• side blog to @myzkagirl this is where I write

mainly COD, and resident evil. i enjoy fluff & smut. i tend to write darker topics which will be tagged! if I miss any tags do let me know.

18+ only please. im 21!

asks: open for chats & requests.

Midnight Morgue (started: november 23, 2024)

my ao3: @ etherealevangeline

The Morgue—Father Ben

When you checked your thin silver banded watch, it read 12:45am. Sweat rolled down your neck dampening your hair. 

In the elevator, you tried to get yourself together. But your restraint was thinning, loosening at the edges. 

Your heart pounded loudly in your ears.

The lab seemed far away, distorted by your vision. 

Still dazed by the amber liquid, you shakily tied your hair up, hands shaking feebly. 

A sudden thud caught your attention. The sample bag fell from your weak grasp.

You cursed and after you tied it back, you bent down to pick it up. 

You prayed that this time—this time–you landed in the lab.

And sure enough you did. You breathed a loud sigh of relief, head swarming and spinning unsteadily from the events. 

You ambled in, legs shaking like jello, eyes wide and taking in the scene. It was not an innocent, naive look, but more of someone tasted bitterness too young and never spat it out. 

Someone whose bones remembered the aftertaste.  

The lab was reeked of sterilized lies.Bleach. Plastic. 

Guilt. 

Blinding fluorescent lights flooded the area, leaving none unscathed. It was eerily quiet, compared to the pounding of your heart. You were sure someone from a few feet away could hear it. 

The receptionist was the only one alive with a monotonous face, clacking insistently on her keyboard, chewing gum. 

It was a low-budget soundtrack to tension.

She then glanced up at you, her voice obnoxious and grating like nails on a wall, “What's up with ya? You popped a perc or two?” She quipped, her voice snappy with a sickening vibrancy, cheeks chewing. Her  leathery skin and temple's thinning told a different story.

Her voice was lost to you, thinning and slowing down with the weight of gravity. You realized you must’ve looked like you came from the ninth circle of hell, with your sweat covered skin, and scraggly hair.

“Get these down in an hour,” you muttered, a slight tremor betraying the walls you tried to put up. Your voice frayed with the last bit of control you had left, lids weighing heavy.

She took the sample with a heavy sigh, and got up, wobbling to the backroom, leaving you alone with your shadows.

By a blur, you found a porcelain sink and toilet. The mirror was silver framed and clunky, revealing your gaping eyes, hollowed, the skin sunken in, and blanched face.

You quickly grabbed your gloss from your pocket and put some on to bring life into your pale lips. Pausing with bated breath, you then covered your eyes, for a whole minute standing still.

The world stopped for a few seconds, but your head was swinging in its own rhythm, nauseating you.

“I just had to give in...'' You trembled, breathing in shakily. You gave yourself one minute to collapse, to let down your walls, as you were a hairsbreadth moment away from crumbling. 

You let out a confused grunt, then a moan, and then a weak cry, your hands clutching the edge of the cracked porcelain sink with vigor, and yet, a sense of weakness.

Your body racked and you heaved over the sink, sucking in breaths.

—

You begrudgingly met Simon and Price down in the morgue. You walked in, the doors flapping shut behind you, your eyes averted from theirs. Sterilized soap and the rush of water hit your senses like frigid air, as you scrubbed uselessly as your hands. 

Your skin was already thin from tension, and red around your nails.

It smelled high, weaving into you like fog slithering around the silhouette of your body. It produced a strange sense of euphoria over you despite everything, the swinging turning into a delicate rock.

“That was fast,” a smoke addled, heavy voice sounded from behind you.

You raised your head up, but your eyes remained pinned to the wall, hearing Simon move around the scalpel. You don’t bother to look at Price, just gazed at the papers pinned up on the corkboard. Papers of autopsy photos, gore and death imprinted on them, the pizza shop as if it were all casual.

One read something about the murders happening in Manchester, ratifying the city.

“Was it?” Your voice croaked, rasping the way wind did when it slid under a door. 

“Faster than I've ever seen,” he muttered. He leaned over the body and then nudged at the superficial skin of the chest. He peeled it back like opening a book page, and it gave with too much ease. He read the marred flesh like a story, setting his lips firm. 

His pupils then blew wide, a faint shaking emanating from his hand.

‘’The hell is that?’’ Simon’s voice rang sharply in the air, slicing through the delayed fog you lived in. 

It scattered like a scared animal, and you were left frozen, head turning to them. 

You crossed the distance, legs somehow carrying your weak form, as if they knew something your mind didn’t. 

Inside the carcass, on her anterior back wall, where the lungs were removed were an engraving. The flesh was marred and jagged, pulsing with faint fluid. You paled at the sight, everything inside of your body screaming from sacred violation. It was circular in nature, the jagged lines, which encompassed characters in figures. It was meticulously drawn, and carefully.

“I’d pay a helluva lot to know what this girl got herself into,” Price grumbled, not eased in the slightest. His brows furrowed deeply, looking even more stressed with his greying hair.

Simon moved to lean over at the waist, dragging his eyes all over the opened carcass, “It’s ritualistic,” He muttered as you turned your head away to gather your bearings. 

Your throat clenched tight, like hands seized it from the inside out. A sudden pressure coiled at the base of your skull, radiating, rendering you dizzy with the weight of revelation and the sight of horror. 

Price glanced at you, “You think the church and this girl are connected?” He debated. After a pause—Simon waiting for your response, his gaze traveling from you to Price–you then spoke.

You faced them finally, clamping down the bitter bile, lips pressed in a line of exhaustion, “Hell if I know.” 

Price didn’t push it–yet. The silence that followed was heavy and stale, and unforgiving. He’d expected something from you, something with teeth.

For once you inwardly found yourself thanking the old crank, which you hardly ever did. 

You then shifted uncomfortably, skin crawling with unanswered questions and doubts.

Simon shifted on his boots, the movement producing a meek noise from the worn out rubber soles, “Doesn’t make sense. Did they take the organs out and then engrave her? Put 'em back in? The ribs weren’t even broken.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Price agreed, gripping the edge of the table, lips tightening. His eyes tracked all over her corpse form. He shook his head and tapped a finger on the cold metal.

“Morgue mystery,” you muttered, eyes set on her features. Pale skin and opened eyes, lids relaxed. Eyes devoid of any human presence. You shuddered and decided you had enough for the night.

“We resume in the morning,” Price muttered.

“Wrap her up,” he then said, as he moved away. He dumped the rib cutter into the table with a deafening clank.

Simon inhaled sharply, then got to work on the organs in the bowl, grabbing it.

“Sendin’ it over to pathology,” he grumbled, more so to himself than anything. 

He had more than just an icky feeling watching the girl, as if checking her organs would help resolve the feeling. He couldn’t quite describe it—he swore her eyes moved to his.  He swore for a moment he saw her crying, a glistening tear shining like a star. And her eyes, the way it shifted as if grabbing onto his beating heart, freezing it with its pallid gaze.  He shook it off, reasoning with himself as he packaged the organs in a tightly zipped and sealed bag.

Meanwhile you worked on loading her body into the chutes, closing it. The sound of it made your skin prickle.

Before Simon left, he spoke, “You want me to close up, or you?”

“I’ll do it,” you scoffed, back facing him. 

You busied yourself with fixing your neckline anxiously.

“You look dead,” Simon commented flatly. His voice cut through you, slicing you open and leaving you exposed.

You swallowed. You weren’t about to let him live it down though and get the last word. The muscle under your eye jumped weakly, tension coiling in your jaw, causing your teeth to grind.

Before you knew it, you snapped,  “Thanks for the compliment,’’

Simon then strode out the doors with the bowl, slamming it shut with his boot. 

You closed up for the night, unable to face the darkness in the morgue. You couldn’t. 

