xxxxxWhat other career truly combined both art and science? Amiel steadied his gloved hands and exhaled into the mask. What other career involved massaging corpses, though. It wasn’t inappropriate, what he did; the rigor mortis had to be expelled, the embalming chemicals massaged into the body so that no clots prevented a clean exchange. These were the reasons he had to do such things. Amiel had already removed all personal effects and cut the corpse’s clothing off. It had been a woman, before it died. Now, to Amiel, it was a body to embalm. It was true that, when he had to set the features, he would have to think of her as human and not a dead thing, but until that point she was merely flesh and bone, muscle, fluids, all of it deteriorating before him. It was he that stopped time, that turned the clock’s hands back and made them live again. Amiel held that power.

xxxxxFrom somewhere under the table, the smell of dried blood and a squelching sound nauseated Amiel. It wasn’t the smell, so much as the sound and the heavy thing which rested against his feet. It didn’t matter where he moved, Valerian would just follow him and rest against his shoes again. Valerian seemed to enjoy tormenting Amiel. However, Amiel had cut the heart of this woman out and put it in a dish on the floor, as if it was nothing. To Amiel, it was. In any case, Valerian seemed to like the hearts, and if nothing else, he wouldn’t bite Amiel for a few hours afterwards. Blessed peace. That was how Amiel was able to effectively repair the severely damaged bodies he often tended to: suicide, homicide, brutal accidents. Those were his talents. He hated tending to bodies who had merely died of old age. To restore life to someone who had died in such a boring manner… he felt that they had just given up, so why should he return life to them? But those who had died tragically, or violently, had earned a second chance. Even if they didn’t want one.

xxxxxTo Amiel, however, those second chances meant a life without pain. One of eternal beauty and preservation. While the mind could leave, perhaps the soul could as well. Amiel never wanted to be embalmed. He wanted to be buried; he wanted to become part of the earth. It wasn’t so much that he disliked the idea of preservation, but rather that if he was dead, who would be skilled enough to embalm him? Amiel took up a needle, began to sew the mouth into its proper position. While he was thinking about Valerian below the table snacking on human heart, he had automatically finished the exchange of blood and embalming fluids. This thing had died in a car accident. Amiel would have to reconstruct certain features, sew back what had been misplaced. Demisurgery. He would be fooling himself if he thought that the body would really last forever, once embalmed. Decomposition was inevitable. But while the casket was open, she would look exactly as she had in life, and no one would understand all the work he had done in order to achieve that.

xxxxxAmiel was tired, but he needed to finish this embalming before Valerian—Too late, Valerian moved as if to bite Amiel’s foot. Amiel looked under the table; nothing left in the dish, not even blood. Amiel picked it up deftly, avoiding Valerian’s long teeth, and washed it out in the sink in his work station. As quickly as possible, he cleaned his station up and prepared to postpone the rest of the work. Just for a little break. He nudged Valerian forward with his foot, avoiding those long teeth again. Valerian was slow to start, but eventually shuffled his way into the other room. It wasn’t true that Valerian was slow; once, he had seen that imp scuttle across the living room to bite him as though it was just one step. He was just excruciatingly lazy. He liked things to come to him. Amiel frowned and his eyes grew dark for a moment, like a rainstorm had started in his thoughts. He peeled his surgical gloves and mask off, tossed them, removed his apron, hanged it up beside the door… and locked the door behind him, Valerian shuffling his way into the outer chambers of the funeral home. Amiel picked Valerian up and stuffed him into the brown leather bag which typically carried the lethargic imp, and escaped into the courtyard before Valerian could protest.

xxxxxHe lit a cigarette, took two inhalations, and then his hand dropped to his side, the cigarette still suspended, smoking on its own. Valerian pressed against Amiel’s leg, letting him know he was impatient to get home. Cookies and milk, that was what he wanted. Valerian always wanted to eat. Amiel refused to sigh, though he wanted to, and took another drag of his cigarette. He took that cigarette with him on their walk home, even though he didn’t intend to put it to his mouth again. He could hear the soft snuffling sounds of Valerian resting, which meant that for once he wouldn’t end up having to repair gouge marks in the bag. Amiel was an embalmer, not a leather-repairman.