Andrew Monge

Listen to Andrew read his story

Why?

Why me?

Why did it have to be me?

I took this job for the solitude. No one, myself included, dreams of being a janitor, let alone one employed by a funeral home. The job ad said it was lone work  on the midnight shift, so I figured even if I’d be stuck sanitizing embalming tables, I’d do it in blessed silence, which was all I wanted.

Well that pipe dream lasted about six hours into my first shift.

-o-o-o-

I started my night in the Autopsy Room, which accounts for the lion’s share of the cleaning.  From there I moved into the Cold Room, mopping up the gurneys’ wheel marks from all the back-and-forth to the meat lockers (hey, don’t blame me for the ghoulish terminology).  At one point I stepped on a wet spot on the floor, slipped, and reached out to steady myself on the door to Locker Five when…

…I’m behind the wheel of a car, windows down, breeze in my hair (how did I grow hair?!), “Don’t Stop Believin’” shaking the speakers, a cold beer in my hand (wait, what the fuck?), thinking I’m good to drive home from the bar, I’m only buzzed (I’m so wasted and shouldn’t be driving and my reflexes are so slow and holy shit I see a streetlight just like in the song!), then PAIN as I fly through the windshield and hit the pole and…

…black…

…black…

…black…

…gasp!

I was back in the Cold Room. I jerked my hand away from the locker door as if I’d been scalded. Physically, I was fine.  Mentally, I was on the verge of collapse: spent, confused, terrified.

What did I do next?  Like a moron, I tentatively reached my hand toward Locker One and…

…I’m sitting across from my wife (my wife?  I’m not married to Mrs. Pembrook!), watching the maître d pour Moscato.  I concentrate on my arthritic hand, willing it to clasp the flute, to raise it in a toast to Millie.  “Happy Anniversary, dear,” but as I reach to clink, the glass drops to the table (oh no!) and Millie says, “It’s okay, Harold,” (tight-tight-tight) but this time it’s not my hands (ohhhhhh, it hurts!), it’s my chest, and…

…black…

…black…

…black…

…gasp!

-o-o-o-

It’s been months now, and I loathe this gift, this curse. I feel sickened by people’s final moments – even the lucky ones fading away in their sleep. Worse are the victims of flukey accidents; cancers and other awful diseases; or the ultimate terror, prisoners of their own minds, silent on the outside while screaming like banshees on the inside. And yet, like the proverbial trainwreck, I can’t stop rubbernecking, I’m a slave to my unexplained  voyeurism.

Despite how uncertain and, often, livid I am over being drawn in by this…this thing, tonight I’m hoping to use it for something worthy. Something  good.  That’s what would-be heroes do with their gifts, right? 

An adolescent Jane Doe came in this morning.  Rumors have been swirling over what happened to her.  Some pretty dark ones. So far, it’s been a mystery.

Until now.

I still have no answer for “why me?”, but when a broken-and-battered little girl shows up, I most definitely know “what” I’m supposed to do.

I take a deep breath, unclench my fists and touch Locker Six,

then…

Andrew’s prompts were: In a Morgue/ Funeral Home, Nightshift Worker, An Unwanted Gift

Andrew Monge (Twitter/Bluesky/Substack: @MuchAdoAboutNil) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, Shotgun Honey, Major 7th Magazine, Micromance Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and Pistol Jim Press.