Memories keep replaying over and over in your mind. As you walked out the morgue, hobbling and half asleep, Mactavish developed a habit of waiting by his police car. This time he wasn’t eating. He leaned and when he saw you, he pocketed his phone and made his way to you, object in one hand.

“Don’t. I’m not in the mood,” You said, roughly. Your voice bit harder than the cold, stinging him. You kept your gaze stubbornly forward as rain pelted from above, splattering your cheek, nose, eyes. Right on the eyelash. 

You blinked hard, boots crunching on the pebbles.

“Lass—“ He began.

“What part didn’t you get? You need me to spell it out for you?” You spun around, chest heaving. Your eyes bored into his raw, staring unnervingly. Unwaveringly. 

Mactavish narrowed his eyes, his fingers grasping the base of the object firmly to anchor himself. The rain began to pound you two, soaking your clothes and hair, lashing furiously at you two.

His hold remained stiff, “I’ll leave ye’ be,” He then said, his jacket shiny and glistening from the rain. He stepped back on his boots, back facing you. 

His holster shifted with each movement, and then you saw the umbrella in his hand.

A complex amount of feelings riled up—and you strode away. 

You launched yourself to your car down the street and sped off, leaving Mactavish disappointed.

More so, questioning where he went wrong. Once settled in his driver's seat, the umbrella empty and once pining for your presence.

—

Meanwhile in your messy apartment, you stripped yourself bare of all your wet clothes. 

You breathed harshly, heavily, a mess of anxiety and waterworks. 

Tears spilled hot and joined your wet, shivering skin. You padded to the bathroom, socks wet and sticking to you like second skin, hoping for a warm shower. Though it did nothing to ease the haunting visions.

The sounds of her voice. The way she whispered hauntingly. 

You slid down the shower wall and clutched your knees, a strand hung  heavily in front of your pale face.

Safe to say, that night no sleep came. You were hunched in bed like Notre Dame, leg bouncing with each passing minute. Eerily silent, listening to your heart pound in anxiety. 

Your eyes snapped open at every noise, rendering you restless.

You got up. Before you knew it, your feet padded to the kitchen and your lips met the cold rim of the vodka bottle, drinking. It burned so good, you sighed and leaned your waist on the kitchen counter. You could see the thin outline of the table cloth hanging. 

Maybe you should attempt to fix it. 

So you shuffled, bottle in hand, moving the cloth back in place as if it did anything. But somehow you felt slightly better. Or maybe that was the alcohol speaking, leaking into your brain and mingling with your thoughts.

The next day, you woke up late and hungover on the couch. You drooled, cheek squished on the couch from laying haphazardly, your leg falling off the couch. Your hand clinked against a bottle as you awoke, groaning, sounding like you barely had any life to you. It took you a while, but eventually you somehow freshened up. But you felt dead internally. Sleep gnawed at you, beckoning, making your lids hang heavy, limbs puppetering. 

You were like a mouse in the corner, all clammed up.

You then slumped to the ground begrudgingly. You were going to leave the room, but anxiety impaled you like a stick to your chest. This was the side of you that hardly anyone saw, mostly because you preferred privacy.

Was it privacy? Or just running away from vulnerability? The inner monologue wouldn’t stop and you groaned and grabbed at your hair, until your phone rang. 

It lit up and you grabbed it, seeing a text from Mactavish.

“Come to the church,” was all he texted, and then left an address below. 

You eyed it and narrowed your eyes. 120th Rosehill Drive.

Flashes of his umbrella, the downturned frown filled your mind. A twinge twisted in your chest. 

Not from the anxiety you felt, but from how you two left things off. 

You figured, a half assed apology would do.

—

Soon, you met Mactavish, he was standing by his car in front of the church. It towered behind you two, gothic architectural art pointing daggers into the sun. A stark contrast compared to the wallowing, calm skies. Gargoyles decorated the gates, looming and judging all it could see.

You held two coffees in your hand. You shrugged a shoulder, as you didn’t know what he liked, and passed him one. The salty morning breeze blew through your hair, and your sunglasses hid your bloodshot, murky eyes.

“Y'know,'' his voice dipped into something softer, but still held that teasing lilt, ''I like what you ave’ goin’ on, lass.” 

His hand grasped the warm cup and sipped, his throat bobbing. He hadn't shaved yet, a rough stubble clung to his jaw, dusting it like gravel-dark, stubborn, and growing in defiance.

“Too bright out here. Tell God to turn down the exposure,” you scoffed and your lip couldn’t help but lift in the slightest. 

You were glad the sunglasses put some distance, therefore his striking eyes couldn’t find yours.

“Dinnae tell me ya believe in God,” Mactavish tilted his head and gazed at your lowered head, eyes sparkling as always with a sense of joy. His thick fingers curled around the styrofoam cup with ease.

“I don’t. Do you?” You looked over at the church disinterestedly, hands stuffing in your back pockets. You rocked on your boots for a moment, eyeing the overpowering darkness the church held. It loomed over, dominating the hills with its beckoning, yet disgruntling appearance.

“I do. Am’ a religious man, through and through. But Jesus's given me a right few hidings in my time.”

You snorted—one of those dry grins lifting your cheeks. 

“I think he forgave me.”

“What made you think so?” You challenged, brow raised.

“Dunno,” He shrugged his hefty shoulders, as you two gazed at the stained glass windows. The arches were long and defined, flying buttresses standing out, along with ribbed vaults and spires decorating the church.

“If that’s what comforts you,” you then walked ahead, moving your hands to your sides. The trash can nearby was where you tossed your cup in, and he did the same. Your boots crunched as Mactavish joined you, tall form tailing your six. Every now and then his walkie blared with incoming communication.

Oddly enough his presence was like a light to your world. You weren’t sure when exactly you let him in, or when you got comfortable with grinning and bantering as if it were natural, but it felt that way. 

You both entered the interior, your breath stolen by the designs. Large columns stood either side of the main area, archways defined by ribs of texture. Stained mosaic art covered the windows, colorful and vibrant. Multiple rows of benches sat up ahead, and an altar was a far walk ahead.

“Go cryin’ for the priest, yeah?” You half joked, eyes unable to tear from the glorious interior before you.

“No need. He’s over there,” Mactavish sent you a smirk, his cheek lifting.

You eyed him from behind the sunglasses and then walked with him to the Priest. Father Ben. 

Some people conversed with him, but soon walked off. A child and mother.

''Mommy, when can we go play?''

''Hush, did sitting in church do nothing for you?'' The mother scolded, her words fading away from earshot as they scurried off, a pale ribbon of a scarf flying past your vision.

“You’re the officer who came by that night with the poor girl,” Father Ben said, turning around, smiling gleefully. His face then faded when he mentioned the girl, lowering his rosary to his chest in a regretful, yet poised manner.

“Aye, we’re back,” Mactavish nodded, resuming more of a firm expression. His voice was corded thick, a hand resting comfortably on his vest, curled around it in habit.

“And you are?” Father Ben inquired gently at you.

You raised your brows, never having thought of introducing yourself. You went to respond—probably shrugging off your importance—but Mactavish cuts in.

“Rookie detective. Got her scoping out a few fresh ones,” Mactavish nodded, his accent strong. He lowered his head to get a look at Father Ben who nodded and smiled once more.

“Mind if we take a look around the church, Father?” Mactavish asked, tipping his head to gesture to the rest of the church.

“By all means,” Father Ben nodded and then turned away, holding his bible and rosary in one hand. He then concerned himself with a couple who walked in, clasping their hands and sitting them down.

You then turned to look at Mactavish, lowering your sunglasses only a bit to send him a disapproving look, “Really? Rookie detective?”

Mactavish chuckled, “Dinnae take it personally. We got work to do,” He led you forward, leading you to the walkway. Up ahead was the sanctified altar, draped in reds and golds.

