|I ✝ I| @pupatamer |I ✝ I|
Not a star to be seen, for the night sky was thick with clouds. There was something unmistakably foreboding about the darkness of that day, && it wasn’t the shriek of bats or the hooting of owls finding their perch right on top of his store sign’s ornamental skull. No… It was something else. Strangely enough, the wind was void of the smell of petrichor, as well as that of dew, or of the an unnerving mingle of perfumed pricks waddling down his façade’s sidewalk without an ounce of respect to spare as they spat on his threshold && went on their way. Although subtle, somewhat distant, the faint scents of tinder && scorch carried off by the wind crept up his nostrils. Another arson, perhaps? Regardless, it was from years of experience that he knew one thing:
Wherever the flames cast shadows, death followed in tow.
“ I was told you’d be here. ” A stocky man with wobbly cheeks && double-chinned hurried to speak, breathing poorly && with his arms busy. It didn’t take the Mortician a second glance at the man’s burden, veiled by a drape, to catch on exactly what it was. Not to mention the telltale stench of charred flesh && demise overwhelming that of formaldehyde, oft found in his store. Just how much of that corpse was left unkissed by the flames? He wondered. “ She was already dead when we found her. My Lord claims he’s willing to cover the expenses of her burial and— ”
❝ I don’t want the Queen’s money. ❞ The mortician interrupted, studying the body – now placed on top of a shut coffin – with unsettling absorption && an even more off-putting curl of his lips, like it was some rare kind of vintage, && him, a connoisseur. ❝ Tell your Lord not to concern himself with gold… though I hope he doesn’t mind if I house this guest of ours for a while. ❞
The way she died... it spoke to him in strange manners.
It had been with scalpels, needles && surgical precision that his masterpiece slowly unraveled. Cardiac failure begged for a brand new heart, not to mention the destroyed kidneys && seared surface he had to replace for a patchwork of slightly mismatched skin, sewn together at strategical spots he reckoned she’d want covered by clothes. The artificial leg she sported, though yellowed by the flame’s assault, remained in one piece && was set aside not to be discarded.
If all went well, the woman would be needing it again. And soon.
