MORTUALITY

The morgue was silent, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional metallic clink as the mortician sorted his tools. He moved with precision, his hands steady despite the growing heaviness in his chest. Death surrounded him—cold, clinical, routine. But lately, it had been pressing on him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Mortality was his business, his livelihood. Yet, every body that came through those double doors seemed to chip away at him. He saw the finality of time etched in every stiffened joint, every pallid face. It wasn’t just the dead that haunted him, though—it was the ticking clock of his own life. The fleeting nature of time clawed at his mind, dragging him into an existential fog he couldn’t seem to shake.

The economy, of course, didn’t care about existential crises. He had a good job, a steady wage. Walking away wasn’t an option, even if the work was demanding and depressing. And so he stayed. Night after sleepless night, he stayed.

Cannabis had become his crutch—a way to dull the edges of his spiraling thoughts. He never smoked before work. That was a line he refused to cross. Until today.

This morning, groggy from barely fifteen hours of sleep in the past week, he’d stumbled into the kitchen and grabbed what he thought was a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray. He lit it without thinking, the familiar taste of smoke calming his nerves as he drove to work. It wasn’t until he was halfway through the first body of the day that it hit him.

Standing at the sink, he splashed cold water onto his face, gripping the edges of the counter as the world swayed around him. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and disheveled. His head swam, and he tried to pinpoint the source of his disorientation.

“Am I sick?” he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. “Or is it the sleep deprivation finally catching up?"

Then it clicked. His stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he whispered. “That wasn’t a cigarette, was it?”

He considered going home. The idea of facing a freezer full of bodies while unintentionally high was... less than ideal. But he was the only one scheduled today, and the work wasn’t going to do itself. Steeling himself, he returned to the autopsy room, the haze in his head ebbing and flowing like waves.

He put on his gloves and switched on his playlist, hoping the music would keep his mind focused. Classics. Otis Redding crooned through the speakers as he began his work. The familiar strains of Dock of the Bay filled the room, a welcome distraction from the scalpel in his hand and the body on the table.

And then, he heard it.

Knock.

His hand froze mid-motion. He glanced at the wall of morgue freezers, their heavy doors securely latched. Frowning, he shook his head and returned to his work. Probably just the building settling.

Knock. Knock.

He set the scalpel down, his heart thudding in his chest. This time, he turned off the music and strained his ears. Nothing.

Sighing, he flipped the playlist back on and bent over the body again, trying to ignore the way his pulse echoed in his ears. But as soon as the scalpel touched skin, a loud BANG ricocheted through the room.

He jumped, the blade clattering to the floor as Otis Redding skipped and stuttered in the speakers. Slowly, he turned.

One of the freezer doors was ajar.

And sitting on the edge of his workstation, legs dangling and face far too animated for someone who should be very, very dead, was a corpse.

"Hi. It's fucking cold in there. Do you mind if I sit out here, with you?" The corpse asks.

"Uhhhh" the mortician stands there with a dumbfounded look on his face, and doesn't know what to say.

He rubs his eyes. But it's still there. He rubs them again. It's still there.

He let's out a high pitch feminine squeal and runs to the bathroom.

He paces around the bathroom muttering a logical explanation for this to himself. "Nope. Nope. That's not real. It's surely a culmination of my depression, fears and that joint I smoked on the way to work."

He straightens himself up, and leaves the bathroom, heading back to the place he just ran from, and the one thing on his mind is...

"Please don't let it be there."

But just as he tells himself this in his head, he then instantly thinks, but what's worse... the fact I have conjured this horrifying nightmare in my mind, or that this thing is real.

He walks toward the room where he was doing the autopsy, and everything is silent. He looks around each corner, he looks in every space, he looks at the freezer where the body escaped, and it's closed, as if nothing ever happened.

Just as he starts to feel a little more sane, the corpse jumps out from behind a door.

"BOO!"

The mortician jumps out of his skin, squealing like a girl once again.

The corpse continues...