The wood base was a deep cherry oak, firmly rooted in the floor, engraved in a rectangular shape. Its golden, gilded accents stood out to you, lending it a romantic and ornate elegance. You couldn't neglect the cross, after all, and the candlesticks plugged neatly into the candle holders, silver and shining.

The candlelight was soft and natural–against all things disorderly, and a contrast to the chaos in your life.

You then couldn’t resist this thought that came up, snorting dryly and crossing your arms, “If you told him I was a mortician d'you think he’d call me unholy? For all the things I touched?”

Mactavish kept his voice down near the altar and eyed you, a sideways glance before shifting, “Lass, ye have no fear in ye words.” His brow raised, threatened and yet emboldened by your personality. His jaw was slack, baby blues shining like pearls in the rays beaming down passively.

“I don’t believe in God,” you repeated, shooting him a look from behind your sunglasses. Then again, he expected it. You looked the part, he thought funnily.

He then looked at the altar and walked around, his holster shifting, boots creaking, examining the items. A small, yet intricately designed font of holy water rested at the edge, catching the sun's mosaic rays from the windows. It created a stunning rainbow effect. The bible was set with ease to the side, edges lined with a golden hue, whilst the candles were to another.

As you two continued surveilling the perimeter of the church, the silence between you buzzed calmly. Sometimes he'd tinker with the engravings on the walls like a distracted toddler, always finding amazement in the written language the church held. Out in the Northern wing, where stone was more weather-worn, some weeds peeking through for life, you crouched downwind inspected the dying primrose bushes. The soil was damp, light as paper, as your fingers caressed it.

A white flag stuck out like defeat, aged and drying. You grabbed the rag that was half stuffed in the earth with an unshaken hand, holding it up, eyeing the thready, thin material. 

“Look at this,” you muttered, showing him the rag. It was undone, and inside were markings, fading and distressed. “This was where her body was, yeah?”

“Lass, this wasn’t here when we found her,” Mactavish turned to stride to you from behind. He was scoping out the nearby tree lines, hands at the fence line.

But now his attention was on you, firm and lips pressed thin. The reverence, the statement in his voice caught your attention.

“Maybe you guys missed it?” You asked, unsure.

You rub the fabric, trying to read the words. The sun was beating down on both of you, and a brisk wind blew between your strands.

“We had about six men here, all with flashlights. We didn’t forget a thing,” Mactavish said firmly in a way that had your mouth clamping shut about the topic.

“Look,” you said.

Mactavish took the scraggly cloth, brows furrowing. The ink had dispersed. Some characters were curved ceremoniously, the circle that encased it was broken. Untethered.

Before you knew you heard Mactavish mutter a prayer.

You cocked your brows, not interrupting as the man genuinely seemed troubled. He gripped the paper and then finished, his eyes caught onto yours, ‘’This givin’ me a weird feeling, lass.’’

‘’The paper? Someone could’ve drawn that and put it there,’’ you offered, looking back at the bushes where her body would’ve laid. 

You tried to imagine the night looming over threateningly, only to find a pale slender body dumped against the church wall carelessly. Arms spread out in a last goodbye.

‘’Cud. But lookin’ at this I jus’ feel funny. I’ll have the forensic graphologist run this,’’ He muttered out some fancy words to which you nodded your head, as if you understood. 

You crouched down on your haunches, checking the area where she laid. The soil was decaying slightly, some flowers scraggly and trampled. But what interested you was the way the flowers lost its color, turning into an ash white. Milky. 

You furrowed your brows, not sure what to make of it.

‘’Let’s get goin,’’ Mactavish said from behind as you stood up.

’’I think I’m gonna talk to the priest. Wait for me?’’

To his dismay, the feeling in his gut seemed to drag on uncomfortably. He shifted and rested a hand on his belt, his sidearm moving a bit. He then nodded and tucked the fabric in his pants pocket, eyes never leaving yours, ''Make it quick, aye?’’

He then decided to split off to his cop car waiting across the road, as you found yourself heading under the graphite archways, entering in the golden essence of the church. You sucked in a breath. 

How do you even do this? You held back an unceremonious snort, facing the altar as if waiting for judgement. 

A part of you found this ridiculous, how you ended up in a place of the Holy, when nothing was exactly Holy of your thoughts.

You found Father Ben perched at the seats, sitting and head directed forward. He flipped through his bible but now it rested in his cloth covered lap. 

You slowly approached and he turned his head to you—head shining and all.

''Detective, how can I help you?’’ He stood up slowly, to which you gestured him to sit. You shook your head—not one for formalities. 

You sat beside him,  the wooden seat creaking under your weight, keeping your distance from him.

''Those flowers outside, they’re dying.’’

’’Yes. We need to replant them,’’ Father Ben chuckled smoothly, looking ahead and admiring the church as if he’d never been there. It seemed his curiosity never aged.

You hesitantly opened your mouth, then shut it. Your leg began to bounce, wondering if it would've been appropriate to bring up the cloth you and Mactavish found. You then cleared your throat, removing a lodge, looking over at him.

“Were you aware of anything that got left behind with her body?” You asked, voice lilting, as if you were suddenly unable to speak. It was a croaky whisper, the way the branches would rub together in the coarse wind. You straightened up, spine stiff. 

He looked at you, shaking his head and his light blue eyes traced yours, “The officers I believe did their scouting as best they could.”

You nodded your head. His answer seemed resolute, and simple.

You shifted your gaze back to the entrance of the church, knowing Mactavish was waiting, until Father Ben spoke. 

A murmur of gibberish filled your ears, causing your gaze to snap to him. His voice was slow, humble, eyes shut in prayer, holding tightly onto his rosary piece as if it would disappear. His fingers clenched with all his might, till his knuckles blanched visibly, his head shaking with a faint tremor.

“Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the spirit,” he advised, whispering soothingly like a blanket dragging over your eyes. His hand then stroked his opposite wrist, smoothing out the cloth with a steadying grace.

You stilled and took in his words, before avoiding your gaze and looked at the altar. It irked you, the way his words spoke passively yet directly. 

It hit a dead nerve in you.

He was good. Good at whatever he did. Maybe he even took up a psychology degree.

Maybe your attempt to play it off was a way to dismiss the turmoil boiling in your stomach. The scoff slipped past lightly, and your voice was throaty, settling deep, as if it tried to fit in your throat, “You know, In Greece wine was seen as the way to invite God in you.”

Father Ben shifted in his spot with a pause. A pinch between his brows commenced, his hand tightening around the bible, as he debated, “So tell me this—do you feel Jesus entering you when you drink every night? Does it soothe and heal you?”

“I’m not religious—“ You begin to say, eyes cutting to his.

Tension coiled in your stomach, unfurling to reach for your throat where it held you tightly.

It led your words, your perception, your mind. 

His eyes darkened, as if disappointed, lips moving in the slightest contempt.

“Tell me, how does it feel to know when that drop of liquor goes down, it raises you from the hell you’d been put through?” His voice had a licking tone to it. He hissed like a venomous snake, distraught by the sheer corruption inside of you.

A cold beat of sweat formed as the room dropped multiple degrees. You couldn’t respond. You froze, hands perched tightly on the edge of the seat as if they'd take off. 

The room tilted as if you were on a ship, the center line misplaced.

“And tell me this, does it make you feel godly when you experience that ecstasy, only to come crashing down like the human you are?” He continued, seeing as you were too consumed by your own shock to respond. 

He could see the way you shook under him and it only fueled him like gasoline to the fire. 

“And when you come down, do you miss the familiar feeling of a body next to you. Warm, alive, beating. And eyes to hold you, to caress everywhere that hurts.”

Your breath shuddered, eyes widening. His revelations were spitting with a sickening poison that pulsed in your veins. 

