The sharp hum of the heating element drew me from my thoughts. I adjusted my sleeves and stepped through the door. Despite popular connotations, the funeral homes I’d frequented didn’t carry the chill of death throughout the building. Even in the winter, they offered a welcome respite from the chill. Slipping off my woolen coat, I noticed a small bunch in the collar’s seam. A solid lump lodged itself in my throat, but I swallowed it down and hung the coat up. Maroon carpet dulled my steps into a rhythmic thump as I padded down the employee-entrance hallway. Heat breathed through the vents, blowing through my hair.

A frustrated growl escaped me before I smoothed my hair once again. Professionalism was of utmost importance, but I tried everything without success to manage this. I’d grown out the front, hoping that it would cover the cowlick when I slicked it back. Of all things I couldn’t change it had to be something so obvious. No one mentioned it to me, but it was impossible for them not to notice.

I stopped before I reached the secretary’s desk, pulling at my collar, my sleeves, and my shoelaces. Not a single wrinkle could be found on my button down or my slacks, save the sharp crease down the center. Fearing I might get trapped in this endless loop, I forced myself forward.

The carpet ran into the polished wood as the hall opened to the wide office. Numerous ceiling lights covered the room in an egregious yellow tint; it made my impressionably pale skin appear jaundiced. The blue light of the computer clashed with the fluorescents that hummed an unidentifiable melody. Papers rustled behind the desk as a head popped up.

“Oh, Phillip, you’re here.” Maureen shoved the last forkful of salad into her mouth and rummaged through a pile of papers by the computer. How she managed to keep track of all these files in that mess was beyond me, but despite her questionable methods, she hadn’t lost anything yet. She brushed her short hair from her face as she handed me the files. “I have two death certificates for you to sign, and we’ve already got her on the table ready for you,” She paused. “You sure you’re good with this?”

I took the papers, clasping my hands behind my back. “Positive. Thank you, Maureen.” I dipped my head but didn’t wait for her response. Perhaps I owed her more, considering she did vouch for me. I completed my training when I was just twenty years old. For five years I worked in Plymouth until the management changed. I moved back to my hometown to help with my mother’s health complications, and once I found a suitable one-room apartment, I began searching for alternative places of employment.

That was when Maureen convinced Mr. Powell, the funeral director here, to hire me despite my relative youth. Coincidentally, I’d embalmed her aunt when I was still training in Plymouth. After she made the association, she made every effort to get me hired.

In any case, they’d been pleased with my work so far. I passed through one more hall and stepped into the embalming room. Grey tile sloped into the drain in the middle of the room. A sheet covered the woman on the table, but I didn’t turn my attention to her yet. My hands shook from the cold as I drew on the gown and gloves, ignoring the slight stain on the left cuff. The gloves were thick and trapped the cold inside. I took a breath and tied the plastic apron over my gown.

Having stalled long enough, I turned my attention to the body. Typically, it wouldn’t be policy for me to attend to this embalming, but the family requested me specifically. My eyes caught on the marker along her thin calf, branding her name there; I didn’t need it this time, though. “Alright, Mrs. Parks,” I muttered, “this won’t take long.”

I pulled the sheet away from her face. Deep wrinkles formed canyons from her eyes and around her mouth. I knew she wouldn’t have a peaceful expression yet, so I diverted my attention to the ink pad and paper; it was customary to take the fingerprints of each body. Her hand was stiff as I took it into mine; they were thin as if there wasn’t much separating my glove from her bone save for the papery skin. The blue of her fingertips almost matched the color of my gloves. Massaging her fingers to rid them of their rigor mortis, I pressed her thumb onto the ink and the paper. Mercifully, the print was clean, and I dropped her hand.

Stealing another breath, I began positioning her arms. Her papery skin clung to her bones, and whatever muscles were left protested the shift until I massaged them into place. Patches of dark purple skin marred her hands; though she was frail, she never did stop working. Her left hand rested above her right allowing the wedding ring to be shown in the casket. With care, I propped her head on the stand, tilting it forward and to the side to appear more natural. Though death was just as natural as life, somehow people found comfort in seeing their loved ones look even more alive than they had moments before they died. My very way of life drove a rift between the living and the dead, but after so many years, I’d found that’s just what some families need.

The hose rumbled in my hands as I turned the faucet on and poured the water over the body. It drained down into the porcelain basin beneath the table. With any luck, having the water running would keep the fumes and the mess down. I drew my instruments from the sterilizing tin, placing them on a towel by the sink. The smell was sharp and devoid of any other distinguishable factors as if with enough cleanliness one could eradicate the stain of death itself. This smell was what I associated the most with death; covering up reality was my job.

