May [H.S]

20

Magnolia

•••

Poser un lapin.

I don't think I'd ever get used to the smell of hospitals, that profound chemical scent that felt like it burnt your nose hairs. I don't know if this place was exactly considered a hospital, where they kept the bodies– I don't know, it smelt like one.

Too clean, as if that was supposed to make up for the awful feeling in here. The dingy, buzzing overhead lights and outdated paint peeling off the walls didn't help. The floors harbored the weight of the dozens of bodies that had been kept in here over the years, it relayed in the twitching bulb ahead. Nothing could soothe the icky sensation that circulated through my bloodstream, tingling the very red tips of my fingers.

If I listened close enough, I could hear each and every last dying breath in here, their last thoughts whispered in the standstill air that somehow felt like a windy autumn evening. Just when the clouds are humming at the chance of a beckoning storm.

I click at the old piece of gum in my cheek, dragging my eyes up from the cold steel surrounding me and the table where I'm certain they'd done the autopsy, meeting with his gray eyes, "So, you're burying an empty casket?" I ask regarding his previous statement, Prescott sighs deeply like I should know the answer and I'm joking– which I sort of am. Should I be? That's up for debate, it sure as hell made this easier to stomach.

No, my father wasn't a fucking saint– far from it– that didn't make this any less real. If I'm being completely honest with myself, I figured I would be long gone before I had to deal with his funeral arrangements, that sounds a little depressing but it's true.

Finding that I'm the least bit serious with my inflection, he mumbles, figuring speaking any louder will set me off, "No, Meg. He'll still be buried."

I laugh under my breath at the situation, and how I'm handling it, "You mean a barbequed piece of him."

I swear I can hear Prescott gulp, especially as I see his Adam's apple bop near the veiny bit of his neck. It's easy to see considering his shirt is barely buttoned because he's a serious man whore. One who's been walking on eggshells around me since what happened with my mom and finding everything out. Reading the cues of my body language, he knows he should be as well.

And since he'd snapped on me that day, I felt more than uneasy being alone in his presence, like every one of his movements was an advance to pin me against the wall, keep me on my toes. He was the kind of person to pointedly play mind games, hell, that was the majority of his job. I guess a lot of my anxiousness was me remembering what it felt like having a black eye, and how hopeless I'd been that day. Since then, I'd never let someone dangerous to me like that close again, and I'd vowed it would stay that way.

I stare at the sparse hairs peeking from his dress shirt for a moment, breaking into a twisted, curt smile as I delve into the swarming ruckus occupying my mind. I can feel his eyes all over me, trying to understand my coping mechanisms to figure out my next move, and failing obscurely, "We might as well just fucking cremate him, he's already halfway there."

Prescott scoffs in surprise at my words, hiding the widening of his eyes as he nods his head stiffly. 

"If that's what you want–" He suggests quickly, and I cut him off without thinking, "My mom wanted him buried."

She said, and I quote, 'He deserves to rest peacefully if we find him.' I never did understand her admiration toward him, how he could treat her like gum on the bottom of a shoe and she'd still bend over backward to please him, maybe I should ask her before it's too late. Why him over me?