It was as if you couldn’t move, something pinning you under his looming, intense gaze. His head then tipped low and he nodded his head, almost condescendingly, “And can you admit to me this: when the night is over, do you feel as if you succeeded in hiding your anguish? In all the liquor you drink? Or do you wallow, stay up and listen to the noises that remind you–“

“Enough.” 

You found your voice, but it didn't sound like you. Years of suppression spilled out like a finality, teeth clenched and veins roaring with blood.

You panted, visibly shaking like a leaf.

Father Ben stood up and was wide eyed, his hand hovering, not sure whether to touch you comfortingly. He held back seeing as your eyes were stricken with confusion, horror and disgust.

The center line adjusted and the room was back on its feet. The lights from behind the window sparkled purely, as traces of dust floated down like snow. Your chest heaved painfully, forcing ragged breaths.

Your heart was pounding and your boots shuffled back, hips knocking the bench in front of you, causing you to waver.

You then stood in the walkway.

“You don’t have to come. But it’s always here for you,” Father Ben furrowed his brows, his dignified gaze returning and grasping at his Bible for comfort. 

This is why you didn’t come to church. This is why you didn’t believe in religion. At every moment it was about proving your faith to a higher source rather than focusing on pain. 

Struggle. Your inner voice.

Pray to this, pray to that.

Your boots thumped loudly as you collected yourself, rushing out a clumsy, “I can’t.”

Father Ben was left confused. As you strode out the church he watched you, solemn eyes dragging away. 

You couldn’t shake the moment in your mind. You scowled as you walked out in the heat, spotting Mactavish in his car and eyeing the cloth with equal tension. You rapped on the opposite window and he unlocked the door.

You slid in, and he shoved the cloth in his pants pocket before starting the car.

“Confession time went well, aye?” He joked, eyes glancing at the rear view before he turned the steering with one hand, smoothly pulling into the lane.

“Far from it,” You scoffed, head rolling to look out the window. You glared, seeing as dense trees raced past you. The spacing between the trees barely made room for sunlight, the thick canopies blocking out its vibrance. Shadows fell and obscured what was hidden inside.

This inner turmoil within you was festering, his revelations unearthing your soul that was nestled deep. Slumbering, yet a light shone on it. It was your mind that ruled over and went on tangents.

It begged a different part of your attention. You became forlorn, torn by what you couldn’t understand. 

Mactavish glanced over, fingers loose on the steering, his knuckles pale against the leather. His eyes scanned you briefly, catching the slight tremor in your jaw before you turned your head.

The silence gaped wide, a mouthful of expectations, yet no traffic hummed. No other headlights flashed down the road, it was you both, and the vast forest parting like the red sea on either side.

—

You cracked open a Prosecco, but this time, Father Ben's heavy words filled your ears.

Louder and louder did the words become, drumming against your head. Whispers became frightening, like hisses, crawling off the walls to crowd your form.

You shuddered and grabbed the bottle's neck tightly, knuckles white, chest heaving, heat flashing over.

Your vision went white.

A scream of agony erupted as the glass smashed against the wall, leaving your hands trembling and grasping, empty, yet clenching for something tangible. 

In the mirror, your pupils swallowed your irises, brows furrowed, pinching the skin. Rage quickened your blood, heart pounding like a battering ram, ears ringing.

The shards laid motionless and broken.

You could find yourself in the pieces, as you lowered to your knees with an  ache in your throat, a howl sealed in your bones.

Soft gold pooled under you, soaking your clothes. It fizzled faintly, like a dying breath, before settling into the grimey tiles like a bitter, disdained memory.

Your hands shook as if teetering over the edge, picking up the shards, face tickling with the onslaught of tears. 

You took a breath in–a gasp–before your face morphed into something numb. Flat. 

Devoid.

© 2025 etherealevangeline — (do not translate, copy, reproduce, or reupload my work) 🤍

The Morgue—a teaser for the upcoming chapters

I have spent all my days writing and editing, rinse and repeat. I have about 15 chapters, including the ones posted.

Ya’ll are being fed lmao.

The Morgue—The Flower shop

The next hours were filled with dread as you waited. You had woken up with the sunlight dappling in gently, revealing the dust dancing in the air quietly like orbs. They tinkered, one by one, and the warmth was uncannily present in a place of dread. A bottle by your ankle toppled over as you stumbled to the bathroom, sighing at your sickly yellow face, and bloodshot eyes. Your face was puffy, blown up by the sheer usage of alcohol. 

You splashed water on it anyway.

The office was grim, the hallways long and narrow. When you took the elevator up, the sunlight disappeared to reveal a monotone hallway, along with the slow pace of elderly people, and a little girl in a burgundy button coat, tall enough to reach her mothers hip. Her feisty hands dug into her makeup bag, pulling out a lipstick and drawing it onto her face, watching her mother, learning only from the best. Her mother was occupied on her phone, no doubt numbing herself as we all did. 

The needle slipped in with ease, red liquid zipping through it with ease. After a few vials, the elevator dinging, and the sunlight gracing your skin, you were outside again.

As you walked down the clammy, sunny streets, the windows were stained with a thick veil of fog. Somehow, being nosy was difficult in Manchester. It always seemed that no matter how much you tried, you couldn't get far to look. It concealed shadowed figures moving inside, the city people chattering with hushed words.

Neon signs blinked pathetically out in the distance, blurred by the fog which left it hazy, the words smeared.

Nevertheless, a few people slipped through and found their way. You had been nursing a croissant on the bistro chair, when the couple in front of you, dressed tightly in black, the woman with a fedora hat to hide her glassy eyes, had spoken. They spoke in hushed terms, hastily, the man chewing with vigor, yet his eyes were gaping, the black suit hanging off of his lean form. A sharp watch caught the sunlight, reflecting his reluctance.

''This one'll be closer,'' the woman brushed her hands, wiped her mouth where crumbs were, her lips stained red with armor. Her hand trembled faintly where she held the napkin.

The man continued to stare into the quiet streets, her words fallen on deaf ears. She sat there for a long time, fading into existence.

This one happened to be closer to the cemetery you visited, saving you gas money and the pain of remembrance.

You found yourself gravitating towards it, your usual frown decorating your face like rainbows. Boots thudded softly on the pavement, though grief weighed heavily on your shoulders.

The afternoon sun was paling, and shriveling up as the clouds raced by. 

The flower shop sat tucked into the corner like a secret, wilting slightly from age. The bricks were stained with smoke and mud, with overgrown shoots at the bottom. To the side, terracotta pots cluttered the soles of the shop, like old souls. The yellow flower was a capture of the suns vibrant warmth, and into the earth. Overgrown tulips, ranunculus, and daises joined the circle.

The flowers winded along the top like a pelt, lining the forest green doors, with obscured, tiny bulbs flickering. Inside the display window was a soft golden glow, hazy and there were bouquets wrapped in old, aged newspapers, gritty, yet achingly akin to home. Some smaller bottles of wine sat on the top shelves.

By the small corner of the road, a wrought iron chair sat, spirals curling like delicate ink, hardened by rust and rain. 

Soon, a jingle was head, a reminder of your position in life. 

A tall, hunky figure stood behind the wooden lattice counter, head lowered, as pots of eucalyptus, vine-like, caressed the edges curling inward. It smelled of rose water and musky cologne, as your eyes shifted to him. The faint scent of aftershave wafted in the air.

His hands grappled carefully at the stem bundles he held, inspecting them, scarred with previous cuts.

A hiss caused his brows to pull tight, a mutter slipping out—“Bloody hell—” He wiped his finger with a rag quickly that he grabbed off the side, only to shove it into his back pocket. A tactical watch decorated his broad wrist, shining dangerously.

He turned around to reveal a sharp set of features, his usual balaclava mask hiding his face. The light from the fogged windows revealed his eyes, and his nose bridge, highlighting the curve of his heavy lids.

“I need a set of flowers,” You muttered, your voice a shallow, dry creak in the air.