I set aside two pieces of ligature I’d cut and began retrieving the various chemicals. Four ounces of dye went into the tank of water along with formaldehyde and thirty-two ounces of lanolin. The rhythm of my process soon took over, stabilizing my hands as I washed and shaved her face. I didn’t wash her hair since the silvery locks had long since fallen out. With nothing to hide it, her birthmark on the back of her neck displayed itself against the blue-tinted skin.

From my array of tools, I selected the curved needle and drove it through the septum and down her nose, threading it underneath the lip and lower frenulum. The string pulled tight, and I tucked the ends out of view. My hand hovered over her eyes a moment too long before I inserted the barbed eye-caps under her lids. I stuffed a wad of cotton in each side of her cheek, forcing her lips into a smile. The expression was serene like a child pretending to be asleep, not knowing their parents were happy to carry them in all along.

I tore my eyes from the façade, taking up the scalpel and creating the incision just above her collar bone; the skin parted without resistance. The cold air returned, causing my hands to shake as I felt for the vein and Carotid Artery. My breath caught as I felt something snap. Blood welled around my hand and followed the string to drip onto the table. I closed my eyes and tied the ligature around the artery. All had gone well up until now, but I could tell the vein was broken. I’d have to perform a heart tap for her left side. A writhing pit filled with snakes formed in my stomach; surely, I’d remembered to eat earlier. It was barely half past two. I couldn’t have been sick, so I ignored the feeling and grabbed the trocar.

The hollow needle glinted under the lights, and I had to swallow down the bile that rose in my throat. Whatever this was, I still had a job to do. I inserted the instrument into her artery and turned the apparatus on. The blood drained from her right side, through the tube, and into the basin below. She was dead already, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I was draining her life away. It was too late before I’d even started, but this was final somehow. Chemicals would now replace the life that used to course through her body.

The tube continued to suck though nothing was left. I stood completely immobile as the needle sought out whatever blood it could find. The machine groaned in protest, ripping me from my haze of thoughts. I switched off the fluid aspirator and ran the hose over the incision. I needed some time, but my job wasn’t over. Removing the trocar from her artery, I took a deep breath and set the instrument two inches above and to the left of her bellybutton. The trocar stayed still when I applied pressure before plunging under her ribs into her heart. The skin and muscle broke way for the invasion. The blood suctioned away as I held back my gag.

Once it was finally gone, I started the task of filling the vessels back up. The pungent chemicals flowed through her body, changing her skin back into a pink tone. The color only approximated the natural tone. I took her hand in mine once more to massage the fluid into the tips of her fingers. Only half her face returned until I put the fluid into the arteries. I had the water running to keep the fumes down, but they still managed to reach my eyes, making them water without my consent. I blinked which only spread the blurry spots across my vision.

But I couldn’t stop just yet. I suctioned all the fluid from her organs ignoring the sound like a straw drawing up the last bit of liquid from a glass. I replaced the fluid once again and flushed away all the fluid left in the basin. The hardest part was over, but I found my hands shaking more than before. I placed the trocar button in the hole in her abdomen and turned my attention to the gash in her neck. I took up my needle to suture the incision, weaving the thread through the skin and creating a baseball stitch. Halfway through, I poured the appropriate amount of dry gel and finished up the stitch. The gel would expand and absorb any liquid left. I tied the knot, pausing just before I passed the needle under the skin one last time to hide the knot. I stared at the sutured wound—the skin braided together.

Minutes ticked by as I watched her body. Nothing moved, which I never expected of course. Death came for us all; it wasn’t anything to be afraid of. But it was permanent. You left people behind; people would give nearly everything just to talk to you again. That was wishful thinking, something I refused to indulge.

I washed everything off and prepped for the next embalming. I thought replacing her bodily fluids with the chemicals had been the worst part, but I didn’t realize how wrong I had been until I began massaging the moisturizer into her face and lips. Her skin was soft once again. The chemicals were gone, but their effect remained, pulling the tears from my eyes. As soon as I pulled the sheet over her face, I dashed out of the room. I took several steadying breaths as I tried to write the embalming report through my blurred vision. Diane Parks. Age: 62. The ink of her name, written in my handwriting, sank into the paper’s fibers.

Maureen jumped when she came up behind me. “Philip, are you crying?” She exclaimed, but I shook my head and brushed passed her.

Just as I opened the door, I ran straight into Mr. Powell. Dark eyes peered through heavy spectacles. I half-expected him to be upset, but his eyes softened as he let out a low breath. Mr. Powell placed his hand on my shoulder, fingers tightening over me. “Go home, Mr. Parks. You’ve done more than I should have allowed.”

There was no hiding it anymore. As if all I needed was permission, I broke down into his open arms.