Chapter 1 - Crematorium Part 1

The sun was shining for the fourth time this month. And yet, John didn't have the urge to look behind him. A window of light stretched to a void filled to its brim. Pooling over with peak potential. Of work near done and many, more undone, unpeeled and undiscovered.

Not that he cared. Nor that that was any part of his life, to begin with. The world was always big, bigger than him, bigger than his imagination. Bigger than his goals. How small and inconsequential he felt now lying in his casket, like an ant buried deep underground inside a locket. Like a mouse inside its hole.

He was repeatedly trying to focus on some old wives' tales about the afterlife. Still, the drugs were making that an impossible task. Fading in and out of consciousness, preoccupied with staying wake, focusing only on keeping eyes open for now. His mind pooled in the dark, reflecting back to him pictures and images out of order and out of control. He pictured ol' nana sitting on his bedside.

Nana was about to tell him something, but his vision flushed with black as she turned to face him. Open or closed didn't matter; closed was better. Focus returning, eyes remaining; Open. The lullabies picked up and pricked his temple, allowing the sultry voice to give life to new images in his head: one picture, a scene, a word, a phrase. They passed through like memories, and steady tears fell to either side of his face as he had forgotten to blink.

He shifted left to right, within the space allowed to him, and let out a frustrated breath. It had been through the nose, not the mouth. But his perfect timing was being taken away from him. He was messing up. He was a trashy author and should have gotten someone more capable to play the role.

As his brain stopped buzzing in and out of existence, he got the message he needed. He couldn't let anyone else experience this other than him. His plan and his experience were being played out. Of course, he couldn't get the timing perfect; he would be cremated alive. A perfect suicide. This would work. No need to panic. He quickly chewed out that train of thought and spat it to dust. Those feelings made him sick and had no place in his brain. Not now. Nothing would ruin this.

John had won, after all: Or Romistrol had won, as he called his art. The only times this word was ever spoken aloud was towards his wife in apathetic explanation.

Thinking about the perfect part he played to get here, he imagined his younger self watching, proud to tears. And as there was no audience other than dear mother nature to participate, he expected her to reap. Play the part, or don't be involved. Were his words.

Life had not beaten this man. No, the little man observed, conjuring up the energy of galaxies to pull off what he did, with every inch of him believing the world bent for it: the play, the scene, him.

Finally, finding it in his heart to pardon the absence of rain on the cliffside. He Faces the discomfort the silence of an empty room of death brings. And goes on to rationalise and file away, THIS was clear enough to tell him that the world had left him to die alone, given up on him; your child is sad and sick, so you sit with them for a while, and then a bit longer, but sooner or later you will get bored, and you will leave. And so time passed.

As he grew comfortable and the tears had yet to dry, thinly drooped sounds started to creep into the hallways, the room and the casket. The darkness felt heavier on his skin, held on tighter to his body. He had to make an effort to regain control. Sounds became closer and louder, and he could identify the first two footsteps rushing for the room. They had brought a storm behind them; two strangely gushy voices came sprawling in.

Doors swung so hard that it disturbed the dead.

Standing between the doors and observing the cold and placid room was a tall woman, draped in a red coat with puffs, on the one hand, pulling the hand of a small boy on the other. Face drenched, sweat dripping from his hair, the only thing he was observing was the nightmarish iron box gaping at him.

The woman evaded the doors on their way back to her, seemingly expecting her son to do the same. But with a simple swipe of the arm, she didn't need to experience any more disappointments today. At least no more today. The boy slid forward, banging his knees on beige tiles the size of his hands; he became shaky staring into them, and the dark spots started to smear and jump at him. His sweat dripped, pulled and mixed some of the sand between the tiles. He was hanging from her hand, pained like his arm was tearing off. He pushed himself up, stomped and squished the droplets.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Deeaar?" the wife said, still panting, visibly exhausted from her stride through the hall.

"THE LOVE OF MY LIIIIFE?" her voice strained. As her faulty smile started to fade away from her face starting from her eyes, her grip on the boy's hand tightened.

Hearing those words, John sank deeper into his iron prison. She left him dazzled. So he began to close his eyes. He had performed the greatest escape routine that would ever not be written in the history books, and he began to feel it fade.