“Got a type?” He muttered, sounding indifferent. The thick Manchester accent resonated deep in your core, like a sinking weight pulled by iron and gravity.

“Don’ matter.''

Your finger tapped at the chipped wood to which his languid eyes glanced at, then up at your avoidant gaze. You appeared far away in thought, like something beckoned your attention. The pinch in your brow didn’t help to hide it either.

He didn’t comment on it, but turned away and got to work.

Your eyes then darted over to his back, sneaking a glance in. You couldn’t shake it, something was unnerving about his stare. All these military men and their stares were like punches to the gut, an arrow to the heart.

Fatal if you started too long.

If you remembered when you first joined, there stood Price in the middle of the photograph. He was clad in his khaki military pants, a hat covering his features slightly. Simon was to the left, hunky and geared up, holding his assault rifle, with no obvious smile. His vest was bulky, wearing camo, with ominous eyes gaping behind the mask. Mactavish was off to the right, daringly smirking, arms crossed. And Garrick, he held a service dog, grinning and crouched down in front of the team.

As his gruff calloused hands gathered some babies' breath, lilies and a few red roses, it was a stunning vibrancy against his pale flesh.

The wind outside picked up, causing the sign outside to tip slightly. It rocked on its feet and stilled, the trees rustling with fervor. It howled low, croaking. It ached, almost resembling the sound of a pained cry to be held, to be nurtured.

You clutched your leather jacket closer, hoping he’d finish soon enough. Your jacket was dark and distressed from years of use, taking on less of a shine and more of a matte look. It hung heavily on your shoulders like a boulder.

Meanwhile, his threadbare hoodie was rolled up at the sleeves, unzipped and revealing a dark sleeved undershirt. His jeans were dark, a navy blue, like the depths of the ocean. 

His hood was pulled up, giving him an overbearing look despite the flowery essence of the shop.

All bright and ditzy and yet he was all hunk, and poison.

Death met you in his stare.

“Why are you even working here?” You found yourself muttering, amidst the silence, a brow cocking. The question hung in the air. Apart of you was intrigued, stubbornly by him, and yet resented him. 

A pause.

“Be done with you soon,” His voice was muffled from the balaclava, eyes unshifting from the rose bundle. He didn't sound cruel, or snappy, just...finally.

You scoffed—actually grinning crudely at the jackasses reply. Somehow, it amused you, his nonchalant attitude.

Also, add pissy to the list.

“Just askin'. This is the last place I’d expect you to be,” you continued, eyeing his back as the hoodie stretched and pulled this way and that. You crossed your arms over your chest, hearing some shed chatter outside the display window.

The rain pattered now, light and soaking coats.

A newspaper crinkled in the air, as he placed the bundle inside—large hands folding it neatly.

For a military man, he sure had patience with this.

“And this is the last place I’d expect you, f'someone who dips her hands in body cavities,” he returned, voice as smooth as honey, his monotone gaze meeting yours. His eyes were swallowed by his pupils under the light, dark and vast. His nose bridge was high, curved, lashes thick and full, a sinful, angelic feature.

How funny, he was stained with the blood of those wrapped flowers, and yet memory held a gun to his skull, demanding he bring back the dead. 

The silence waxed and waned, your pulse warming just slightly at his tone. It was an unwelcome warmth, one that wrapped too tightly and suffocated your ribs. 

Maybe we had more in common, you thought.

A muscle then twitched, maybe it was the way you couldn’t get much of a read on him. What was lurking underneath those eyes, in his mind.

What those fingers itched to really do—instead of sitting here wrapping pretty flowers all day long.

“Can’t a woman buy her flowers in peace?” You interjected.

Yet you knew, there was no peace to be had. It came off as a bitter reply.

Simon silently taped the bouquet carefully and then raised the bundle. His eyes traced over the curve of the petals, the flowers. The way it fell, the way it was organized carefully, eyes reverent in a solemn prayer.

You watched, eyes scornful as his pale scarred hand came up to tilt the flower with ease, an uncanny gentleness, but in the moment felt like a tamed gesture for something gnarly underneath.

He seemed pleased with his work, and then turned fully to hand you the bouquet, eyes back to their hazy, languid look.

Where you couldn’t read them.

Your fingers snatched the bouquet, causing a crinkle to arise. Your other free hand dipped into your jacket pocket, then slapping down the cash on the cold wood, jaw clenching.

“Bet some lad'll be lucky to get those,” The Brit had the nerve to mutter, moving back to scrape the flower cuttings into the bin below the counter. But his hand tenses, knuckles blanching slightly.

It wasn't a joke. 

Not really.

You picked up on a slight condescending tone to it, as if he didn’t expect someone as raggly as you to have one. And more importantly, questioning your audacity to bring it to a lad.

His eye twitched, as if the muscle were celebrating your annoyance.

God, I mean— Besides your hair falling out the clumsy braid it was in, strands brushing your cheeks—the way your eyes were baggy with fatigue—

He wasn’t wrong.

You shut off all kinds of intimacy eons ago. But him, something about him irked you and lit a flame of irritation.

It was small yet, having room to grow and fan out. You weren’t sure if you should shut the windows and let the flame starve. Deprive it of oxygen. It wasn’t an affectionate flame either. It wasn’t the kind to wax and wane, leaning in for a lover's caress.

It was the kind that would grow gnarly and burn everything in its path, driven to consume. Combusting.

Touching skin and traveling up like a stiff line. 

“None of your business,” A venomous hiss left you, deafening in the charged air.

A pause-and then your boots pivoted, striding to the door.

Time to shut the windows.

Simon tipped his chin up slightly at your form, as you opened the door and disappeared into the thick fog developing. He could see just a little of your form walking from the window, flowers gripped tightly in one hand, tense and aggravated. 

You were heading to the cemetery, he knew it was up that way.

When he counted the cash you’d given to him, the bills moving with ease in his larger hands, he noticed you left two dollars extra in your fit of vengeance.

He shrugged, more like a twitch of his shoulders, and took them between his thick fingers. He grappled for his worn out wallet with his other, thick with cards and wads of singles sticking out.

Pulling it out his jean pocket, he placed your bills in there, cashing the rest in the register.

He couldn’t bring himself to ask why you left for the cemetery.

Instead, he found it appealing to spin stories.

Lord knows, maybe that was your only getaway to eat lunch with the dead.

His eyes then floated up from the chipped wood, gliding to the hooks. His apron, unworn and unused, hung uselessly at the hook by the door.

His eyes bore holes into the fabric as if willing it to burn. The Brit was often confused for not working there since he never wore it—to which the old man rang his ears a few times about it.

But he never listened. One cigarette offering, and the old man found himself shutting up about the damned apron. Easy.

“You’d ave to let me kill you if you wanted to see that,” Simon muttered, his voice like sandpaper grating harshly, before pushing off the counter. A woman walked in, the bell ringing loudly in his ears. She wore a heavy fedora hat, her tail coat swishing with a classy warmth.

It would've been timeless, if it weren't for her devoid eyes.

—

As evening rolled in, you found yourself sipping a cinnamon latte. The hints of warm spice laid smooth on your tongue, the frothy whip cream adding a creamy luxurious texture. Both Mactavish and Garrick brought in batches of coffees and donuts, to which you took gladly. Your appetite was a mess which needed your attention, from the careless routine you had.

Not that donuts would cure you. Consuming sugar was probably a bad idea.

But for now, you focused on sipping the warmth, as you held it with both hands.

Price was sitting across on a stool, his form hunched as he bit into a powdery donut. He wore a pair of khaki pants, reminding you of his early military days, and a camo. green shirt. It was cropped at the sleeves revealing thick, burly arms, the hair grew in tufts and sweeping his skin.

The lights above flickered, the fridge strummed quietly, and the microwave was left open on the counter. Both of you were in the break room, downstairs in the morgue when you spoke hushed and low, like a hum.

