After another tough, draining day at work, a tall, built dark haired man named Norman traveled home with the mindset he brought home for the past twelve years of his life: to forget about the task he had to perform that day and mentally clear himself of the images he had seen and people he had met. For anyone, even the toughest of people, erasing an unpleasant day could be troublesome, for you must not only recover from that day, but also redeem yourself with the following opportunity. This was even more difficult for Norman because everyday was an unpleasant one with the next holding no opportunity for redemption. Norman had considered quitting the unfortunate work he had to perform, but realized that he had already put too much time and emotional weight into it at that point to give it up. With so much invested in terms of money, time, and pointless effort, the thirty-six year old was sensible enough to see that economically it was not an option. Norman, like many others, would have to go on with his miserable work.

The fact of the matter was that Norman was a mortician. He had the major responsibility of preparing lifeless bodies for the ceremonies conducted by the families of the deceased. The process became all too familiar to Norman. He would travel to the place requested and pick up the dead body of the person who had passed. Sometimes, it was elderly people. Other days, it was middle-aged adults. Hauntingly, he picked up an innocent, young child occasionally. Internal horror only came to Norman when he saw the eyes of the dead. The skin, hair, and physical feel of the perished always seemed to be obviously lifeless. But their eyes, whether the person was an infant, a teenager, or a senior citizen, would always remain the same.

Even if the death occurred a block from his white, new funeral home, the drive would feel like an eternity with the distinct smell of death and sometimes-horrible sights engulfing his senses. On the outside, the funeral home appeared to be pure, welcoming, and pleasant, as did the room to the right where the services took place. It created a living room sense, like one where a grandchild and grandfather could watch television together. But when the bodies were wheeled in the front door and taken into the room on the left, a grim, eerie mood could send chills down the back of anyone present. The grey room looked like a disturbing mix between a slaughterhouse and a garage filled with tools for fixing problems. When in the room, Norman would drain the deep red blood from the body. He always noticed how cold it was and how thick it felt. Before this, he would have to shave the corpses of every hair on the body, relieve it of rigor mortis by massaging its muscles, and do the make-up and set the face of the person. To finish it off, Norman had to make a small incision by the belly button and puncture the major organs by using a trocar, or sharp surgical took, to release the fluids in the organs and replace the fluids with preservatives.

Norman never understood why all of this was done so that it could be buried six feet under the ground, never to be seen again. His profession, which he spent his whole life dedicated to, he thought, was pointless. He also never knew why his father would ever want to be an undertaker and leave him, his only son, with the family business. As he pulled into his driveway seeing the dying garden being swept away by the autumn season planted by his wife and child, he made the familiar promise to himself that he would not force his son Jack to follow in his footsteps. Actually, he vowed to discourage his son from doing so. No one should have to do such pointless work, he concluded.

Norman opened the front door and entered his living room to greet his wife Blair and his boy. He knew based on how their relationship was developing over the years, that once again, he might not receive such a kind welcome home. He ended up being right and as he leaned in for a kiss, Blair turned her head to the left showing just one of the fresh scars. He did not know who had made that mark upon her, but he was aware of who had done it. An immense jolt of guilt struck his stomach.

Trying to make himself feel better, he bent down to talk to little Jack. Norman’s son had just turned six and wore his favorite light blue striped pajamas while holding Samson, his beloved stuffed rabbit, as it was already ten at night. With untamed excitement, Jack looked at his father with a great smile and hugged him, explaining all he had done that day around the house. Norman listened intently until he looked back at the distressed, miserable Blair. He did not see the woman he married. Norman saw Katherine, a thirty-five year old engineer who had died in a car accident travelling to work a month earlier. He recalled the compound fracture of her femur bone, the deep bruising on her arms, and the blood rushing down the side of her chin. As he studied his wife more, he thought about how none of those things fatally ended Katherine. It was a slice of the neck from the glass on the broken windshield that took her. A slice located in the same spot as Blair’s scar. It was a pointless death without a reason.

At this point, Norman decided to tuck Jack into bed. He playfully picked his son up and proceeded up the stairs to the boy’s room. Looking down at Jack, he again had bad visions, seeing a young girl named Teresa who died of Leukemia. She was so innocent and had never done anything wrong in life, Norman thought. There was no point to her death, just an unfortunate disease with no reason. He laid Jack in his bed and kissed his forehead ready to go see if his wife was ready to speak for the first time since two days prior.

That night, like every night after work, Norman decided to have a few drinks to try to drown away the thoughts of the day. At around seven o’clock in the evening, Blair returned home from getting groceries and entered the house. In the garage, she found her husband in the state of mind she was used to, drunk, emotional, and lost, trying to get into his car. When Blair asked what he was doing, he claimed that he had one more thing to do at the funeral home. Norman had done this before, always saying that he forgot to do something at work. Worrying about him driving, she always attempted to take his keys and always prevailed and shipped him to bed. But on that day, Norman’s persistence was more stubborn than usual and desperation could be heard in his voice. Struggle ensued causing enough commotion to attract Jack’s attention from the living room. With their son in the doorway, Norman struck his wife narrowly missing her face, directly hitting her neck. Seeing Jack run off and realizing what he had done, Norman slightly sobered and broke down. His own sorrow brought on to him by something pointless had led to him doing something to his understanding wife who had never done anything to him. Norman desperately needed forgiveness.

He attempted to talk to his wife, but she refused to listen to what he had to say. For over eight years of marriage, she peacefully dealt with his drinking problem and understood that his work took a toll on him. Norman had told her many times that she kept him from the point of insanity. But this crossed a major line, and Blair wanted no business with him for the time being. She went upstairs to bed leaving Norman distraught and alone.

With nothing else to do, he tried to sleep. But images of his wife’s injury and the corpses of the old lady scattered his brain. Norman knew that if he wanted to sleep that night, he would have to drink plenty. So he did, and with every glass of scotch that spilled down his throat, he thought about how pointless life really was to him. All he did and all he knew had no real reason. His job was to lie to people and make people look less dead than they were. An inch of make-up does not change how dead someone is, he thought.

With more and more liquor, Norman remembered the thing that he always had forgotten to do at work, but never could recall in a sober state. With no one up to stop him, he dragged himself to behind the wheel and took off for the funeral home, making sure he had some of his scotch to go. During the half hour drive, Norman thought of his son Jack and how at only six years old, he should not have had to see his father beat his own mother senselessly. He also thought about of a negative influence he had been on Blair. She deserves better, he thought. Norman turned left onto the street of the funeral home and ran right through a red light leaving the intersecting car with barely anytime to react. Luckily, he got out of the close situation untouched, parked safely, and stumbled toward the door.

As soon as he entered, Norman turned left into the dark room in which he worked. He went to the small side closet where he kept a few suits for services, picked out his favorite, and put it on admiring blankly and aimlessly at how he looked. After, he lathered his face with shaving cream and removed the entire small amount of stubble he had present. He then proceeded for the make-up. With twelve years of experience, Norman was a professional and knew exactly what he was doing. He looked up into the mirror when he was finished and saw what the families he worked with wanted to see. After finishing the cosmetic process, he walked over to the embalming preparation table where the bodies were drained.

Norman lay himself on the preparation table with the proper tools by his side, buttoned open the bottom of his white button down, and selected the sharp knife and trocar ready to finish his own embalming.