parts without reprimand. He always did have a soft spot for weird, struggling people, and being hired by him was a blessing and a curse; terms I’d use to describe Anna actually.
She’s lucky she’s the mortician’s daughter.
“You have such a way with them,” Anna admires, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been sulking since I got back.
“With... the dead bodies?” My brow quirks up, and I pause what I’m doing to look at her.
She looks as out of place as she did earlier when she almost yanked an arm off like an old Barbie toy. You’d think she’d be desensitized to this already. Because her dad is a man who likes to overshare his experiences with death, I wonder if he told those stories like lullabies to her in the crib.
It would explain the awkwardness she covers herself in. She makes herself small like me sometimes. She spends a lot of time in her head and not much in the real world. We’re both quiet, but her watchful attention eats up every detail of a person. I can see it in her big eyes like she’s filing away important little notes on every person she meets. And when you become her chosen, trusted person, you get the full experience of her spark.
“I–I mean, yeah, but you’re also so good with the makeup thing considering–” She waves a latex-gloved hand in my general direction.
“Considering...?”
She stammers a bit, and I wonder if it’s bad that I get a sick satisfaction out of it.
I mean, if people are going to be rude or tell bad jokes, ask them to elaborate. To explain it. Especially if they’re your friends.
It won’t seem so funny then. Because I already know what she’s trying to say: I’m good at makeup considering I don’t put in the effort to wear any myself.
Yeah, I get that a lot.
Before she gets a chance to explain that to me, the door to the morgue clangs open and in walks her father, Jim.
He’s a man with long, skinny legs and a round upper body and looks only slightly similar to that cartoon character with those yellow twinkie creatures that wear glasses.
What are those things called?
“Evening, ladies!” he bellows, looking down at us from over his pointed nose. The fluorescent white lights overhead shine down on his bald head. “Just wanted to let you know we’ve got a new one coming tomorrow.” His excitement would be concerning to the average person.
I can hear Anna gulp audibly.
“Hit-and-run. Easy autopsy, but probably closed casket funeral unless you can reconstruct a whole face.”
Minions! That’s what those things are called.
The lightbulb in my brain goes off at the same time as Jim looks at me expectantly.