“Morgue life, huh.”

Price glanced up as if not expecting you to have talked. The furrow of his brow eased and he relaxed his eyes, before dusting off his hands, “Got anything better to say?” He quipped.

You felt an itch at your lips but concealed it by lifting the rim to your lips, where you sipped. Your eyes darted away from his shifting form.

His hand curling around his knee, shoulders angled to gaze at you, head tilted.

“Was it bad?”

Absolute cringe. Kill me now and be done with it. Around him, the words lodged in your throat and felt like it had to pass layers of sludge to come out.

“What?” Price muttered, the cock of his head conveying confusion, “You gonna speak up, or gonna keep hiding behind your cup?”

You shifted in your spot. There it was. The way he did this. All of the time. The old crank just loved pointing out the obvious. You weren’t as stealthy as you thought you were around him.

You lowered the cup with a pause, before straightening your shoulders, squaring them, “The military,” you clarified, your voice clearer, yet airy. Your gaze pinned his, watching his muddled brown eyes float away.

Price rubbed at his scruffy jaw with the hand that was free, glancing away for a moment. He then looked at you, admittedly a little too casually, a brow raised, as if he’d been down this course many times. His forearms in the light were decorated with bitter memories. The long jagged scars spoke loudly in the gaping room, jagged and rising upon his flesh.

“What’s it to you?” Price asked, jerking his chin at you. He sipped his coffee, as he ordered black with a bit of creamer and sugar.

Your fingers curled around the cup to seek more warmth under his cold, prodding stare. It felt like ice chafing against your skin, rubbing and melting, then hardening all over again.

That's what he did to you.

And you realized he knew a heck of a ton more than he let on. It intrigued you.

“Realized I don’t know much about you,” you conceded, and then stood up from your own stool. It creaked as your weight let off, your boots softly thudding on the linoleum tiles.

Your scarf suddenly hooked onto the drawer from behind, threatening to strangle you. You made a noise of shock and confusion, your free hand flying up to your neck. The mug in your hand sloshed, tipping onto the floor.

In a split second, a rush of tobacco consumed your nose and nicotine. Camo blocked your vision, and your scarf was yanked from the drawer by callous hands. He towered over you, eyes black with something indescribable, breath tense and chest swelling.

“Watch your six, you might be the cause of your own death,” Price said dryly.

You rubbed at the tightened fabric around your throat, eyes glancing behind you to the ajar drawer, your red scarf flowing down.

You then met his darkened eyes.

“Mactavish wouldn’t stop teasing your dead body, don't give him the pleasure,” he breathed out, the air hitting your cheeks.

Your heart was pounding at your own clumsiness. Was it the coffee? The lack of sleep? So many things.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” you whispered, to which he seemed to find depraved amusement in.

His eyes narrowed, his pupils large. There was still something unnerving about the way his instincts moved like a feather. You didn’t even register the sound of his footsteps towards you. You couldn’t imagine how efficient he must’ve been in the military.

“Get goin’. You’re working with Simon tonight,” Price ordered gruffly, stepping back on his heels. The nicotine floated away, so did his gaze.

This time, you almost threw your latte into his face. But control tightened itself around you like a leash.

You then responded curtly, “Thanks for the warning.”

Price watched—slightly intrigued by your reply as you hurried off.cHe scoffed, shaking his head and rubbed at his nose bridge as if stressed by trying to figure you out.

“One day it’s the bloody drink rumor, the other it’s this,” he sighed, knowing he also had questions himself for you, before putting both your stools aside. He didn't really understand your sudden interest in him.

He was an old, retired military man who cracked beers on the weekend. Alone. Staring at the cresting sunset. The break room lights flickered again, to which he looked at. His small eyes narrowed at the yellow, dingy light boxes, stained by years of dirt and grime.

“Damned wiring.”

Down the hallway in the morgue, you were met face to face with Simon. The Brit leaned on the empty metal table, burly arms crossed. Tired pale eyes dragged from your distressed boots, to your jean clad thighs, and then your scarf that hung limply from when Price yanked it free. He was waiting, his presence hanging thick in the air, charged with a certain dislike for your incredible sense of urgency.

You cleared your throat, setting the cup down on the nearby shelf to unravel your scarf.

“You’re late.”

“You’re not the first to have said that,” you quipped, voice biting at him, then hung your scarf inside the closet.

You heard the fellow footsteps of Price soon after, causing your gut to clench, and then heard the sink rushing with stale water.

Price sighed through his nose like a pressure valve releasing, arm lifting, drawing on the chalkboard.

After stripping your coat, hanging it besides Simon's lifeless hoodie, you joined his form by the porcelain sink begrudgingly.

Simon spared you no look or glance, just focused on each of the thick, scars pale and raised, marring his flesh. It no longer hurt to touch, but the man knew each and every story of them all. His tattoos were revealed as he rode up his undershirt. The dark ink spiraled in all designs.

“Where’d you get those done?” you said absently, focus divided as you scrubbed your palms red. You needed a hair tie though, because it was in the way and distracted you from leaning down. Every brush of the strands irritated you.

He was silent until he spoke, the bastard’s voice low and gritty, “Must be a reason why the drinking rumors started.”

Over the agonizing pound of your heart, the way your breath froze, Price still worked the board unassumingly.

“Good. So don’t ask questions,” he said after your stunned silence.

You didn’t dare raise your head, eyes casted low as a frown pulled at your lips. If it was possible you scrubbed harder as he walked behind you to grab some gloves. You could hear him snapping them on, as if nothing ensued.

The snap even had your blood boiling. Festering like welts from old wounds buried a long time ago.

That flame was beginning to breathe again.

You avoided him until it was time to bring in the body. There wasn't much you could do to avoid him anyway, as he was the bloody lead mortician.

Simon angled the overhead lighting, letting it cast onto his masked face.

A bleep of a radio sounded, warbling in the air, then heavy boots, multiple collided at once. Mactavish rolled in, his hands on his vest whilst Garrick swiftly rolled the gurney to you both.

Price and Garrick lifted the body onto the table, whilst you stood aside.

“Unknown female. Found by a church, locals say they called it in after praying in the night. Priest was almost certain this was a sign from the Lord,” Garrick muttered, his eyes dark with the nights unrest and plump lips downturned. He glanced at you, and regarded you with a lighter, cordial nod.

“Ain’t that a wake up call,” Price grumbled from besides Simon.

Mactavish grinned, although less from what Price said and more so to you. His eyes strayed to your form as you hassled to tie your hair up, fingers working fast, head tipped low. You managed to get it in a ponytail, the strands flowing down. 

“Aye, don’ stress it. Looked pretty down,” Mactavish just had to comment, causing the temperature in the room to heat up slightly.

Garrick was used to this, a brow raising as he tracked the Scotsman, through stress from earlier easing as his lip lifted.

Before you could respond, Price cut in, voice whipping the air, “That’ll be.”

Mactavish had the nerve to wink at you and waved a little “bye bye,” at a certain Simon.

Simon stared void of any emotion whatsoever, the metallic tray table beside his hip waiting for his command.

Your stomach shriveled and you turned your head away, as Price unzipped the body. You felt similar to being homesick. Like you didn’t fit in. Too new. Shiny enough to stick out. And yet broken, the cracks in you dried up and became more of a wound that didn’t fully heal.

It didn’t bleed anymore, as it was a drought.

“Assisting John Price, are two coroners Simon Riley, and…” He added your name as he spoke in the voice recorder. Contrary to the feeling you just had, you felt a twinge of belonging as he said it.

It happened before. And now it kept repeating. Almost like, it became a sort of sappy moment in the goddamn morgue.

You shoved it away harshly, biting at any sort of feeling to belong.

Why did the mention of my name make me feel present?

