Postmortem Movement

The body lies like a naked white statue upon the operating table, imbued with the coldness of death, the stiffness no animate object could possess. It no longer holds any vitality, none of the allure that could be attributed to either sex, even though it is completely exposed where it reposes, air conditioning gliding over the grayish skin; one glance reveals that it was once female, probably around 16 years old. As I examine the body, I find no signs of a struggle, no telltale remnants of fear, grief, or even anticipation. I don’t think it, whoever it was, even had any idea where it would be lying twelve hours hence. It is a blank slate.

Breathing in through my nose, I catch only the faintest wisp of rot, a nearly transparent aura of death hanging over the motionless body. Turning to the right, I glance over at my young assistant and nod slightly. He has arranged the body perfectly. Adjusting the strap on my sterilized white gown, I flex my gloved fingers and set to work.

Most people have no idea about half of the things that happen after death, or what people of my profession must go through to provide a dead body with even the faintest semblance of civility before a funeral. There are many steps to complete, none of which are pleasant, but each one of which is necessary if you prefer your corpses with a touch of humanity.

The first step is to remove the internal organs. This part is easy though, they were removed, examined, then neatly packaged during the autopsy. All I am required to do is open the bloodless gash down the body’s abdomen, then reach in and retrieve the red, stretched plastic from the cavity in which it was enclosed. Holding the bags away from my body, I then carefully hand them to the young intern. Making eye contact for a split second, I assess his response to the clammy grip of the plastic; he is affectedly professional about placing it in the specified tray. Satisfied, I then hold out my hand to him, knowing what I need from hours of study, he picks up and hands me a bag of straw. Holding open the slit in the flesh, I take a handful of straw, and begin to stuff it into the corpse’s collapsed stomach.

Over the next few hours, my assistant and I work silently at the corpse’s tableside, carefully but efficiently modifying its body, scent, and skin. Some of the stories I’ve heard about mortician’s messing up- there are tales of mouths falling open and bugs crawling out, eyes liquefying, fingers twitching-most of which occurred during the ceremony, with grieving family members looking on. Imagining a small child seeing this thing’s collapsed eyeballs gives me the determination to pin them just right, imagining its jaws flying open when its mother strokes its cheek gives me the motivation to sew the lips shut just right.

Finally, it seems as if we are coming to a close. The mottled gray of the skin has been painted over with a fair complexion and rosy blush, the hair has been brushed and spread out. It lies on the table in a beautiful blue satin dress, its feet are adorned by black stockings, and slippers of the same substance as the dress. My assistant is visibly sweating now, his professional façade falling away in anticipation of the end. I’m just applying the last finishing touches to her makeup when, with all the delicacy of a newborn’s first breath, I feel the corpse move.

Postmortem movement is, of course, nothing new: if I had a quarter for all the times a body has practically leapt beneath my fingers- well, I would be in Hawaii right now. I continue working when, suddenly, I feel it again. This time, a more perceptible twitch. Furrowing my eyebrows in confusion, I pull back, narrowing my eyes slightly and studying the body. Half a second later, it convulses, the spine lifting a whole five inches off the table.

Realization dawning on my, I turn to my young assistant, who has turned pale as a sheet by my side. Keeping my voice low, I gently murmur the question he must be anticipating, even if he hasn’t said anything.

“Did you remember to give it a formaldehyde injection before you laid it out on the table?” His mouth opens slightly, the tiniest grunt of panic slipping out before the corpse began to convulse uncontrollably.

Writhing on the able, its eyelids peel open, tearing themselves to shreds on the pins I had applied to keep them in place. With a gargled, impossible scream, its torso suddenly jerks up into the air, as if yanked on by an invisible string. With another guttural cry, the body is completely pulled up off the table, and we watch in horror as it begins shaking desperately in the air, each movement punctuated by the sounds of tearing flesh and splintering bone. Convulsing once more, there is a final tearing sound as, with one movement, the body rips its upper lip completely off, leaving the flesh dangling from the bottom lip to which is was sewn. There is a moment of stillness. Then the air fills with an earsplitting banshee’s cry, and a torrent of blood erupts from the corpse’s mouth, soaking us and flooding the room with the sticky crimson liquid.

Rushing through the scarlet rain, I almost slip dashing for the huge, jagged syringe, still laying on the table with all the other pieces of equipment, already soaked crimson. Gripping it in my slippery fist, I turn and take a leap, banging myself on the table and plunging it into the stiff cold flesh of the struggling body. With a small sigh, it suddenly yields and comes crashing with me back to the cold tile floor. For a moment, I just lie there, stunned and silent. Then I slowly pick myself up.

The entire room is soaked in brilliant scarlet red, including the roof tiles and especially my terrified assistant. Glancing down at the body, I let out a breath I had no idea I had been holding in. There is no way this body could ever be presented at a funeral. It lies there limp and broken, its jaws still torn open in a horrifying gape.

I glance over at my assistant, prepared to royally cuss him out over this, when I see the tears clearing paths down his cheeks. I doubt he’s ever going to come back here and complete his internship, not after this mistake, not after this trauma. Instead of confronting him, I only shake my head and leave the room, the body still contorted in agony.

This is why I always paralyze the corpse before presenting it to the grieving family. They think their loved ones are at peace.

No one needs to know what happens to us after we die.