Paradise | ONC 2023

[ 2 ] - Dead Bodies & Death Wishes

IT'S the third dead body I've cleaned up so far this week, and it's only Wednesday.

I scowl, setting my hands on my hips, and tilt my head to the side. This one is a young man—human—naked, covered in his own blood, swept over the formerly white sheets. Someone has carved a heart into his chest. Not a simple design—a biologically-accurate diagram of the organ; valves and all. It's not bad, actually. But the pulmonary artery is a little too narrow.

Loose human hearts are a common sight around the hotel.

"Jesus." I mutter, processing the sight, cracking my knuckles, and setting down my cleaning supplies. Heat flushes through me, veins rising, falling, lit red like lava. The feeling passes. I'm calm. Not full of rage. Calm.

Again, I watch the body. Focus. This one is a little different than the others. He's cut into and posed so carefully.

Superbia—pride demons. They're overconfident, seeing themselves as gods, constantly boasting. Honestly? More annoying than anything else. I imagine that the one who killed this human sees himself as an artist of the flesh.

And here I am, left to clean up the mess.

I hate dead bodies. For one, dealing with their ghosts is a hassle, if they have unfinished business. Two, there are the legalities—the paperwork. Three, the metallic stench of blood doesn't come out from beneath my fingernails well. I smell it for days.

Already a fly is starting to buzz around the man. I need to get moving.

The room is otherwise mostly clean—a simple pool-view, people lounging in chairs, pool surrounded by palm trees; balcony with two chairs and three-too many ashtrays outside; interior décor styled like the 80s. Each room is slightly different, but most share a gaudy, patterned wallpaper; colored sheets, various paintings; strange lamps; bright, tinted lights; and, of course, a disco ball. They've even enchanted the space to have a perpetual film grain, with higher contrast. The neon lights and constant haze make it feel like a movie, sure—but I keep feeling like I need glasses.

No bloodstain on the walls. That's a relief. It's extra-challenging because of that damn wallpaper.

I start with removing dead man. I call up the cleaning crew, who says to deliver him to the 'recycling chute.' There's no recycling at the hotel—the assholes in charge want a hot, dying Earth—but we do recycle dead bodies. Organs, bones, flesh—all important. Heart is delicious on holidays.

This man is thankfully light. I ready a tarp and grab the man's legs, slowly dragging him from his pose. He flops onto the floor with a slick slap—I wince—and pull his arms down. Rigor mortis; he's stiff. And gray. Desaturated, with a bluish tinge. It never gets old. I wince, leaning over his body, trying to yank the arms down. Sweat beads from my temple as I continue to fuss, work. I wrap him up like a present, folding over the sides of the tarp—they close—and prop the door open, dragging him outside, into the hallway full of hotel rooms. The carpet is patterned, meant to look like an ocean of colored waves. Photos of Hell's obsidian-sand beaches and gemstone forests are hung about.

As I lug the body down the hall, a couple—Invidia demons, envious assholes who always want more—laugh as they walk past, wings perpetually out, dragging along the sides of the wall, scratching against them. They wear purple, luxurious clothes; their wrinkled skin is pulled tight from magic. Their eyes shimmer.

The woman—gray hair pulled back, styled flawlessly—spins around once she's past me, sizing me up. "Maid, yes—"

Cleaning lady. I think to myself, but stay quiet, straightening my back. I think of the rules: Don't engage. Don't challenge. Stay calm. The customer is always correct. Don't ask for tips. Don't use magic on the job. Don't get angry. Don't engage in virtues.