by Amy Cross
Prologue 2
Twenty years later.
There she is again, tottering along the street in high heels, stumbling and almost falling over, clutching a half-drunk bottle of wine and looking for all the world like a common whore.
But she's not a common whore.
She's the girl I love.
Her name is Shelley.
It's 4am. Staying in the shadows on the other side of the road, I watch her from a distance. I don't dare approach her. The thought of actually getting close to her, much less speaking to her, fills me with such absolute panic that I think I'd pass out if it ever happened. All I can do is watch from over here, and hope she manages to make her way home. I guess I'll spend the rest of the night sitting outside her window again, watching as the sun comes up.
"Hey!" shouts a guy down at the other end of the street.
My heart almost leaps into my mouth. He's a big, burly guy, clearly a little drunk himself, and he's hurrying after Shelley.
"Hey!" he shouts again. "Where you going?"
She glances back but doesn't stop. Instead, she stumbles along.
"Hey, Princess!" the guy shouts, reaching her and grabbing her shoulder. He spins her around to face him. "What's the hurry?"
"Gotta get home," she says, slurring her words as she tries to pull away from him. He keeps a tight hold on her.
"Yeah," he says, "but what's the fucking hurry? You not got time to play?"
"Gotta get home," she says again, barely able to focus on the guy. She's so drunk, she probably won't remember any of this in the morning.
"Yeah, I heard you," the guy says, "but don't you wanna suck a little cock along the way?"
"No," she says. "No thanks."
"Yeah you do," he insists, suddenly pushing her to the ground. "I can hear it in your voice."
I feel my heart racing. Every night, I watch her going home and I pray that nothing untoward will happen. Since I started following her six months ago, I've had a policy of non-interference. I observe her life, but I don't get involved. What do I do now, though? Do I maintain my policy of non-interference, or do I go and help her?
"Suck it," the guy says, pulling down his trousers to expose a wrinkly, semi-hard little cock with a large silver ring through the tip. "Come on, what's it to you?"
She tries to get to her feet, but she can't stand. She's too drunk. The only good part of this is that no matter what happens, she probably won't remember it in the morning.
"What are you waiting for?" the guy asks, grabbing her and pulling her head toward his crotch. Almost instinctively, she takes his cock in her mouth and starts to blow him. It's horrifying to watch, as if in her drunkenness she's gone on auto-pilot. I know she's pretty sexually free, and she's probably done this to hundreds of guys, but there's something pathetic about seeing her forced into something like this.
It only takes about a minute for the guy to reach orgasm. He pulls his cock from her mouth, grabs her face and holds her mouth shut. "Swallow it!" he says, and she does. "Fucking perfect," he continues, pushing her away so that she falls to the ground. I can see that her knees are all cut up from kneeling on the rough sidewalk.
"Have a nice night," the guy says, pulling his trousers up and walking away. He's got a bit of a swagger now. Obviously feeling pleased with himself, he heads off into the darkness. I look over at Shelley and see that she seems to be going to sleep on the sidewalk. My first instinct is to go and help her, but I can't interfere. Instead, I turn and follow the guy into the shadows.
"Hey," I shout after him. He doesn't seem to hear me. "Hey!" I shout again.
He stops and turns to me. "You talking to me?"
"Yeah," I say, approaching him. "I was just wondering if she gave good head."
The guy laughs. "You watching, were you?"
I smile. "Couldn't help it. You were kind of just... right there. So was she good?"
He shrugs. "Not bad."
"Cool," I say. "So do you want to suck my cock?"
He stares at me. "Fuck off," he says with a nervous laugh.
"It's okay," I say. "I wasn't being serious. I was being facetious. Do you know what the word 'facetious' means?"
The guy narrows his eyes. "Are you a fucking idiot?" he asks. He steps toward me. "Are you asking to get your fucking head kicked in? I'd be happy to do it for you. Just say the word, and I'll have bits of your skull spread out all over the floor."
