When I was a little girl I knew what I wanted to be as soon as I heard of it. My parents tried to steer away from it, trying to explain what it was without going into details. Nothing would dissuade me, firm in the want to work in the occupation. I was five years old when I announced to my parents, aunts, and uncles, what I was going to be when I grew up. It gained various reactions, considering this announcement was stated at a funeral. Some thought it was amusing, others scolded my parents, while a handful of attendees cried for the deceased.

Mortician was what I had decided to choose as my dream job. I had seen and overheard a conversation between the Mortician and his assistant, speaking of getting the body presentable for the viewing. I observed the staff of the Funeral Home, seeing them comfort the family and helping them grieve the best they could. I adored the thought of assisting families in a difficult time, helping in any way I could, and being a source of calm, unbiased reassurance.

It was the first time I had such an intense determination to achieve a goal, to get myself where I wanted to be. For such a young child, many would believe it was just a small, fleeting interest in a job I didn't comprehend fully. It had quickly become obvious I was serious, doing well in school and studying topics about Morticians as I grew up. It wasn't odd to myself, yet to others, I became an oddity.

My childhood was full of supportive parents, laughter, and good memories. I didn't have issues that would push me to corpses or dark aesthetics; the topics of death and other strange things, have merely always been an interest of mine. I've been drawn to bones, the supernatural, and oddities all throughout my life. My parents weren't certain of their child going out to find bones and anything else in the woods, but they were supportive and let me figure out my personality on my own. Once I was old enough to pick my own clothes from stores and outfits for school, it was always in reds, greys, and blacks, perhaps some lighter shades for diversity.

There's one specific memory that my mother adores, she tells it to everyone and finds it amusing. We were in a mall, my age was six, and we had seen a woman dolled up in chains, black skirts, and large boots with tall platforms. Her makeup was dark, with black eye shadow, and dramatic eyeliner with shades of blended purples. I learned she would be labeled Goth. I remember being so memorized by the woman, how she dressed, and how confident she was to be so different in a crowd that, to my young eyes, looked the same. My mother, Jane, loves to quote what I said as I observed the Goth Woman, 'isn't she so beautiful, Mommy?'.

At the time, my mother knew I would grow up to be that woman in the mall. My reaction to her and my general interests was quite clear I wouldn't be a typical child or adult. My family knew I didn't enjoy dolls or bright colors, pinks, and oranges, yellows specifically made me cringe. Instead, for birthdays we would have Halloween, and Addams Family themes. They were loving and found my hobbies odd, yet amusing. My extended family was just as supportive, some older members didn't think such a young child should be exposed to such things. Didn't understand why I liked or dressed the way I did, but they kept nasty comments away from my ears.

I had studied hard, nearly obsessively, to get my dream job. Taking subjects that were required for Mortuary Sciences from middle school through college, each one was a challenge. However, I was able to push through my insecurities, the doubts that were planted in my mind often. In each course, I worked long and hard to process the information, cramping my hands to take notes and exhausting myself. On every exam, test, and quiz, I was proud when my grades came out well, perhaps not genius level, but great for an average person that had studied. My parents were proud, and my school achievements were prided on by my father, who told everybody that would listen to him to brag. It's humorous and embarrassing simultaneously.

In the end, my goal was achieved. At twenty-seven, I work at a small, local Mortuary as an assistant. Cleaning the rooms and sanitizing tools, helping set up tiny sightings for a family before cremations. We don't do full memorial services, only a group sighting of the deceased before we are approved to go through with the cremation. My boss, Paul Newman, trusts me to embalm and make a body presentable on my own.

We had teamed up when I was hired, he allowed me to do more work gradually by myself. While he focuses more on arranging, families and running the building, he lets me go through the deceased. Paul joins me often, giving me a real conversation and tips when he feels it is needed. I write reports on the corpses, filing them and marking what was on a body. The process is calming to me; washing the corpse, marking on paper what I see, then going on with the embalming to preserve the body.

As I work, I enjoy speaking to the body, as if they would hear me. It may be odd, but it gives me something to do, commenting on freckles, their eyes, and what will happen to them on my table. Anything I can think of, I will reveal to the corpse. If I have issues with family or friends, meeting new people, or about my day; I tell the bodies. It just fills the silence and gives me an outlet for thoughts. They won't reveal secrets, won't judge; they're a blank canvas in death. It doesn't harm them or me, no one else listens in and it passes the time.

