Page 17 of Melancholia

Not that I need it.

I’m not here for that kind of excitement.

My hand jerks backward, and I spill a little bit of cleaning liquid on my fingers. It’s just enough for me to know I’ll be smelling it for days, and my lip curls a little in irritation as I give a soft huff. There’s no reason for me to be jumpy. Or twitchy. Or anything else. Not when I have two large coffees, one full and one half, and a box of donuts waiting for me on the upper level of the embalming room’s desk.

A full box.

Well, now it’s missing the two fresh-baked donuts I unceremoniously crammed into my mouth for dinner. I glance over at the box longingly, considering taking another ration to heal my wounded soul. Yesterday’s sojourn into the light of day took a toll on me, what with the headache pounding at my temples that I can’t seem to get rid of. No matter how many Ibuprofen or Tylenol I swallow like candy.

I’d gladly take a crumb of liver failure to get rid of this headache, I decide silently, though I know I’m being just a little bit dramatic.

Once I’m back from putting away the tank cleaner and my hands are scrubbed, I decide I can’t wait anymore on a donut. I deserve the rocket pop specialty creation that’s calling my name from the box, and I've just got my fingers around the blue-iced donut when I notice a notification blinking in one corner of the laptop. It slides onto the screen at too far of an angle for me to really read it, before sliding back.

Luckily for me, it pops back up again a second later, just as I step closer and sink my teeth into the sugar-loaded pastry.

Motion detected: Loading Bay

I stare at it as I chew, appreciating the strawberry-lemonade filling that mostly just tastes like sugar and some kind of unidentifiable citrus rather than actual strawberry lemonade. The alert fades, then slides right back up again.

“What the fuck?” I mumble, not caring that my words are slurred around my late-night snack. At this point, I’m pretty sure the alarm is broken. But my years of trying to be a responsible adult—or something close—drag me out of the preparation room and to the loading dock. I shove open the door and immediately look up at the light, finding it on.

But that’s not really a surprise, given that it comes on when the door opens. The amount of time it takes for me to have two bites of my donut is all I’m willing to give, and when I’m satisfied that there’s nothing out here, I shake my head and walk right back inside. I already made a mental note to let Cecil know something’s wrong with the motion light, but now that complaint has moved to the top of my list. The alerts are driving me crazy.

There’s nothing out here.

Nothing that should set off any kind of sensor or alarm.

By the time I’m in my embalming room, the donut is gone and I’m scrubbing my fingers on a napkin. Even without bodies here, there’s an endless list of tasks that need to be done at Kindred Pines. While I’ve had ten days of the space belonging to me and me alone, I now have to spend time setting it back up for Cecil’s preferences instead.

“Goodbye, better set up. Farewell, superior eye cap placement,” I whisper mournfully as I reorganize. “I’ll miss you, trocar shelf.” Maybe eventually I’ll be able to convince Cecil to implement at least my shiny, fancy alter for the trocar, instead of it getting misplaced every other week. Absently, I smooth my hands over the messy bun that my thick black hair is threatening to fall out of. It’s not my best or sturdiest work, but it’s better than my ponytail falling into the tank of cleaning liquid.

Again.

Once more I take on the small, piled-up tasks I’ve been partially ignoring for a few days. Nothing really holds my attention for long, and part of me longs for a project I can actually bury myself in for my last night without Cecil and having Kindred Pines all to myself.

It’s nice, I think to myself. I wonder if Cecil finds peace here at night, in the quiet and the familiar, with nothing for company except maybe some dead bodies. Which are, for most people, pretty quiet. But I also know that a lot of people would be freaked out by this. That the presence of death is too much for so, so many people in a way I don’t understand.

Well, maybe I would’ve understood if my childhood hadn’t been a mess of⁠—

The motion detector is set off again. I can see the laptop and notification out of the corner of my eye, but I ignore it. I make myself ignore it as I wipe down the embalming table for the tenth time.

Whatever’s out there triggering the motion alarm can have at it. I’m not going to run out to the loading bay every other fucking minute because of a false alarm.

“Stupid,” I murmur, underlining my mental note to let Cecil know what’s going on. If I have to deal with this every night, I’ll lose it. It’s a small enough thing that I feel dumb for caring, but it also has me feeling like I’m on high alert, like I’m waiting for something to happen that never will.

I ignore the notifications for the next couple of minutes, happy that at least they don’t make any noise. Once I’m satisfied the table is as clean as it’s been since being manufactured, I make my way over to the donut box for my next sweet treat of the night.

As I bite into the classic glazed donut, I look up at the screen, expecting to see the notification from the loading bay popping up in warning again. After all, the sensor’s gotten triggered every few minutes. I doubt this will be the one time where the motion sensor calms the fuck down.

Sure enough, the alert slides onto the screen, and I roll my eyes, moving to turn away before I pause. As my mind processes the words I’d just read, bells go off when something doesn’t line up with what I expected it to be.

Reluctantly, I turn to look at the screen again, my eyes catching on the small text.

Motion detected: Front door

Front door? I blink, staring at the notification like it’s somehow going to change, as if my eyes are playing tricks on me. It wouldn’t be the first time. Not even the first time this week. I move my finger along the track pad until the cursor is hovering over the notification. Yeah, that definitely says front door.

Donut in hand, I stride down the hallway from the embalming room to the reception area. With my shoulder, I push open the heavy door leading to the client-friendly area, getting immediately assaulted by air fresheners and the smell of more gentle cleaning products than I use in the back.