The Embalmer

The stale scent of formaldehyde clung to Jeremiah Jones like a second skin, a constant reminder of his grim profession and the echoing silence that now filled his life. His hands, calloused and stained with the chemicals that preserved death, trembled as he stared at the lifeless form on the stainless-steel table. It was just another Tuesday, another soul departed, another body to prepare for its final farewell. But today, the sterile environment of the embalming room felt like a suffocating prison, a place where his grief festered, and his anger simmered.

It hadn’t always been this way. Once, the scent of formaldehyde was just a part of the job, a necessary evil in the business of death. Once, his hands had held his wife, Sarah, and his two children, Lily and Tom, their laughter echoing through the halls of their cozy suburban home. They were his anchor, his reason for enduring the morbid reality of his work. But that was before the plane crash, before the news reports flashed across the screen, before the world tilted on its axis and plunged him into an abyss of despair.

They had been so excited for that vacation. Sarah had envisioned sun-drenched beaches, Lily had dreamed of swimming with dolphins, and Tom had wanted to explore ancient ruins. Jeremiah, ever the pragmatist, had hesitated. He’d mumbled something about deadlines, about a crucial contract, about the importance of securing their future.

Looking back, he could taste the bitter irony of it all. He had sacrificed precious time with his family for a future that no longer existed. He remembered the last phone call with Sarah, just hours before their departure.

“Are you sure you can’t come, Jerry? The kids will be so disappointed,” her voice had held a hint of pleading.

“I wish I could, honey. But this deal is too important. I promise, we’ll take another trip soon. Just you, me, and the kids,” he’d said, the lie feeling like a lead weight in his stomach.

“Okay, Jerry. We’ll miss you. Be careful, and don’t work too hard," Sarah had replied, her tone softening.

Those were the last words he ever heard from her. A mangled piece of metal, a charred passport, and a sea of weeping faces were all that remained of their idyllic life.

Now, he was adrift. The house felt empty, the silence deafening. He tried to fill the void with work, throwing himself into each embalming with a grim determination, but it was no use. The faces of the deceased blurred into one, each a stark reminder of the faces he would never see again.

He started frequenting bars, seeking solace in the numbing embrace of alcohol. He wanted to forget, to drown his sorrows in a sea of cheap whiskey and fleeting encounters. But the loneliness clung to him like a shroud. He was a middle-aged man, haunted by grief and burdened by the stigma of his profession. Women would smile, engage in casual conversation, but the moment he revealed his occupation, their eyes would glaze over, and they would politely excuse themselves.

"So, what do you do, Jeremiah?" a woman named Brenda had asked him at O’Malley’s Pub a few weeks ago. She was attractive, witty, and seemed genuinely interested in him. For a fleeting moment, he felt a flicker of hope, a spark of connection in the darkness.

"I’m an embalmer," he’d replied, bracing himself for the inevitable reaction.

Brenda's smile faltered. "Oh," she said, her voice losing its warmth. "That's... interesting. Well, it was nice talking to you, but I really need to get going. My friend is waiting for me."

The rejection stung, another wound in his already ravaged soul. He watched her walk away, her back straight, her heels clicking on the worn floorboards. He felt a bitter resentment rising within him, a poisonous seed taking root in the fertile ground of his grief.

"They'll wish they never gave me the cold shoulder," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper above the din of the bar. The thought, once a fleeting impulse, began to solidify, taking on a disturbing clarity.