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. I've been locked in a black Tomb of nothingness for far too long I couldn't resist the urge to feel alive again."

The mortician is trying to come to terms with what he is seeing. He stands there in shock, gawking at the corpse without uttering a word. 

"Corpse got your tongue" says the dead guy making dad jokes. 

The mortician let's out a faint giggle under his breath. 

"Okay, so you've got a pulse. That's good because I don't." 

"I can do all the talking if need be, but it would be better if we could get some sort of two way conversation flowing" 

"I, I, I. What the fuck." Says the mortician in complete bewilderment. 

"Good. That's something. Aren't you going to ask me if I'm real?" 

"I don't know if I want to know the answer to that question right now" 

"Well, I have a feeling you have some other questions you might want to ask?" Says the corpse, referring to the morticians ongoing struggles with mortality and death. 

"What do you mean?" Asks the mortician 

"Well. You've just seen a dead corpse exit a freezer in a morgue while you're mid autopsy" replied the corpse. 

The corpse continues, "That's already enough to get you sectioned" 

The mortician, trembling, leans against the autopsy table, staring at the corpse. 

"Alright," he finally says, his voice a mix of defiance and desperation. 

"If I’m hallucinating, I might as well roll with it. If I’m not... well, I guess we’re having a chat." 

The corpse, propped up against the wall, grins—or at least it seems to. Its lips are cracked, its pallor a sickly gray, and rigor mortis still clings faintly to its posture. 

“That’s the spirit! Or... lack thereof, in my case.” 

The mortician winces. “Don’t. Just—don’t.” 

“Fine, fine,” says the corpse, waving a bony hand dismissively. “But let’s cut to the chase. I’m dead. You’re alive. You’re the one who spends every waking hour elbow-deep in our kind, so I figure you’ve got questions.” 

The mortician slumps into his chair, his hands rubbing his temples. “Questions? 

Where do I start? Are you real? Is this some kind of cosmic prank? Are you here because I smoked that joint, or because I’m one sleepless night away from a complete breakdown?” 

The corpse tilts its head, as if considering. 

“Maybe all of the above. Or maybe the universe decided you needed a little intervention. You’ve been spiraling, buddy." 

The mortician scoffs, then pauses. “Wait. Are you saying I brought this on myself?” 

The corpse shrugs. “I don’t make the rules. I just enforce the punchlines.” 

“Great,” the mortician mutters, leaning back in his chair. “A cosmic therapist with rigor mortis.” 

“Hey, I take offense to that! I’m more of a guide, really. Like Virgil in Inferno—you know, leading you through the dark stuff.” 

“Yeah, but Virgil wasn’t... decomposing.” The mortician gestures weakly toward the corpse’s rotting form. 

“Details,” says the corpse. “Anyway, let’s get down to brass tacks. You’re clearly terrified of death, which is ironic, considering your job. So go on—ask me.” 

“Ask you what?” 

“The big stuff,” the corpse replies, leaning forward conspiratorially. “What happens after we die? Where do we go? Is there a heaven? A hell? Or is it just... lights out?” 

The mortician hesitates. “You know the answers to all that?” 

“Not all of it,” the corpse admits. “I’m still figuring it out myself. But I’ve got insights you wouldn’t believe.” 

“Like?” 

The corpse leans back, crossing its stiffened arms. “Well, for starters, the afterlife? It’s not quite what you’d expect. No clouds, no harps, no fire and brimstone. It’s... quiet. Peaceful, even. But lonely. You don’t really feel anything. Just an endless sort of... waiting.” 

“Waiting for what?” 

“Beats me, I'm still waiting buddy. Maybe you wake up somewhere else. Or maybe someone like you screws up and accidentally brings us back for a chat.” 

The mortician lets out a dry laugh despite himself. “Fantastic. So you don't really have any definitive answers. It's just some eternal queue at the DMV.” 

The mortician leans forward, gripping the edge of the autopsy table, his knuckles white. “So what is it, then? What's the point? If we’re all just waiting for some... endless queue, why bother at all?” 

