Corpse Groom

I

Authors P.O.V

Within a simple, bland room, a solitary window bathes a young man in cold light. His hair as black as a raven contrasts against his pale, sickly skin, accentuating his sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He wears a dark suit and although it appears to be new, the cuffs are worn and tarnished. Likely the result of rubbing them between his forefingers when his nerves get the best of him.

A small, weary sigh escapes his thin lips as he rests upon a simple wooden stool, opening a black leather sketchbook. The pages flutter, falling gently open until they come to a stop on a blank double page.

The young man reaches across his desk toward a white feather quill sitting waiting beneath a rather arid photo of two children. The plain metal picture frame holds a black-and-white photo of a young boy and girl. The boy stands with an anxious expression while the girl beside him adorns a rather bored frown. And although it is hard to miss at first, a little dog sits to the right of them, smiling up adoringly at the two children. Other than this the room would be practically bare if it wasn't for a lonesome globe standing gloomily in the corner of the room, a remnant of the man's passing interest in geography. Above the globe is an assortment of sketches, all featuring some sort of butterfly or moth, another interest of the young man's. And finally, behind him sits a metal framed bed, fitted only with an old mattress and a dull, grey duvet.

He dips the tip of the quill into a well-used pot of ink. Then, with careful, swirling movements he begins to draw upon the blank pages of his sketchbook.

With a final stroke of his quill, he finishes an elegant drawing of a butterfly. Around the sketch are separate little drawings of its anatomy, including a few notes scribbled beneath them. The man leans forward, gently placing the quill back into its ink pot, his lips twitch into a small smile as he looks down at his work with a proud nod. He carefully closes the sketchbook, leaving it to rest against his many other leather-bound books stacked high on top of his desk.

He turns to look at a little butterfly flitting about a glass cage. The drawing within the young man's sketchbook cannot quite capture the true delicate beauty of this little creature, no matter how talented an artist he is. He stands from his stool and opens the window in front of him. A cool breeze creeps into the room, gently tousling his dark locks as he leans down. Looking through the glass prison with an admiring gaze, he watches the little butterfly dance about before finally removing the cage and setting it free.

The little creature hovers around him, seeming curious before flying out of the window and down into the town.

~

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The monotonous chimes and ticking of old clocks sound through the town, emanating from a weathered-looking clock shop. The butterfly flutters further down, past an old man standing outside, sweeping the floor with an old wooden broom. He pays no attention to the little insect, too focused on the repetitive task of brushing the cobbled stones lining his shop, his movements so in time with the constant ticking that he starts to resemble one of the aged clocks standing in the window display.

Continuing on, the butterfly moves through the quiet town until a raspy cough comes into earshot, accompanied by the mewling of a cat. Two men stand outside a fish shop, boredom etched deeply onto their faces. Aprons hang limply from their necks, a simple picture of a fish printed upon them, the words, "Van Dort's Fish", encircling the image. One man smokes a pipe, coughing throatily, as he throws a large fish onto a butcher's table. The other man expertly chops it up, pushing the sliced fish away with his knife. It falls off the table, tumbling into a bucket below where a dark brown cat stares up at it enviously, its tails waving impatiently as it watches the men repeat the process.