"Sounds painful," I say. "I guess I should stop insulting you."
The guy steps right up to me. He's taller than me, and better built. He looks like he could beat me to a pulp, but looks can be deceptive. "You're one step away from a beating," he says, staring at me, "and two steps from being dead. Do you understand me?"
"I understand," I say. "You're a fucking asshole, and you've got a tiny cock." I smile. "I know it's small. I saw it when you were putting it in that girl's mouth. Your tiny little -"
Without letting me finish, the guy headbutts me. I feel my nose crunch as I fall to the ground, and blood gushes down my face. As I try to get up, he kicks me in the ribs and I crash back down, and then he reaches down, grabs my head, lifts it up for a second and finally slams it against the ground. I feel my jaw break. My entire face is bloodied and ruined, and when I try to open my eyes I find there's too much blood for me to be able to see.
"I guess you're sorry now, huh?" I hear him say. He sounds pretty confident. He thinks he's proved his point.
I get to my feet. My nose is already mending, as is my jaw. After a moment, I turn to him and smile. My injuries are completely healed. "Not really," I say.
He stares at me, with a look of blank incomprehension spread across his face.
"I heal pretty fast," I say. "Do you?"
He turns to walk away, but I grab his shoulder, spin him back around and bite into his face. As he struggles, I rip part of the flesh away to expose his skull. I spit the flesh onto the ground and bite into his neck, ripping out more and more flesh as I slip my tongue through his torn muscle. His jugular bursts and blood erupts from the wound, covering my face and shoulders. He's still fighting back, trying to stop me from hurting him, but it's too late. His injuries are too severe, and all this needless flapping is just instinctive. He knows he's dying.
"Fuck you," I say quietly.
I let go of the guy and he drops to his knees. The front of his face is gone, revealing the skull with two round white eyes staring out. He's in shock: technically he's still alive, but blood is pouring from his neck and he probably has ten, twenty seconds left at most. I put a hand on each side of his head, and then I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until his skull caves in and brain matter spews out. Finally I let his dead body fall to the ground.
It's a shame not to consume him, but I'm not hungry and I have somewhere else to be.
I turn and go back to the street where I left Shelley. She's fast asleep on the sidewalk. I head over to her and look down at her sleeping face. She's so beautiful, I'd do anything to protect her. Anything. It seems unfair that in order for such beauty to survive, there must be violence in other places, but at least she won't remember any of tonight. She'll wake up in a few hours, stumble home, fall asleep and wake up with a massive hangover.
I head back over the road, back into the shadows. I'll wait here, keeping an eye on her so that no-one else tries to hurt her. That's how I show my love for her, night after night. One day, I'll summon up the courage to go and talk to her. But not tonight. I'm too scared.
Shelley
Disco boots.
Disco boots. Disco boots. Disco boots.
Oh God, I wont those disco boots.
That's why I'm here. As I try not to be grossed out by all the blood and gore, I keep reminding myself of those bright yellow, sequined, tasseled, retro 70s style disco boots in the window of the store. I'm here so I can earn $230 and buy myself the best pair of disco boots the world has ever seen.
Honest to God, that's why I'm standing here, holding this brain.
"Often," Walter says, with his back to me, "the county morgue sends bodies to us in multiple bags. Do you understand what that means, Shelley?"
I stare at him, feeling slightly nauseous. "What?" I ask.
He frowns. "Heavy night last night?"
I smile. "No," I say, desperately trying to cover up the fact that I've got a monster hangover. "Sorry, I just missed the question."
"I said that the county morgue often sends bodies to us in multiple bags," he says, sighing. "I asked if you understand what that means."
"Um," I say, trying to think. This is my first day working here, and it feels uncomfortably like being back at school. Walter, the owner of the funeral home, is trying to get me to understand why we do the things we do. I wish he'd just tell me straight instead. "I guess it means that the person who died got carved up pretty badly," I say, guessing.