The corpse crosses its legs—an oddly casual gesture for someone who shouldn’t be moving at all. “Ah, the big question. The meaning of life. Everyone wants to know it, but here’s the catch: there isn’t one.” 

The mortician's face twists in frustration. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” 

The corpse chuckles—a low, dry sound, like leaves rustling on pavement. “It should. Because if there’s no grand, cosmic purpose, you’re free to make your own. That’s the point, really. Life’s a blank canvas. Some people paint masterpieces. Others scribble nonsense. The tragedy isn’t death; it’s when people waste their canvas staring at the blank space, too afraid to make a mark.” 

The mortician blinks, his grip loosening. “But... isn’t it all meaningless in the end? Everything we do—every choice we make—it just... disappears.” 

The corpse leans closer, its milky eyes locking with the mortician’s. “Sure, maybe it doesn’t last forever. But neither does a sunset. Neither does a song. You don’t stop watching or listening because it’s going to end. You experience it. That’s the whole point of being alive—to experience. To feel joy, pain, love, loss... even fear. That’s your privilege. Us dead folks? We don’t get that anymore. So LIVE in it.” 

The mortician’s chest tightens. “Privilege? You think it’s a privilege to be scared of everything, to feel like you’re drowning in time?" 

“Absolutely,” the corpse says without hesitation. “Because the fear means it matters to you. And the drowning feeling? That’s just because you’re fighting the current instead of letting it carry you. You’re so obsessed with how much time you have left, you’re forgetting to live in the time you’ve got.” 

The mortician looks down, his hands trembling. “But it’s so... heavy. All of it.” 

The corpse nods, its grin fading slightly. “Yeah. Life is heavy. That’s the price you pay for the good stuff. For laughing so hard you cry. For listening to Otis Redding at 2 a.m. For falling in love, even if it breaks your heart. You don’t get to have the sweet without the bitter. But trust me, the sweet’s worth it.” 

The mortician bristles. "But it all slips through your fingers. Everything we do feels so... pointless. I see people come through here who were in the middle of their lives—gone, just like that. How do you make peace with that?” 

The corpse looks at him with something like pity—or at least what passes for pity when you lack facial muscles. “let me tell you this: it’s the living who make time meaningless. You waste it worrying about how much you have, instead of just... living it.” 

The mortician falls silent. He fiddles with a scalpel on the table, its metallic gleam catching the dim light. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re dead.” 

“And yet, here I am, trying to teach you how to live.” 

The mortician rubs his face, exhaling shakily. “You make it sound so easy.” 

“It’s not,” the corpse says softly. “But you’re the one with the pulse, my friend. That means you’ve still got time to figure it out. And you don’t have to get it perfect—you just have to try.” 

The mortician leans back in his chair, staring at the corpse, who seems oddly serene for someone who’s clearly seen better days. “Okay. So let’s say I take your advice. I stop obsessing over time, and death, and... whatever else. What happens when it does end? When I end?" 

The corpse shrugs. “That’s the part I don’t have all the answers to. But I can tell you this: it’s not as scary as you think. Dying? It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. And whatever comes next... well, it’s not my job to spoil the surprise. But I don’t regret my time. Not even the hard parts. You shouldn’t, either." 

The mortician swallows hard, his eyes stinging. “So that’s it, then? Just... live, and don’t waste it?” 

“Pretty much,” the corpse says, standing up stiffly. “Look, I’m not saying it’s easy. But if you’re going to sit around worrying about the end, you might as well already be dead. Living’s messy, and hard, and sometimes feels like it’s too much. But it’s also beautiful. Don’t miss the beauty because you’re too busy staring at the clock.” 

The mortician nods slowly, his breathing steadying. “Alright. I’ll... try.” 

The corpse grins again, its teeth yellowed but somehow warm. “That’s all anyone can do. Just try.” 

The room is quiet for a moment, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. The mortician sighs, leaning forward. “So what now? You’ve imparted your wisdom, such as it is. What happens to you?” 

At this point, dear reader, you have a choice to make. 