Paul runs the Mortuary by the book, yet there are times when he'll mention that a new corpse will come in and not do paperwork on them. Warning me he will do the reports himself, requesting I take care of the deceased and place them back in the refrigerated cabinets. The first time this happened, Paul accompanied me into the room to preserve the body. He was quiet, standing aside and explaining that often families don't want a cremation or funeral. For religious practices, he will deliver the corpse to the family himself and they will do whatever is required within their religion.

I had never heard of this before, but he had seemed stressed and I noticed his hands were shaking, so I left it be. Questioning him about it days later, asking if the family were happy and if it's legal to do that, my answer was a clipped yes and a lecture on how Paul always does things by the law, mentioning that as long as he does an official report on it, that it'll be legal.

I'm the only assistant Paul has, our Mortuary is small and we are both willing to come to work whenever there is a call for a body. However, when I was coming into work one early morning, I noticed a new vehicle in the parking lot behind the building. It was five in the morning, the sun was barely over the horizon and the air was chilly. Paul called me in, mentioning a new corpse. As I parked my hearse, a man exited the back door with my boss. The hearse doesn't belong to the mortuary or a funeral home, it's retired and I bought it from a funeral home director years ago. I don't use it for business, it's my personal vehicle.

The car I park near is a shiny scarlet cameo, one well taken care of by how brand new it appears. I can see myself in the reflection when the rising sun hits a certain way, my black tights and dark grey ruffled skirt a bright contrast against the vibrant shade of the car. As well as the cropped shirt I wear, the folded fake collar of the shirt is white, with a little chain connecting the corners with bone charms hanging from it. My arms are covered by a long knee-length cardigan, it's warm and thick for the morning. The windows of the car are tinted, a choice I vaguely consider if it's legal or not. I can see my makeup nearly perfectly in the windows, blended red and black eye shadows in a smokey eye with wide, bold eyeliner; lips coated in midnight black matte lipstick. Paul doesn't mind what I wear to work, he enjoys my style and no clients see me often. When I know I'll be assisting a family or group, I'll respectfully tone down my appearance and dress business casual.

Paul waves when he notices my form walking towards them, the man next to him turning his attention to me. I observe the obvious flickering of eyes over my outfit, the kind of scanning that makes me wonder whether I'm being checked out appreciatively or if someone is upset about my style. I can't read this man, perhaps too far away, yet as I get closer to see expressions, there is a flirty smile curving on the man's lips. They exchange a few more words, Paul nodding quickly and pocketing both his hands.

"Paige! Thank you for coming so early, I hope you weren't too interested in sleeping this morning." Paul greets, the chuckle he gives at his joke sounding forced. I smile, ignoring that for now, he could be exhausted after all. He works later than myself on occasion and the dead don't wait until normal working hours.

"Interested in sleep? Never!" I laugh, coming to a stop a respectful distance away from the men. My eyes wander to the new man out of curiosity, I've never seen him before and he's quite attractive. "Who's this?"

At what appears to be an even six foot, I'm only a few inches shorter with my platform creepers on. His eyes are dark, I assume an amber or perhaps a mix of grey. They stand out against the golden tan of his skin, a beautiful complexion that appears blank of any blenches at first glance. This man is well built, yet not overwhelmingly muscled. He has thick thighs, which is oddly satisfying to see with the tight, blue slacks he wears. With a sharp jawline, his bone structure is pleasing to see as well, not too disproportionate, and has a slight crook to his nose which has either come from genetics or a broken nose. His hair is light brown, thick, and cut into a textured fade along the back and sides. When styled, I'm confident it would make him seem more businessman, as of now, with it being messy I find it more pleasing. I admit, he is a fine specimen.

He grins, revealing shockingly perfect teeth. I envy his teeth. What dentist does he go to? Reaching a hand out to me, offering a shake as a greeting. His voice is deeper than expected, a smoker with how gruff it is, an accent that sounds southern. "I'm Mark Graves, and who may you be, pretty lady?"

The question makes me chuckle, finding it amusing rather than cringe. Taking his hand I feel the strength in his grip, skin callused and tough from working with his hands often. Politely introducing myself, "I'm Paige Reid. Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves."

He winks, eyes twinkling. The action causes me to smile, thinking this man is confidently alluring. "Just Mark for you, Sweetheart."

"Mark was just leavin', he drops off bodies for us sometimes when I can't and he just stopped by to help me put one into storage," Paul explains, glancing at Mark and flicking his blue eyes towards me when the man meets his eyes.

