𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗞 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗥 ⚔︎

4

for three weeks, from late november to the middle of january, it did not stop snowing in new york.

it was the coldest winter on record, the coldest one since the turn of the century. a blizzard had gripped the city tightly in its fist, with chaos ensuing in all five boroughs: traffic everywhere was backed up to high heaven and accidents were aired at least a dozen times on the news, followed by photographs of the wreckages; people in the suburbs were trapped inside of their homes with snow reaching up to door-knockers and window sills; pets were going missing, water pipes burst, fingers turned black with frostbite. everybody was working together to try and fight it off.

it is the day before thanksgiving and, instead of being cooped up at home in front of the warm fire with crotchet blankets over his lap, edward lavigne is sat in the waiting room of the city mortuary. sal is beside him, still and rigid, every muscle in his body tensed as he listens to his trusted boss anxiously tapping his foot on the floor with such velocity that he wonders how his ankle has not cramped. walls the shade of duck egg blue surround them and the floor is tiled with white linoleum so bright that it is almost blinding. pale, frosty sunlight filters through a window to their far right. next to sal, a wooden side table stands with a vase full of flowers settled atop its surface.

eddie had found out just mere hours ago, when a phone call from the hospital had awoken him from his sleep at five in the morning. he hadn't had a chance to shave for a few days, and so silver stubble began to fleck his chin like tiny whiskers. his eyes were rimmed with a mottled tone of dark purple, and his hair had not been properly done either: somewhat 'styled' in his usual quiff, a few greasy strands stuck out and dangled loosely over his forehead. his tie was skewed and his shirt hadn't been tucked in, or even ironed for that matter, as it normally was. he looked terrible — almost as if he were rotting from the inside out. with the way his mouth hung permanently half-agape and his eyelids drooped down, he was like an apparition awaiting purgatory. there had formed a certain permanence with him since he had received that dreaded phone call.

a doctor dressed in a long white coat with latex gloves over his hands appeared from a door down the hall. he held a clipboard against his chest. he marched toward the two men, smiling sympathetically.

he took a quick peek at his papers. "edward lavigne?"

sal nudged him so that he'd stop staring into space. eddie blinked and looked up. when he spoke, his voice was sore and hollow. "yes, that's me."

"you are aware that you are here to confirm a body, yes?"

sal glared at the doctor. "of course he's aware," he growled, standing up and helping eddie out of his chair.

just before they could go into the big, cold cabinet room, eddie looked at sal and almost spoke, but nothing came out. he clenched his jaw, angry at himself because he couldn't bring himself to say anything. sal simply dipped his head and patted him on the arm as a signal that he should go first.

upon entering, eddie's heart nearly stopped as his gaze landed on the metal table in the centre of the room. the overhead lights hurt his eyes, and for a moment, he had to squint in order to adjust. his stomach began churning uncomfortably at the smell — a body had been laid upon the table, draped from head to toe in a thick, white sheet.

the three of them stood around it, the doctor on one side, while eddie and sal took the other. eddie took a deep breath as the doctor grasped the edge of the sheet between his fingers, looking at him for assurance.

he nodded his head. the face was unveiled.

to their horror, it was jesse — unmistakably, with the short auburn hair and the last remnants of summer freckles dotted across his cheeks — but it definitely did not look like him, nor smelt like him. sal's eyes began to water at the stench. eddie let out a cry of disbelief and snatched the sheet from the doctor, dragging it off of his son's corpse and letting it tumble to the floor. it seemed as if someone had took the air out of him, the way jesse's body looked grossly hollowed-out and distorted, specifically around his chest and stomach area. his once clear and pale skin was flecked with blisters, greenish-black bruises, and stitched up cuts, little zigzags of thread dotted everywhere from his shoulders to his shins. his toes and his fingertips were as black as the night. a deep, monstrous gash went down the left side of his face from temple to cheek, which the morticians had tried to sow back up. a line of stitching went around the whole circumference of his neck, making him look like frankenstein's monster.