If you feel that you’ve heard enough, that the corpse’s answers have eased the dread of death, choose ending A and enjoy your newfound peace. 

If, however, you feel the itch of doubt—if questions still gnaw at you in the dark, if silence is not enough, if you’d open the drawer again—then choose the alternate ending, Ending B. 

Choose carefully. Closure lives in one ending. Obsession lives in the other.

Ending A: 

The corpse stands there with a melancholic glean in his eyes. “I can relax and continue my waiting, but I get to jump the que because I did my duties." 

The corpse walks back to the freezer, opening the door with an audible creak. Before climbing in, it turns back, its eyes—lifeless though they are—somehow soft. 

“You’re not as trapped as you think, you know. In your job. In your head. Life’s a gift, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Don’t waste it.” 

With that, it climbs back into the freezer and closes the door. The mortician stares at it for a long moment before slumping back into his chair. He hits play on his phone, and Otis Redding’s voice fills the room once more.

“Wasting time,” he murmurs. “Maybe it’s time I stop.”

Ending B: 

The corpse pauses as he climbs back inside the freezer, resting one hand on the icy frame as if remembering something unfinished. 

“I’ve answered your questions,” it says softly. “Paid my little debt to the living. Death doesn’t like loose ends. And now that my duty is done… I go back.” 

The mortician swallows, suddenly unsettled again. “You don’t have to,” he says, unsure why he feels a pull—fear, loneliness, fascination. “We could—keep talking.” 

The corpse studies him. “No. All things end. Even conversations.” It offers a faint, crooked smile. “Besides, you finally understand something, don’t you?” 

The mortician hesitates, but nods. “I think I do.” 

“Good. Then you don’t need me anymore.” The corpse lies back inside the drawer and pulls it shut from within. The metal door seals with a heavy, echoing clunk. 

Silence swallows the morgue once again.

The mortician stands frozen for what feels like hours. Something aches in him—an irrational, desperate longing he can’t explain. He tries to believe what just happened wasn’t real. A hallucination. Sleep deprivation. A bad joint. Anything. 

But as he turns away, he realises something terrifying: 

He still has questions. 

Dozens of them. 

Hundreds. 

His mind starts clawing for the freezer door again—but he doesn’t move. He just stares. Wide-eyed. Haunted. Unblinking. 

When his shift finally ends, he moves like an automaton—washing tools, switching off lights, locking drawers—but his thoughts circle a single point. 

He still needs answers. 

He opens the freezer again. 

The corpse lies as it did before—still, slack-jawed, silent. Just a body now. 

But the mortician doesn’t believe thats the end. 

Later that night, long after the sky turns black, a lone car creeps down an empty residential street. Inside, the mortician drives home with glazed eyes and a corpse propped up in the passenger seat beside him—slumped, frozen, dressed in a body bag he didn’t bother to zip.

He pulls into his driveway. 

Inside his house, he sits the dead man upright in a dining chair across from him. They face each other at the table like two old friends. 

“So,” the mortician whispers hoarsely, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “Where were we?”

The corpse, of course, says nothing. 

But the mortician nods slowly, as if hearing a reply no one else could. He asks another question. And another. And another. The hours pass, and he never notices the silence closing around him like a padded cell. 

Morning. The phone rings. The mortician sits on the kitchen floor, slumped against the counter. Red-eyed. Sleepless. He picks up.

“Hello,” he mumbles. 

It’s his colleague from the morgue—panicked, confused. 

“Hey, sorry to call so early, but do you know anything about a missing body? The transfer team arrived for collection this morning, and one of the drawers is empty. You were last on shift—do you know where it is?” 

The mortician stares ahead, expression vacant. Slowly, his gaze drifts to the corpse sitting at his kitchen table—its dead eyes reflecting nothing. 

He answers in a voice disturbingly calm: 

“Yes. He came home with me.” 

He hangs up. 

No explanation. 

No panic. 

He turns back around toward the corpse sat on his sofa—ready to continue their conversation. 

Fade.