Embalming

There’s a corpse on my bed.

It lays on its back, eyes and mouth closed like it’s sleeping. Anyone who comes in my room would probably believe so as well. Rot eats its flesh, but there are no maggots that break skin. The sight is easy to get used to, the smell however, not so much.

It smells putrid, dead flesh and rot and feces and urine and all the disgusting things corpses smells like all mixed into one. I used to throw up from it, now all I do is gag.

There’s a corpse on my bed, it's been there for months.

Strangely, it’s appearance stays the same. I no longer question it, like how I no longer question why the same sight that makes me lose sleep at night would also be the reason why my body turns to lead in the morning. I now drape my blanket over it when I sleep, and when I wake up I tuck it in instead.

No one knows about it. No one ever asks. My mother enters my room everyday yet all she does is talk about the smell. She doesn’t see the corpse, I think. I stare at the low curve of its mouth every morning. I wonder if it knew how to smile.

One day I came home to see the corpse gone. When I asked my mother, she said the funeral services had finally picked it up. 

“Where did they take it?” I ask quietly.

My mother pats my shoulder. “Somewhere far away.”

I didn't ask when she noticed it’s presence. I wonder if it was just the smell that bothered her. 

The same day the funeral service had taken away the corpse, I changed my sheets for the first time in months. I scrub my bed clean with soap and fill my room with vanilla essence. My mother gives me a single flower to keep my room fresh.  My bed still smells like the corpse.

I do not miss the corpse. My bed is finally free after months, and I no longer lose sleep watching it to see if it breathes. 

My bed still smells like the corpse.

I clean my bed thoroughly once more. 

My bed still smells like the corpse.

—

One morning I wake up to the sight that had haunted me for months. The corpse lays beside me in its rot stricken glory, now with maggots eating at its flesh. I store my blanket somewhere safer before continuing on my day.

Nothing changes. The smell of flowers and vanilla in my room doesn’t compare to the smell of the corpse. Strangely, I don't mind. 

The days continue. The corpse gets uglier with each day as the maggots continue to consume. The sight is disgusting. I cannot peel my eyes from it. Soon, the maggots eat at its neck, it’s jaw, then it’s mouth. I do not miss the corpse, but I find I had missed all those hours spent retracing the curve of its lips. Now all that is left is an empty space of a galaxy that lost another star. 

“Will the funeral service take you away again?” I ask the corpse. 

It does not answer me, the maggots took away its ears as well. I brush its long hair away from my side of the bed. The decay has not reached it at the very least. 

—

I do not care about the corpse. I hold no affection nor hatred towards it. It’s simply another fixture of my bedroom, as natural to see as chairs and closets and rows of peeling posters on the wall.

It does not terrify me. In a way, its decaying form and putrid scent brings me comfort in the same way a soldier might when a bullet pierces through their heart. Bitter, utter acceptance. 

—

I come home to the corpse sitting on the edge of my bed. It turns its head at my arrival. I see its face for the first time, it wears my eyes. Absently I note, it wears my eyes better than I do.

The corpse tilts its head like it’s speaking, maggots writhing in the empty galaxy it has made for itself. A new star born in between the ashes of its dead. I would mourn if I understood the difference.

At my silence the corpse stands and guides me to the bathroom.  Its filth of a body looks out of place compared to the white tiles. The maggots writhe all over it, some escaping down the drain.

“Oh.” I say, moving to help shed its tattered clothes. “They didn’t treat you kindly. I'm sorry.”

Corpses do not speak. Corpses could not possibly understand human speech. A beacon of human suffering left mute by earth’s own undoing. 

I lower it down my bath, watching as the water turns murky. Months ago I would throw up, now I pour soap down my palm. Like a mother bathing her child, I wash the corpse clean off its filth and sin. I whisper prayers in the silent bathroom as I comb through its long hair, as I scrub the grime off its skin. The bathwater reeks. I change it.

The corpse does not move even after I’m done. I let it sit in the now clean bath, let it soak in the soap and smell of lavender shampoo.  

When i wake up the next day, there is no trace left of the corpse. I still smell the last of its putrid scent clinging to my sheets, but on top of it, 

soap.