By Anonymous 

The morgue is cold. Too cold. Hard linoleum floors meet my feet with every step as I walk to meet my first dead person. My hands shake as we enter the cooler. The office tries to mitigate the smell of death by regulating the air flow and temperature, but I’m not fooled. The odor is sour and permeates the space, seeping into my clothes, hair, and nostrils. I wonder if it will ever leave me. It’s a permanent artifact of my time here. I keep the nausea and tingling in my feet at bay. 

Embarrassment is the only thing keeping me upright as I observe the lifeless half-opened eyes staring back at me. I wish someone had shut them before I arrived. The tingling sensation climbs upward, snaking around my spine. I force myself to stand and pretend this sight does not bother me. Spiders crawl to my head, spinning webs of electricity in my skull as I fight the urge to pass out. I take deep breaths until the feeling subsides and I am grounded once more.

I have officially met my first dead person.

After I leave and regain warmth in my veins, I will act like none of this happened. But in this moment, in this place, I’m consumed by cold hard death. I’m surrounded by people and yet they’re not really here. Their souls have moved on, but their bodies remain with me.