As if Price—the way he so firmly said my name had me realizing I was alive. That I existed behind the foggy chaos of my life. That when he said it, when he affirmed it, I felt a part of life itself. Risen from the dead itself.

You were torn out your thoughts as Simon moved to begin inspecting the body. He leaned over, blonde lashes brushing the curve of his cheek, barely concealed by the mask he wore. The light made his skin translucent and angelic almost.

You found yourself staring a bit too long, this time. Your breath was stolen from you by the distance between your bodies, gaping, wide, and soulless. 

“Unidentified female. Long black hair. Caucasian, looks to be mid twenties,” Simon described efficiently, his thick Manchester accent rolling out smoothly and efficiently. He commanded with ease, eyes darting all over the female.

Price wrote it on the board, arm jostling.

You found yourself intrigued by the way the words sat with a grounding confidently.

What perplexed you was how his hands worked so patiently and tenderly in the flower shop, and now he handled a dead corpse. It only made you even compelled to unveil him.

This part of you to figure him out, to eye him like a hawk. But you knew you’d get nowhere considering how private he was.

You stepped forward and looked at her limbs. You reached a gloved hand out to check her ankle joints, finding them broken. The skin was bruised and mottled. The area was severely swollen, puffing up,. Your voice was clipped, “Both ankles are broken like the last, Price.”

Price writes it down, circling the ankles. He cocked his brow at the observation, two in one week? He tapped the chalk against the board, pondering.

Simon's eyes glanced up at you, before flashing to Price, “Certainly can’t be good,” he muttered. 

You flexed her ankle, seeing as the rotation was hyperextending from the break. You trailed your eyes up to her hands which you noticed dirt under her fingernails.

Before you realized it—Simon already handed you a scraper and a petri dish. You glanced at his pale, voided eyes, holding the items, and then scraped the substance off.

He watched you like a hawk, your smaller hands moving efficiently. His hands would probably drop the scraper easily.

“Found something. Looks like dried blood,” you concluded.

“Use the microscope,” Price ordered gruffly.

He continued his writing, and Simon watched as you turned away to sit on the stool. Your form hunched over as you eyed the substance, in the microscope.

Meanwhile, Simon then busied himself with checking her irises. He leaned in, his gloved thumb holding the eyelid to reveal cloudy eyes. His brows set lower, deeply, as if trying to figure out who she was. What her story was. How she ended up here.

And then, he thought he saw her eyes shift. Like a lizard.

Flickering to him. His gloved hand withdrew as if wading in water, but it hovered, barely stroking her skin.

He remained where he stood, the roots of earth wrapping around his feet as if forcing him to face the rawness of the moment. His hand trembled, more like shaking off a tick that landed on his skin. He made no sound, just stared at her corpse as if he’d imagined it.

She was completely still and lifeless.

“It's blood,” your voice then cut through the air.

He exhaled, his chest lowering like a tide receding, and then flickered his eyes to you before rounding the table, closing the distance.

Awkwardly, and suddenly, you were shoved to the side as his torso was close to your face. He leaned down, looking into the microscope, a hand gripping the base.

You scowled up at him as the Brit knew no personal space.

“She must’ve fought it off her captor,” Price muttered, then glanced at you two, assessing with clinical eyes, “Back it up,” he spoke as if you were a mutt that needed training.

“I was just doing my work,” you muttered and rolled your eyes at Simon blatantly.

He moved away and crossed his arms, staring down at your sitting form like you were an insect to squash.

You didn’t like it one bit. So, you turned your cheek away over to Price, seeing what he’d written down. “That means there was a struggle involved,” you figured.

“Clearly,” Simon added behind you like a sound board. Except he wasn’t exactly helping you, his voice was monotonous as the sky outside.

You bristled and kept your eyes trained on the chalkboard.

“Were her wrists broken as well?”

“Yes,” Simon spoke. He moved away to your thankfulness, and looked once again over the table. Surely enough, her wrists also had signs of bruising and swelling.

“Same M.O,” Price sighed, recalling the last male victim.

You got up from the stool and walked over to Price, “If it fits the M.O as last, this could be a serial killer,” Your voice was low, in a hushed tone.

Simon watched on the interaction from behind, thumb stroking the edge of the table with a sense of distrust radiating off of him.

Price's, eyes darkened with something unbridled. It was an intense need to figure it out, like a missing puzzle piece. His hand stroked his scruffy jaw before sending his eyes over to Simon.

“Proceed with the internal examination.”

You joined along—more than happy to assist. But you felt like a lap puppy beside him rather than an efficient practitioner. You detested the sight and feeling, as if being born with flesh and a mind were humiliating in itself.

It only brought up feelings of being constricted. Cast away like a chore being ticked off the list for the evening.

Simon's hands worked deftly to make the Y-shaped cut. Soon enough the ribs were exposed, decaying organs laying underneath. Your eyes assessed the damage, “No hole in the heart, you pointed out, brows furrowed.

“Odd,” Price sighed through his nose and then strode to assess the two of you. 

Simon lowered his scalpel onto the metal tray on the cart beside his hip. His gloves flexed.

After examining the body cavity, you then leaned away to look at Price, “I’ll have that blood analyzed by the lab.”

“Do it now,” Price ordered firmly, eyes cutting into yours. The look in his eyes told you enough.

You wasted no time in stripping your gloves, throwing them in the can, and then grabbing the sample. You were glad to be out the room filled with too much testosterone.

Simon began working the rib cutters as you left out the two metal doors.

The lights flickered above as you approached the broken and small elevator shaft. The smell of cigarettes met your nostrils, and you tilted your head this way and that. The cold, white and depressing floors of the morgue disappeared as the doors shut.

Suddenly it was just you and your thoughts—holding the sample. No elevator music. Then your mind wandered. You wondered what kind of music both of them would listen to.

You could predict Price listening to some 90s throwbacks. The usual Whitney Houston, Creed, Phil Collins, The Police, The Oasis. It fit his divorced dad persona. You had to stifle a scoff at the crude thought. You tilted your head up, hearing the cogs slowly work in the elevator going up.

If he knew you had this thought he’d probably do more than just free your scarf—he’d find a way to choke you.

And Simon? You never really thought of that one. That weird, uncanny mess of a man. You wouldn’t know.

If you had to take a stab at it, probably Metallica, Iron Maiden, Nine Inch Nails, and of course you threw in a sappy song, Take My Breath Away.

You could imagine his eyes peering around, moving slow in time as if weary, wired headphones plugged in. In the flower shop he would work on cutting the stems carefully, his back facing you. Lights from above were cold and fluorescent as it flickered. His pocket was hefty from his phone, wires tangled carelessly by his masked jaw.

The headphones fit snug underneath. And he’d listen to Berlin, her silky voice as his rugged features seemed captivated by the petals. How the red petals graced his scarred, pale form. Like blood cascading in rivulets, soft and inviting.

Maybe Top Gun would be his favorite movie, you sarcastically thought. He’d probably think Tom Cruise was an idiot, or found him to be a die hard with a raging hard on, eager to prove something.

Just a thought. A handful of thoughts.

You snapped out of it when the doors opened but this time, the doors opened to a warmly lit floor. Soft music of a record played, almost jazz like despite the crude, and surgical environment.

The moment bursted like bokeh’s, fluttering and glittering.

Some nurses walked about, humming. Some pushed carts. Some checked their lists off.

“Where is the lab?” You asked quietly to the woman ahead. She appears soft, almost with a trusting look. Her brows are higher set, giving her a wide eyed appearance, and lips smeared with pink gloss. She smiled tightly, pointing her pen down the converging hallway of music.

“That’ll be it,” She said, and it went well with her looks. You felt odd, like a wolf in sheep's clothing here. Everyone appeared too nice.

What an odd contrast to your dark, null and devoid personality.

Your ears caught on, head moving to the source of music. It came from the ends of the hallways which converged, but you barely saw the entrance.

