No one ends up in the grave; only bones or dust are there.
I lived with his corpse for three months before burying him. Although I decided to do so without hesitation, I never managed to assimilate the shock of death or the horror of having lived ninety days next to a rotting body.
I went to claim his body that day, fully intending to take him with me. I left the morgue pushing the metal gurney where he was laying. I walked through the empty corridor and, turning left, greeted the nurse on duty. I waited a few seconds before the elevator door opened. Went down to the lobby, heading toward the parking lot, and took him home.
Code Green, respiratory therapy technician; Code Green, respiratory therapy technician.
I couldn't carry him with me everywhere. I had to leave him in the house, tucked away in some corner; but the thought of going out and leaving him alone, waiting for me... he, who already knew how short time was, mortified me. At first, I kept him tied to a chair in front of the dinner table. Later, I started carrying him around the house with me. Oh, how painful it was to look at his yellow, hardened face, his open eyes, his mouth gasping for air.
Mealtimes became a spectacle of unhealthiness. Sitting, staring into space, he placed his right hand on the table and refused to eat. Maggots had begun to emerge from his body orifices, and the nauseating smell of his rotting flesh invaded my nostrils, inducing vomiting. All the food served ended up in the trash. Then I made coffee and returned to the table. Although he didn't say a word, everything I said seemed fine to him.
His fetid odor increased in summertime, especially in August. His hair, now darker, began to sweat for some weird reason, and it seemed like he had drops of dew on his head. It was difficult to dress him, so I covered him with a blanket.
Decide what clothes you want to put on him; shoes will not be necessary; the embalming process takes about two hours.
The hardest thing to deal with was sex. My occasional encounters were hampered by the unwanted body I carried with me. With my body in a doggy position over the bed, the man writhed in disgust watching the corpse reclining in a corner facing the wall. He would grab my buttocks and thrust hard while staring at the ceiling, holding his breath. Then he would exhale and scream, "Oh, God!" I tried to distract myself from the image of the corpse by exaggerating my moans, but the putrid smell invaded my entire being. The man would leave with a "See you later." I would sit on the kitchen steps, smoking a cigarette and watching the birds pecking at the mangoes that fell to the ground.
The days passed like this, and the nights terrified me, waiting for the decisive moment to bury him. I wanted to keep him with me for another day. I can put him somewhere, make sure he won't be in the way. Would he see me cry? Would he see me at all? I made a bed on the floor with a comforter. I put down a pillow and a sheet. At night, I left the television on at a low volume, and he and I slept under the dim blue light and whispering voices. I shuddered at the thought of him underground, the ceremony of lowering the coffin, the ropes wounding my hands, my hands bleeding and me trying to wipe them with each other to remove the dirt that falls into my eyes, because I use so much force to lower the casket that I fall into the void, exhausted. Then I woke up, stunned by the courtesy of the funeral salutes.
The day had finally come. He had been up for a while and was sitting at the dining room table, dressed in long sleeves and a tie, ready to leave. The flesh had begun to peel off his hands, and his phalanges were visible. I put the makeshift bed in the closet. I went to the kitchen and made myself some coffee. As I sat down at the table, I tripped over my chair, and the coffee danced in the cup.
The hole seemed too narrow for the size of the coffin.
I wanted to ask him where he intended to go, but instead, I made breakfast to buy myself some time. I scrambled eggs with bacon and fresh cheese and cut slices of sweet bread to heat in the pan. I remembered there were honey mangoes in the yard, so I went to get some to serve sliced on top of the bread. He sat at the table, unwavering. I went in and out of the kitchen, trying to delay the morning as long as I could because I knew that once I served breakfast, the end would be near. He was already dressed and had to go. I wouldn't see him again. Then he would be just the hint of a presence, a whisper in the wind.
There he was, stuck in that coffin, stuck in there with the sun shining, stuck in that casket with his hands crossed, maybe he wants to move but cannot.
He made his way to the door as best he could, leaving a trail of gelatinous, foul-smelling fluid. His white shirt was stained with his secretions, and as he tried to lean against the wall, his phalanges fell to the floor. The sound of bones still echoes in my head, day after day. I followed him through the door. I remember it was already noon when I was finally able to bury him.
I laid my hand open on the table and felt the cold wood. I drank the last sip of coffee, staring at the breakfast leftovers for a while. I leaned my head back on the uncomfortable arch of the chair. I closed my eyes, and the house collapsed on me, dark and narrow, like a tomb.
(Translated from the original story Entierros, published on Penumbria magazine, volume 63 Body horror, May 2025)
Translation by the author
Corrections of the English text: Valeria Gracia
Image by ARTSPARK on PIXABAY
