haptic

It’s not something you ever get used to, but you learned to appreciate the smell of formaldehyde.

To be fair, you could never work here.

The constant sound of the ventilation system would fry your brain around day four, and the idea of watching cold bodies turn grey under a buzzing neon, had never really enthused you. 

Gawon never seemed to care about any of that. Even now—caught in this numb tranquillity typical of someone who has been working far too many hours, she doesn't mind her gloves turning into shades of colors you'd rather forget.

“Classic,” she hums, as the poppy she planted on the dead body across the cot withers in an instant. 

“See?”

She lifts the body’s mangled arm in order to show you—the way it fights against gravity gives you the creeps. 

“Nerves taut beyond stretch, skin flayed in scales. Sixth one in these conditions just this month”

A small groan leaves your mouth as you lean back against a sterile white counter.

“We are on it.”

“You are on it,” she repeats, flat. “Any leads so far?”

“The report says something like the perpetrator must be a violent individual,” you say in an exaggerated tone. “We are working incredibly hard as you can imagine.”

“Oh, wow. Definitely.”

Between her hands the scalpel drifts smoothly across the top of each shoulder, courses downward to meet beneath the chest, before carving a single line to the lower end of the abdomen.

As she lifts the blade from the skin, a strong odor invades your nostrils, reminding you all the reasons why you never chose this path.

“Holy fuck. You have to do this everyday?”

“You get used to it.”

“Don't think I could.”

“You’d think I’m crazy but, it's actually quite funny.”

“Huh?”

“We all smell like shit when we die.”

“That's funny to you?”

“Of course. I'm never going to be that rich.”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“When I die, though, I'm gonna be as rich with stench as a dead billionaire. Isn't it marvelous?”