Walter turns to me, holding a severed arm. "Basically, yes," he says, smiling. He's an old man, close to retirement age and with a kind face. "They have no care for the niceties, so they just throw the pieces into some bags and send them to us." He examines the arm. "It's our job to put everything together so that when the time comes for the funeral service, the body is presentable. It's this level of attention to detail that has helped my family's funeral home survive through good times and bad."
The funeral home is on the outskirts of Dedston. If someone you love has died, and you can't afford a big funeral, you come here. Walter's known across town for providing big discounts, and he genuinely cares about the feelings of his customers. Down here in the basement, however, where the bodies are prepared for viewings and open caskets, there's not much room for tact or sensitivity. The bodies are laid out and treated like blocks of meat.
I look down at the dead body on the slab. It's a middle-aged guy who seems to be missing most of the lower part of his body. The top half looks fine, down to the stomach area, and then he's just a mangled mess where his hips and legs seem to have been ripped away. Also, the top of his head has been sliced open and his brain has been removed.
"What happened to him?" I ask.
"This is Franklin Lord," Walter says, "a married father of three. A teacher at the local high school. He was involved in a rather terrible car accident. He died instantly, though that will be little comfort for his poor grieving widow and his children." He checks his watch. "They'll be here in half an hour to talk about the casket."
"Are they going to see the body?" I ask.
"Of course not!" Walter says, sounding a little irritated. "It's not ready at all. They'll come back in a few days when we've had time to work our magic." He pauses. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap. Please ask any questions that you have." He glances at me. "It's the only way you'll learn."
I look at the brain in my hand. "Why did they take his brain out?"
Walter sighs. "I'm afraid that was a procedural error at the hospital. Someone ticked the wrong box, and by the time they'd realized their mistake, the autopsy was over. Now we have to sew Mr. Lord's skull shut and fix it so that nobody notices when the family members come to view the body." He sighs again. "The family insist upon an open casket, and unfortunately - as you can see - Mr. Lord was completely bald. This will be a challenge, for sure."
I look at the body. It's hard to believe that Franklin Lord, with the top of his head sliced open, can ever look good enough to be viewed by anyone. "Okay," I say, "so shall I pop the brain back in now?"
Walter frowns. "No, you can toss that in the trash."
I stare at him.
"We can sew the skull up without putting the brain back in," he says, with a tone of voice that makes it sound like he thinks I'm a bit of an idiot. "The family won't know. Put it in the trash container for medical waste."
There's a sound behind me. I turn to see a guy coming in from outside. The first thing I notice is that he's hot. Very hot. Although he's wearing an apron with blood stains on the front, he has the most gorgeous cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, and tousled black hair. The fact that he works at a funeral home only adds to his appeal. There's something cute about the way he seems able to be around dead bodies with such apparent ease.
"Comfortable, you're just in time," Walter says. "Go and mix up some latex for me. We've got a bald one to fix."
The guy nods, then glances shyly at me before walking over to the other side of the room and grabbing some pots. No introduction, no "Hello," just getting on with his job. I like that.
"Shelley," Walter continues, "I need you to hold the top of the head in place while I sew."
"Okay," I say, moving around to the other end of the table and taking the piece of skull. Walter helps me position it on the dead guy's head, but I can't help glancing over at the hot guy as he starts mixing the latex. I force myself to look down at the head. I need this job. Well, that's not true. I need the disco boots, and that means I need a job. With the economy going down the drain, this is the only one I could find.
"Keep a steady hand," Walter says to me. "I don't want to get this wrong." He grabs a tube of glue. "The first stage is simply to glue the bone surfaces together." He squirts clear gel onto the skull, just like he's gluing together parts of a broken vase. "In many ways, this is the most important part of the process, because it provides the structure for all of our subsequent work. We'll then grind down any ridges and rebuild with putty before using latex to smooth over the join." He looks up at me and smiles. "Simple, huh?"
