Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

It was midnight. He had left me here, in the basement, with instructions to finish the display before tomorrow’s opening. At The Mütter, my tasks were never-ending. Each piece required painstaking placement and anchoring invisible to the naked eye. I pushed my fists into my low back. Creaking and popping, I stretched, seeking to ease muscles stiffened by too many hours spent hunched at my table.

On the stairs leading to freedom, a familiar inky mist gathered and swirled. He always appeared during full moon nights, when the lunar glow highlighted his smoky silhouette.

“Good to see you, my friend. I have missed you,” I smiled as his shape shimmered and solidified.

“Yes, Emmet has me working late, again. The man is cruel beyond imagining.”

Admiring my progress, I listened as the bones created their own story. A cold wind whispered, and his voice crackled with the smell of autumn leaves. I toyed with the germ he planted. His plan to relieve the thousand tortures Emmet heaped upon me.

“You are right, I could work on him. Make him understand.”

My companion patted my shoulder, and his courage flowed through me.

“The opening gala is tomorrow night.”

He leaned toward me, and the seedling grew, producing a perfectly formed, black rose.

“I could lure him with a cask of Amontillado. We have a wall of bones, and as part of the permanent installation, they would lie undisturbed for years.”

A faint jingling of bells kissed my ears.

“In pace requiescat.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Photo by Fengyou Wan on Unsplash

Concentrate on the happy things they said.

But I don’t have happy things.

Nothing major. Something small that makes you smile. They bored me.

Jeremy was much more pragmatic. He was still a pain in my ass, and entirely too optimistic, for his own good. But there were the occasions when he was tired, or distracted, and I caught an edge of cynicism in his tone. I could work on him.

In the cafeteria, they served a strong, black, bitter coffee in thin, brown paper cups. Most drowned it with packets of sweetener and milk, disguising its true nature. That was the problem, we are all hiding the truth. I sipped, repressing my grimace.

I didn’t have to wait long, Jeremy, with his armload of green files and sporting his usual white coat soon joined me at my table.

“How are we this morning?”

“We are happy.”

“Is that so?” Jeremy lifted an eyebrow, “And why is that?”

I raised the flimsy coffee cup, my silent toast to my worthy adversary. I took a sip.

“I see,” he said, retrieving a cheap, disposable ballpoint from his jacket pocket. “And the new medication?”

I shrugged.

He flipped open my chart and began taking notes. I waited. When he looked at me, I regaled him with the fruit of my practice and smiled.

“How is it we are so happy today?”

“It’s easy. I block out the screams.”

Jeremy patted my hand.

“Sounds like we are making progress.”

Jeremy had no idea.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer