As the stars blink in and out of the dark sky and silence wraps its arms around the town, I sigh in contentment, strolling to work.
I wave at a few shopkeepers as they close up, then pull my hoodie closer, enjoying the cool night. It's no wonder I do better working nights at the morgue.
Ever since the accident. I have not been the same. It remade me. Every sound jolts my body, jerks my heart. My skin blooms with painful bumps at the slightest shock. When the doctors started to look at me like something out of this world, I left the hospital. I left the town too. News spreads fast there.
In this place, no one pays attention. Everyone minds their business. The head mortician was happy to have me, a replacement for the night attendant who had gone cuckoo, as he put it.
Maybe I understand where the fear comes from. A place like the morgue does that to people. The living fear the dead and anything connected to them. I find it funny. That is where everyone is headed eventually.
To me, its a sacred place. Their world is different from ours, yet it mirrors it. They are like us and fear certain things. They long to live and feel like they did once but cannot. It's a kind of heartbreak that never heals so I treat them with respect.
My condition makes it easy. I keep my head down and tune them out while they go about their business. When the sun rises, they settle into their own night. My paperback crime thrillers help too.
Do I hear strange noises? Or see things I shouldn't? A few children have asked, their curious eyes searching my face to see maybe I am weird as well. I say no and smile as they scratch their heads and furrow their brows in confusion.
The truth? I treat the dead with respect as though they are still living. They do their thing while I do mine.
The head mortician breathes easy now that the nights are calm. There are fewer unexplained damages.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "sacred place".
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