Morgue Visit (Fiction)

The click of the door as it opens makes me cringe; sunlight slices through darkness, a well-sharpened knife administering a thousand cuts. The outside air suffocates, pressing deep into my lungs and knotting up my stomach. My teeth chatter as if it’s cold, but it’s not. It’s hot. It’s so damn hot. My fingers crush the metal of the car door, skin tight over bone.

I can’t do this.

“We’re heading straight through there, ma’am.” A figure in blue motions toward a sterile, bright building ahead.

My dry eyes blink, dazed. Lips murmur a thank you as heavy laden feet make their way to the door. The man in blue leads, and I blindly follow.

Merriment pierces the fog, sharpening my focus. My gaze lands on the man responsible for the interruption, his light hair mussed and blue eyes crinkled.

“Excuse us.” The laughter dies, replaced with apologies and a sudden fixation on the floor.

The man in blue leads us away.

Inside, where no one hears, I scream.

I can’t do this. I can’t lose her.

“Has someone called my husband?”

“Yes ma’am. He’s on a flight now.” The gentle reminder offers no comfort.

My throat is closing, every step toward the end of the hallway choking me. The elevator grows cold as we descend, and when the doors open I feel the last piece of me shatter. Gravity wrenches my stomach into my throat and away, rips my heart into a million jagged pieces.

Shaking, I follow the man in blue through the last door – the only one that matters, the only one that could ever matter in this world. The door that could lead to the end of life, both hers and mine.

If she is dead, so am I.