Nodding my understanding, I trust my boss and how he does things involving work. Paul is a dedicated worker, the Mortuary is his life and I envy that about him. The older man had almost immediately become my unofficial mentor, taking the job seriously and providing the best for the building, clients, and myself as an employee. Never has Paul treated me poorly, made nasty comments, or been inappropriate.

I appreciate how much time and effort he gives to the families, the deceased, and the building. Truly, I can see no wrong coming from the fifty-five-year-old, except for dad jokes. It doesn't seem uncharacteristic of him to request help from Mark when my boss can't get to the scene to pick up a body and doesn't want to call me earlier in the morning. Instead of questioning it seriously, I poke fun at him with a small smile. "You do know you can call me to help? It's only my job."

Mark chuckles, shifting closer to me just slightly. A flirtatious tone came into his voice, charming. "I'll be fucking delighted to do it more damn often, shit," the word is dragged out, body gently jerking with movement at it. ", especially if I get to see such a gorgeous woman like yourself."

My face burns with a light blush, waving him off with a laugh and turning my head in an attempt to hide it. "Oh, you're a flirt, aren't you?"

"Only for a woman that catches my fucking attention, you've caught my eye since I saw the damn hearse." He gestures to my vehicle with a smirk and I laugh again, used to the attention the black car gets.

Before I can respond, Paul coughs and clears his throat, his arm rising to point behind him with a thumb toward the back door. Firmly, he suggests. "Why don't you get started, Paige? The newest body needs some more work than usual, I'll walk Mark to his car. Leave the report to me, I'll file the papers after you're done."

It takes a moment for me to process that it is an order and not a mere suggestion, not expecting it. Paul has always spoken to me and anyone else that works near him as a friend, not an employer or a superior. However, I agree with him. I came here to work, after all, not chat with a surprisingly pleasant, if vulgar, man. Getting an early start is why I came when he called with a new body, it feels like today will be busy, and being prepared is the best. Never know what I'm going to be seeing, considering Paul accepts the deceased from police investigations and hospitals. Most of the time, it's natural causes, yet there are always a few that are difficult to see, no matter if they went through autopsies.

Mark scoffs, smirking at Paul with a certain twinkle in his eye I can't place. "Now, Paulie, my man, why the hell are you tryin' to hide her away? I'd like it if she walked me to my fucking car instead of your greying ass."

Paul goes scarlet in the face and throat, whether in anger or embarrassment, I'm uncertain. My boss glares over my shoulder and I quickly cut in, to try to tame any tensions that came with that statement from Mark. Placing a hand on the older man's shoulder, hopefully calmly, I give a kind smile to Mark. Kept my tone calm, and polite, with a short chuckle. "Oh! No, it's okay! He's right, I need to get started. If you just dropped one off, it's better if I get them done quickly. Saves me much more work later."

Mark sighs dramatically as if suffering to agree with me, but he gives in and grins. "Fine, if you insist on leaving me with the party shitter here." It's said with a lazy gesture to Paul, then he continues with a teasing hint in his voice. "I'll just gotta stop by more often to see ya, body or not. Too damn cute to leave me hanging like this."

This forces blood to rise to the surface of my skin again, blushing at the confidence being displayed toward me. I'm unaccustomed to this behavior, there are very few men that are self-assertive to come up to me and try a shot to flirt. The men that do approach me are creepy, overly sexual, and make comments at me as if I'm an object. They can't take no for an answer and are walking red flags. I appreciate that Mark didn't insist I walk him to his car when I set that boundary, he appears like a natural playful flirt and hasn't mentioned my body in inappropriate ways. Admittedly, I can see myself enjoying his company, already do. His way of speaking is amusing and I find myself wanting to know more about him, and hear him talk.

I love his self-assurance, he has an air of authority about him that calls to me. Wondering if he has a job as an employer, a boss of some kind, or if it's a natural trait he has. Mysterious, this man is mysterious and that gives me the urge to figure him out. I love mysteries. Chucking, I grin at him. "I think I'd like you stopping by, body or not."

Mark kept his word, coming by the Mortuary every other week and if his schedule allows, every other day to see me. With each visit, I grow more attracted to him and quickly form a crush. He drops off corpses often but, is certain to turn his attention to me as soon as he is free of the deceased. Flirting and giving me nicknames, staying a gentleman in light touches on my elbows, and complimenting my outfits. Needless to say, weeks after our meeting, when he asks me for a date, I was thrilled to agree.