Mark of Depression. But Who Cares?

Undertaker

Death amazes me.

Like, think about what the average person has been through in their life. Think about the love and heartbreak, the accomplishments and failures. And how it can vanish in a second.

In the second between life, and death.

What do people think about before they die? Do they concentrate on what's killing them or do they try and distract themselves? It depends on what's killing them.

Before someone dies, is there a mega-thought. Like, everything that they like, combined. Like puppies and milkshakes and bouncy castles. 

How much of someone's life do you actually see? What majority of their lives do they spend away from the eyes of everyone else? How well do you know a person?

So yes, death fascinates me.

It makes sense as I work as an undertaker. Everyday I get to stare at dead bodies. Each of them as beautiful as the next.

Sometimes I like to watch them, and wonder how they died. Of course I'll already know, but I like to imagine it, like a play-by-play of what happened.

It's my job to make the bodies look pretty. To play with them a bit before they get carted off to some drab little funeral somewhere. Or I'll make the coffins, it depends on what I'm getting paid for.

The body in front of me right now is nineteen, a college student. She's got a lovely face, nice grey skin with greasy black hair. She mustn't have washed in days. And by the look of those bags underneath her eyes I'd say she didn't go out much either.

The little label tied around her foot says it was a suicide. Oh, I love suicides.

They always mean the bodies in perfect condition. Usually. Not with illnesses that pick away at the skin, or 'accidents' that destroy the bones. No, suicides mean that the body is nice and healthy.

Well, as healthy as a dead body can be, anyway.

Depression is a wonderful disease. It can ruin so many lives, by one person having a bad outlook on life. The family, the partners, the friends. Everyone remembers the person completely after suicides.

They'd say 'They were so nice and warm and caring. Always ready to help a friend or lend a hand. Such a nice person.'

Where was all that when they were still alive, huh?

I grab the makeup from the little box next to me, and get to work. I have to change the skin tone to a healthy pink, and put a wig on her to cover up the hole.

What hole you ask? Why the one that's poking out of the back of her head.

She took a gunshot to the face. Awfully messy, but it gets the job done. If I lean the body the right way, I can see right through it to the other side. But I can't because that'll get me in trouble.

 I've covered up the face now, and start adding lipstick. It's a lovely pink colour, that's supposed to make the person look still alive.

But that's the main problem isn't it? They aren't. 

 These families like to pretend that the body's still alive. That they'll get up any minute and join them for dinner like normal. But they won't. They're dead.

I say, embrace death. Let it hold you by the shoulders and hug you until you can't breath.

When I die, I'm not going to have any undertaker mess with me. I'm going to lie in my coffin and rot, for all the world to see.

Right, lipstick's done. Onto the mascara.

The bodies' mother says that she loved mascara when she was alive.

 I say that's bullshit. I can tell more about a person when they're dead then most people can when they're alive.

For example, given that this person had not washed or gone outside in many days. They didn't care too much about how they look. So no, she did not love mascara. If I had to guess I'd say she put it on because she was insecure about she looked and wanted people to notice her. Or to stop bullying her. It's hard to tell which sometimes.

The mascara's done. I'd colour in the eyebrows but I don't need to. This person didn't care for makeup all that much, so who am I to change that?

I move further down the body. Yes, she's naked if you were wondering. I don't care for dead bodies. Not in that way, anyway. I like observing them. Not fucking them. 

I stroke the power along her arms with the brush, giving her a nice tan colour that sparkles in the sun. It has glitter added to it so she looks healthy.

There's a large box underneath the bed that she's lying on. It's sent by the family, with a large black bow. I can't tell if they added that, or if the people who made the box did. Whatever, that doesn't matter. In it, there's a beautiful yellow dress. With frills and lace and a big ribbon around the waist done up into a decorative knot.

This is what the body will wear in her coffin. I have to put it on her when I've done with the makeup. It'd be easier to do it the other way around but I can't let any power or lipstick get onto the outfits. By the time I have to put the dress on it won't smudge.

Right. I've finished the arms. I've finished the legs and the neck, onto the dress.

I unravel the ribbon, and pull off the lid. It sits there at the bottom, folded and pressed. It would look better on a bridesmaid than a corpse. Or a corpse bride. Ha. I pick it up and, lifting her body and arms, cram her into the dress. It slides down her skinny frame, and hangs by her ankles. The sleeves wrap around her wrists, covering the ugly scars.

I sigh. What a sad life this girl must have led. It angers me. Her family would rather cover them up and pretend they never happened at all. It makes me sick.

I place her back on the bed, and move to the back of the shop. Her coffin stands in the corner, overshadowed by the bigger, more expensive ones. It's made of cheap wood, and has almost no luxuries, like pillows or silk. It looks small and shy compared to the others.

As I drag it over to her, my anger towards this family grows inside of me.

I pick her up, careful not to smudge the dress or makeup, and placed her inside of the coffin. Hauling it over, I put the lid on top, sealing her away from the world. Someone will remove it again for public viewing. Then someone'll nail it back on by the funeral instructors. But it'll be the last time I ever get to look at her.

The lid slides shut, and she's gone. I stare at it for a moment, thinking about all I've learnt about her, before I hear the door open and the bell ring.

Another customer.

I stand up again and, stepping over the coffin, make my way to the front of the shop and close the door behind me.

I don't look back.

Because despite the morning I've spent with her, she'll always be a girl in a box for me. Like everyone else I see in my job.