The woman began going from corner to corner, checking the rolling tables with the iron instruments. To scour through the papers that were placed here and there. But she never once went to the iron casket near the furnace.

She eventually let go of the boy's hand. She was having trouble opening some rows of brown steel locks that held hidden trays inside, one on top of another.

The boy began to run out of the room, stopping to hear the footsteps coming from the other side of the door. Two men came inside as he searched for a place to hide. The taller, slimmer one was holding a chair with one hand. He set it down near the exit. He was elbowing the other man forward. The taller man never once looked directly up. But for a second, he caught the boy's eyes and smiled.

The boy had grown tired from running from place to place, tall building to tall building. And now they were on an island deep inside a mountainous rock that looked like a giant rock chicken's egg.

Whatever it was, the boy saw in the tall man's beady eyes moved him to sit on the rough plastic chair, which two out of 4 legs were bent, but it was solid enough for him. Try to fall asleep. He convinced himself. Try to think of the clouds. Were there any familiar shapes he could remember? And like magic, that was enough for a child of his size to fall off the face of this earth and head into dreamland.

The bigger, rounder man stomped towards the crazed miss. He was explaining the situation to miss. The procedures were already in place, and her actions stirred up his whole department. Now his life was in an uproar - explaining how something like this hadn't happened to him since he could remember. He thanked her for reminding him of a world beyond mundane. That he now, thanks to her, would take that vacation with his girlfriend and finally propose. He goes on explaining love. He describes his ma and pa picking a fight with him over the incident. Where he pulled his gun out whilst enjoying food at his cousin's wedding because of something his girlfriend said had gotten under his skin. Explaining how you must not let a partner drive you so. 'Look around you, miss', he goes. 'Take a deep breath, not so deep. And pull him from under you. Like my ma and pa said that day put the gun away, son'. Gesturing with his finger gun moving from side to side, one eye closed, lips whispering, bang bang bang. The round man holstered his finger gun and walked up to her, motioning to put his arm on her shoulder but stopped mid-motion. He placed his arm by his side and just stared at her with nothing but patience on his face.

The birds flying past the window squawking caught the woman's attention, moving towards the window till she could no longer see the outside, but she heard the waves, crash crash crash. Her mind and body are now still as a statue. Her breath became uncomfortable from the heat in the belly of the furnace behind her, the thinly veiled chemicals in the air that were safe, if not for an extended stay. She wanted to leave here as bad as these officials did. As much as her son did.

'Only for a bit more'. She said. Faint hints of a smile wanting to be plastered on her face. She was fed up. Eyes unmoving. She reached for anything sharp her hand could touch on these rolling tables. It was cool, moist and shiny and washed to an industrial degree.

The long man's reach caught her. His eyes looked anywhere but her face, his face angled, peeking behind her.

The fat man waddled over to the rolling table where her hand still lay. His walkie-talkie was going off. As he moved under the taller man's arms, his head sank into his neck like a turtle, and his hands moved with the precision of a blind man. He was talking it off, placing it on the table and rolling it to the sides where the rows of mortuary trays lay open.

He closed them one by one, his movement mechanical and methodic, never taking unnecessarily pauses. As he moved away from the window, her feet started tapping. He moved over to the iron casket.

He had the situation all under control now. Having others intervene would only sour the process for the victim and the perpetrator.

No grudges held.

That is his motto.

"Your husband, 46 years old, lives with you off the island. He is a father, a husband and a son who exceeds the expectations of everyone in each role. And here is John Doe, a hit-and-run victim brought in after no autopsy to be immediately cremated. The system never stops," He reads, holding several sheets of paper.

He adjusted his suit collar, playing with the buttons on his shirt.

"I understand," The woman responded in a stern voice.

"However", The skinny man announced as he went around the room, sliding his feet through the tiled floor, getting stuck on every chip.

"However", The short man pronounced as he flared his suit sleeves and started straightening them out, then immediately creasing them again as he put his hands in his pockets.

The woman took two steps, click clack, and clicked her feet on the tiles. Waking up her son, still not moving from his stature, but his eyes darted behind his eyelids.

She was now facing the furnace, not the obvious casket in the room.

John's heart grew weaker. His pulse sagged against his chest. This was going to take a while. He needed it to be on time. Just be on time.