I hate the morgue. Sterile, white, blinding. The only good quality is that it's cold. I'm glad it's cold.
The heat is harsh. It's uncomfortable, but the cold isn't. The cold is calm; the cold is quiet. Maybe that's why they always look so peaceful.
Strangled, shot, stabbed, aged, it doesn't matter. Once the heat leaves them, they are calm. They are serene.
I feel bad for disturbing them, but they don't seem to mind. In fact, I think they enjoy it. They want to tell their stories, and I want to listen. They'll even listen to my tales when I have one to share; though, I don't tell them often.
My accounts are few in number, with their contents bland and uninteresting. My visitors, however, always tell such wonderful stories. Vibrant, sad, long, short. Their tales come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, each a unique snowflake I get to catch in my palm.
It is the reason I leave my bed each morning, and today I will definitely be rewarded, because today she's smiling.
My visitors are always peaceful, always calm, but she is the first one who is happy, who is smiling.
I know she has a story, a wonderful story.
Raven black hair, pale skin, and sharp features with a smile. A simple smile but one that radiates joy.
A strange sight in my white world, but a welcome one.
All visitors have three things in common. The steel table they lay on, the white sheet that dresses them, and their peaceful face, devoid of emotion.
For the first time, one of those rules has been broken, so of course I'm curious.
"What is your story..."
Peeling away the white sheet, I can see more, search for more. I can listen to her story.
Clear pale skin, unblemished like a flower. Still and serene.
A pristine doll resting on my table.
I can only find one flaw upon her entire body.
The thin red lines adorning her wrists.
My visitors meet various ends. Usually messy and complex, none are as simple as this, and yet here she is. Her story ended by two swift cuts.
"Why..."
A happy visitor, a clean end. This woman is an anomaly to my life, to my stories, and I can't help but to feel curious, excited even.
Maybe she understands. Waking up day after day, the blinding light, the searing heat, is that why she's happy, because she basks in the comfort of black and cold.
The others may have accepted the dark, but maybe she embraced it. That is why she wears that smile.
To flaw your skin, for an escape from the heat and light. Who wouldn't welcome refuge.
Tracing the lines with a gloved finger, I hear her whisper. I don't know what she's saying, but it's there. The beginning of a story.
I want to hear it. I want to know everything about it.
Was it worth it? Was it easy? Do you miss light? Do you miss the warmth?
I'm sure all my questions will be answered eventually. However, there is one thing I want to learn above all else.
"What is your name..."
I'm sure there is a folder I can read somewhere, but this is her story. She deserves to tell it; and like a whisper on the wind, I finally hear her.
"Louisa Vollenia..."