A Lover's Curse
A body had come in not an hour ago. She was perfect, almost no scratches upon her flawless skin from whatever it had been that killed her. Definitely one of the best, no, the best, corpse he had gotten in a long time.
It would be terrible to have to bury her underground, where no one could see her, he mused, gazing down at her still, lifeless body through his silvery grey hair.
The sound of fabric was heard throughout the silent parlor as he slowly reached down to gently caress her cheek, his long black nails barely grazing her soft skin.
That touch triggered images to flow into her mind, flooding his vision. It took him a moment to realize that in the images, he was seeing her memories.
This didn't happen with normal bodies, he realized with a start. Normal corpses would be just that, corpses. He had only seen this once before, when he had been training to be a Shinigami so many years ago. The corpse's soul hadn't properly been reaped, and its memories had remained in the body. It had been discovered later, just before he'd taken off his glasses permanently, that one could, in theory, bring the person back to life.
Several days later
The former Shinigami known as the Undertaker had been working non-stop for nearly the past week, trying to find the way to bring his beautiful corpse back. He knew it had to be somewhere in his logs, and hadn't taken the time recently to take care of himself.
That small glimpse of her life before she'd died had been the most wondrous experience. Even through all that had happened, she had remained strong, always pushing forwards and living. She was strong, stronger than any human he had seen the cinematic records for, and that had spurned his obsession with her on.
There. He had found it, third paragraph of the four hundredth page of his ninth log book. It stated the exact process his mentor had used when he had brought that man back so many years ago.
Following it to the letter, he stumbled upon a page filled with scrawling, spider-like handwriting.
'Subject retains no memory of life before death. It has been suggested by many that all record of what we found here be eliminated, should this information fall into the wrong hands.'
'Wrong hands,' for some reason, that statement made the Shinigami giggle, and he proceeded with the operation, hoping that he was correct in his measurements. Leaning over her body, he brushed his hair behind his shoulder and out of his face and placed his lips upon hers, exhaling into her, and, hopefully, breathing life back into her as well.
Your eyes open with a start. With his lips upon yours, a man whose long hair covers his eyes is leaning over you. Your jump as you woke up caused your head to hit his, and he pulled back, a hand heading to his head as he rubbed the spot where you hit him.
"I-I'm sorry," you stutter out, your voice scratched and quiet, so you weren't sure he heard you. Coughing into the crook of your arm, you said it again, your voice much clearer now. "Who
who are you?" you ask, soon finding out that you didn't even know who you were.
He didn't answer you, only smiling softly, and maybe a little darkly, at you, sending shivers up your spine. His silence gave you time to get a proper look at him. He was tall, thin, and had a long scar across his face, neck, and hand. Braids were in his hair, but most of the gray strands were covered by his large hat.
When you had returned your gaze back to his eyesat least where they were supposed to beyou asked, "Who am I? I can't seem to remember
The Shinigami's smile only seemed to grow larger as she said that she couldn't remember anything. So his writings hadn't been wrong. However, he accidentally let an elongated silence stretch out before he realized that she was waiting for an answer. He didn't know her name. Coming up with one in the blink of an eye, he said, "_____, your name's _____." She nods, seeming to understand.
Going with the name, he continued, swiftly coming up with a story she'd believe, "You were visiting me about a recently deceased and was going to help make tea with me, but fell and hit your head. It seems you have amnesia
Too bad there aren't any doctors in the city
" He hoped she hadn't retained that part of her memory, the part of the city or of dying. If she did, then everything he had done will have been for naught.
She nodded, before asking, "Who died?"
"Grandmother," he responded, "terrible tragedy, really." It was taking most of his willpower to not laugh at the thought. "But you were also here to get a custom-made coffin. I think you wanted," he quickly estimated your measurements, "the one and sixty three." He was referring to a coffin that was one meter and sixty-three hundredths, around where he hoped you were height wise. "You didn't tell me anything about who you were, so I guess you just have to stay here until someone you know comes to pick you up
Surely, someone is missing you." Though his face wouldn't show it, he wished that no one did, so she could stay with him for as long as possible.
_____ nods again, seeming to understand slightly better now. "I
I guess we shouldn't waste time then, with the coffin."
In truth, the thought of getting into a coffin scared the life out of you, but if it had been what you'd been doing before you had hit your head, as the man, who you assumed to be an undertaker or parlor director, had said, then why should you protest?
He led you to a room in the back, where many coffins were laid open on tables. "This is the one I was showing you earlier," he said, showing you a sleek black coffin, the inside a bed of soft white material. Taking your hand, he helped you to place yourself in it, your eyes wide as you looked up at him.
do I fit?" you ask, a slight catch to your voice, your heart pounding in your chest.
He was silent for a few moments, and because you couldn't see his eyes you couldn't tell what he was looking at, a fact that made you shiver. When he finally spoke, there was an unmistakable giggly twinge in his voice. "You most certainly do, lovely."