You began to slowly walk, bristling past some nurses and to the yellow hallway. The music became louder and clearer, scratching momentarily.

The room had a cabin feel, from the dark oak wood, to the linoleum floors. A brown couch was ratted and old, sagging. There was a vinyl spinning untouched. The soft lamps glowed eerily, marking a presence unknown.

You could see the lab wasn’t too far from the room, located just beyond it. It seemed like a wavering mirage, placed behind a mirror.

“Now I’m on my knees. Darlin’ please. It’s time to die—“

The music got cut off as if the vinyl got scratched. You opened the door slightly, the breeze lifting its weight and encouraging you to slither inside. The door shut and you felt oddly singled out. Like prey trapped in the four corners of the room.

The lights danced like Christmas lights, suddenly buzzing with a high frequency, before it got overwhelmingly loud.

The buzz even shook your core, vibrating your organs. You felt like you were shifting left and right, hands covering your ears as you let out a soft sound.

Amidst the chaos, you briefly caught onto what appeared to be some decanter set rolling out, a nurse following.

Her giggling eerie voice appealed to yours, and the lights calmed, the room settled like a heavy weight. Your vision stood still, breath bated.

“Have some, would you?” She beckoned softly. 

You scoffed and shook your head as she poured into a clear glass already, the liquid sloshing like dark amber. Your eyes narrowed.

“No thanks. On the job,” you dismissed half heartedly, although you itched to taste the burn and feel it satisfy the rotten parts of you momentarily. Your brow twitched as you held onto the sample, looking past her into the lab.

“My names Sarah,” she introduced, and walked forward to you. Her green eyes peered out, like foliage shining in the sun. The glass was present in her hold, shining too.

You eyed it and swallowed and grabbed the sample bag tightly.

“I don’t know you, really,” you said, voice stiff like steel.

“Of course you wouldn’t…you know. I’m not supposed to be drinking on the job. I mean. It’s a lab and all…what would they think?”

She whispered as if only you two were meant to hear. She sighed and carelessly chucked the drink down her throat, her pale fingers hugging the glass.

“But it feels good to let go,” she added and sighed, her eyes lighting up.

You knew exactly what she meant. And the feeling of it all. You eyed her and watched the glass empty, your voice finalizing into a grounded, low hush, “They’ll find you, you know.”

Sarah smiled softly and shook her head, “It only bad if I’m caught.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you muttered and looked down at your shoes.

Who were you to judge her? To diss her? When you did the same thing. You sighed and pinched your nose bridge with a free hand, and then peered past her, to the windows revealing the hallways and buzzing lights.

“I gotta get in there,” you said and moved past her.

She then grabbed your arm tightly, but her fingers eased, uncurling like smoke. Her voice shook almost like a tremor, eyes tracking yours.

“I know you do it too,” she prodded, voice absolute and firm, yet airy and thin. Her voice had a slight delicate lilt, as if she could be wrong, but yet astoundingly correct.

You stiffened up and you slowly turned your head to her, glancing at her pale hand clutching your lab coat, “Do you, now?” you whisper and eye her shorter form.

She swallowed, feeling impeccably small under you, “Then tell me I’m wrong. Judge me. But don’t think you’re right, because you’d do the same one day,” her words wrap around you like a blanket, feeling oddly too comforting.

It’s as if you understood her, and you did.

You sighed and removed her hand, facing her fully. A soft glimmering light cast upon your faces, glowing and softening the edges. Like an old film. Like a teardrop catching the sun's rays.

“Drink,” she urged, keening her head just slightly to bat her lashes at you. Her lip lifts at the corner almost slightly.

A wave of submission befalls you and you shudder.

She suddenly moved as light as a feather to the drink, pouring it. Half a glass.

You spun and reeled at the sight and before you knew it, the liquid burned. It tasted like sin and guilt and yet, a wavering dream. Spreading through your veins like shame and honey, impossible to wash off, like it were thick and sticky. It crawled down your throat like it knew every crevice of you, where to search, where to settle. 

Each swallow was a bitter confession, and your body, the church it desecrated.

“Something to take the edge off, right? Seeing all that death,” she explained, a light pitched, faint hum leaving her unceremoniously.

You sighed and wiped your mouth as the room felt fuzzy and dizzy. Like an echoing dream. The light stretched oddly now, oblong and hazy, bending at the corners. 

A cadence drifted softly around you two, cocooning a strange, twisted, intimate moment. Her shadow doubled behind her, her smile wide and revealing pearly teeth. Her fingers-those elegant things-tapped the glance before retreating to sit next to you. Her weight was solid, real.

You then lowered the glass onto the stand where the record played, lips parted, flushed from the sudden onset of circulation.

“You drink strong for a little nurse,” you concluded, voice raspy, an exhale releasing sharply from your mouth.

“We all need liquid courage, don’t we?”

You sat on the sagging couch, slumping slightly, feeling the waves rock you once, then twice, and all over again. The tide pulled in high, the influence of the moons shadows drawing it in, letting it disperse its pitiful exhale over you.

The sample could wait.

The lab was right there, after all.

Your head spun and you looked at her, lids hooded and lips parting to breathe out warm puffs of air.

“How old are you?” you asked, brows twitching, jaw slack, and fingers resting softly on the couch.

She shrugged, “Young,” she said lightly, sitting beside you.  The couch sagged and your head threatened to tip back slowly, as her voice echoed. The room constricted and you felt her gaze on your slack form. She seemed to be amused, more than anything, watching you spiral. Her eyes glittered with a crude light, lips stretching again.

“You get me, I think,” you whispered, feeling the drink spread like hot fire in your belly. 

“I do. Trust me, I get you much more than anything,” she responded.

After a while, you couldn't tell how long,  the room became distorted and her voice faded completely. It was you and your mindless thoughts, and the steady thump of your heart. The rush of your blood sent you in a heat, and this was the high you were more focused on.

Just a second, you thought. Your eyes shut.

When it opened, you had no idea how much time had passed, but you knew this. You were spinning. Unsteady. You rose up, seeing Sarah move past you and into a smaller room.

Your voice didn't come.

The drink said everything.

“Let me get you some water, you have to get back to work don’t you?” she whispered, her voice slithering from all corners of the room and behind where it brushed your spine like a tendril.

You eyed her and nodded, clutching the sample and waiting. You stood half folded in the warm room, seeing how the sudoku papers were spread on the coffee table, the tall lamp buzzing.

She crossed the distance, disappearing into a closet.

The mirror of the lab faded and became a wall of brick, and you blinked dizzily at it. Had you really thought the lab was there? You remember the nurse pointing to a different room.

Shit, maybe it was the one across this one instead.

A foot emerged from the closet. Soft, gentle, and bare.

Like a child taking its first step.

Your eyes unsteadily caught it, expecting Sarah to come out with the water.

And there she was in her glory, glowing, shining with this sort of essence you couldn’t describe.

Something out of a dream.

You weren’t really sure if it whispered soothingly or if it screamed. It all blurred. Her pallid, molten fingers caressed the knob as if beckoning you to come closer.

Then, you trailed up to see a knee lean in view, shaky as if disgruntled. Mangled. Malnourished.

You saw her pale, soft, yet rancid-like skin she had.

For someone out of a dream you felt you were seeing her as clear as daylight, with her auburn hair and deepest eyes.

She appeared vixen like, and yet disgruntled.

Your breath froze. Her hand rested on the knob, steadying itself before her head rose to you. Long auburn hair curled around her form.

She whispered uncannily, or rather produced a whisper from behind you one again.

You slowly walked to her, not before your stomach hurled and you stopped.

Before you knew it, you ran out, forgetting the water as she shouted your name.

Because what you saw, you did not have the stomach to take it.

© 2025 etherealevangeline — (do not translate, copy, reproduce, or reupload my work) 🤍