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I, in fact, cannot reconstruct a face. But I’ll still clean the deceased up as best as I can for the funeral.
Out loud I say, “I’ll do my best.”
He nods and then stalks forward, taking a look at my current handiwork. His smile of praise warms me from the inside. “Immaculate! As usual. Almost lifelike even.”
And, hell, my boss’s weird compliments certainly don’t ease the tension from the shitty day I’ve had, but it sure does fucking help.
* * *
I could leave all this mess behind and go back home to Ohio. I don’t actually need a fancy degree, do I?
It’s a question I contemplate over a hot plate of birria tacos. Smirking unapologetically, I dunk one into the spicy bowl of consomé. The juice drips down my fingers, and it practically melts against my tongue. There’s satisfaction to be had in knowing Nathan’s never had food this good in his entire life.
“If you’d let go of the tacos–”
Ha!Yeah, right, Nathan.
I’ve always been on the bigger side with a curvy body and the rolls to match. As much as I always loved school, they don’t teach you to love yourself. It took years to really see how sexy I truly am. My body has a beauty that may not seem typical, but I’m gorgeous from the thick curls of my dark hair, to the fire in my eyes, to the perfect bounce of my ass when I dance. It’s never something I’ve been ashamed of, especially considering there was a time when I wasn’t as physically healthy as I am now.
So, yeah, he can fuck right off.
Nothing short of death will pry these from my fingertips. Nathan’s probably a miserable son of a bitch because he survives on a diet of bland hot dog water and crackers.
Asshole.
Who needs to pass Criminology 101 anyway?
Me.
I fucking do.
Despair grips me in a tight fist all over again. I can’t go back home. I can’t give up so soon.
Working at the morgue distracts me for a few hours after that shitty encounter until it is time to come home–aka the basement of the morgue–and replay the entire debacle in my head again and again. All I can manage is creating a scenario in which I took that hockey stick and shoved it straight down Nathan’s throat. In my head, I come out victorious, with an A+, and with Nathan apologizing to me on his knees right before I tell him to get pucked and kick him in the throat.
A girl can dream, right?
Finishing up my food, I end up on my couch, flipping the TV on as if that can distract me from the anxiety that’s reeling through my brain.
At work, I can focus my full attention on the task at hand. At making death beautiful. Something that requires my full, undivided focus.
Now that I’m home, no assignments, no food, and nothing but the lonely silence, I contemplate my entire existence.
Fuck.
I shut off the TV and reach for my phone. Maybe some mindless scrolling will ease my anxiety.
I open my social media account. I don’t have a plethora of friends to talk to, so I find social media tedious on occasion unless I want to keep up with campus gossip. I do sometimes. In moments like these, anyway.
And it does help.
There seem to be several hot topics circulating at school right now. One of them being hockey.
Fuck me in the eye.
I quickly scroll past the overabundance of hockey drama because all it does is remind me of Nathan and his dumb ass and my likely failed course.
Fuuuuuck.
