No
one ends up in the grave; only bones or dust are there.
William
Saroyan
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.
Go
this way to the right, and to the end of the corridor pass the double
doors, ring the bell, and they will let you in, the mortuary chambers
are there.
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