"Uh-huh," I say, still unable to keep from glancing over at the hot guy, who has his back to me. Sophie always laughs at me for falling in love too fast, and perhaps she has a point; but in this case, I think even she would approve. This guy is seriously, seriously hot, and he has that quiet, slightly shy and moody demeanor that can be pretty hard to pull off properly. I already want to know everything about him: his name, his hobbies, his likes and dislikes, his plans for the future, his favorite position in bed... I'm not in love with him, obviously, but I'm in love with the idea of having some fun with him.
"Steady now," Walter says. I look down to see that he's still applying glue to the skull. "Make sure your hands don't shake too much."
"Sorry," I say.
"It's fine," he replies. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough." He focuses on his work for a moment. "Surely you will," he adds under his breath.
Great. I've been here barely two hours and already my new boss has given up on me. It's going to take me a couple of months to earn the money for those disco boots, and I'm kind of worried I might not last that long. I should never have stormed out of the restaurant, but it's too late to go back.
"Hold this in place," Walter says, and I put my fingers against the top of the head so that it stays where it is and the glue can dry.
"How long for?" I ask casually.
"Until I get back from greeting the deceased's family. They'll be here soon and I need to get changed before they arrive. I'll be back in forty, maybe forty-five minutes." He heads to the door.
"I have to stand like this until then?" I ask.
"If you don't want the job," Walter says as he leaves to go upstairs, "I'm sure there are plenty of others who'll happily take your place." And with that, he goes up to the main reception area of the funeral home, ready to greet the family.
"I'm not so sure about that," I say under my breath. Standing there and holding the piece of skull in place, it takes me a moment to summon up the courage to look over at the hot guy, who still has his back to me as he mixes up the batch of latex. Watching the back of his head, I find myself trying to come up with the perfect opening line for a conversation. Given the circumstances, I should be able to come up with something pretty funny, but unfortunately I find that my mind has gone kind of blank.
"So," I say, deciding to just dive in, "what's your name again?"
"Comfortable," he replies, not even looking over at me.
"Sorry?" I ask, not sure if I heard him right.
"Comfortable," he says again. "It's my name."<
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"Cool," I say, frowning a little. I look down at the dead body and see that the piece of skull is still in the right place. "I'm Shelley," I add.
No answer.
Damn it, this guy's only slightly more talkative than Patrick. "Comfortable's an unusual name," I say.
No answer.
"It's pretty weird," I continue.
"I know," he replies stonily.
"Did your parents really call you Comfortable?"
He nods.
"Cool," I say. "Is it alright if I call you Comfy?"
He finally turns to me. "No."
"Okay," I say, starting to wonder if perhaps I should give up. For whatever reason, this Comfortable guy doesn't seem very comfortable around me. Perhaps he got so mad at his parents for giving him a dumb name, he decided to react by turning into an ass. Still, I'm not going to be too discouraged. After all, the guy's barely even looked at me yet and I should have a few more opportunities to get under his skin. Just because he's not going to jump into bed with me straight away, I'm not going to abandon all hope. This can be a long game, and I'm patient. I'm willing to wait one, maybe two weeks to get him on my side. If a guy's hot enough, there's no reason not to go the extra mile in order to get a date.
"So do you want to get a drink after work?" I ask.
"No."
"You sure?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Okay," I reply. "Maybe another time."
"No."
I take a deep breath. I've never met someone who's so outright rude.
The door opens and Walter returns, looking a little annoyed. "How are things coming along?" he asks.
"Nearly done," Comfortable says.
Walter looks at the piece of skull that I'm holding in place. "Let go," he says. I do, and the piece remains in place. "That'll do," he says.
"You were quick," I mutter.
"The family were quite upset," he replies, grabbing some tools from a nearby bench. "I'm afraid they were overcome with emotion, which meant they were no use at all. I told them to come back tomorrow." He sighs. "Some people just don't know how to handle death at all."
