Thanatos

Two corpses. These mortal remains of one lie pinned by a useless belt to the seat,
the blood but newly stilled in his veins; the other has been dead for several hours. It is a
brisk, crisp morning in the early days of November. Thick mists lurk, specter-like, above
the murky waters of the surrounding marshland, unhindered as yet in their dismal reign
by the dainty rays of the rising sun. Marsh birds, newly awakened by the hour rather than
the heavenly rays, lend their invisible and chipper voices from beneath the bridge where
they roost to the heightened eeriness of the scene. For miles there is no sound but the
lapping of the water, disturbed from its stagnant rest, and their piercing cries all else is
deadened in a world made close by fog, the cheerful cheeps of the birds rendered
mournful by the sad setting from which they rise. Meanwhile, hidden just below the
surface by the murky water, a mysterious metallic mass lies submerged: a large vehicle, a
hearse, whose demise but moments ago was seen to rip through the placid eeriness of the
peaceful marshland. It is coffined within this mass that these two corpses have found their
final resting place; it is here that a trapped individual has at last found peace from the
torment of his inner demons.
Earlier that same morning ere the rising of the sun, a man was seen to make his
way along the road through the dismal fog. He was a middle-aged man, slightly balding,
whose physical appearance was marked by very little beyond the norm. Carefully, gently,
he piloted the company hearse that it was his responsibility to drive along the country
roads, his destination: the hospital morgue. It was his task to collect the dead from the
hospital and bring them on their final journey to the funeral parlor, where he was
employed. It was strange that such a one as he should hold this grisly task, a man whose

fascinated dread of death had set him apart since childhood. He dreaded to die, he
dreaded death, yet inexplicably he had always been drawn to it. As a child he would assist
at funerals performed at his local church, his gentle heart unable to resist the urge to
comfort the relatives of the deceased persons. Yet he was intrigued all the more by the
dead themselves. Uncommon it was not for the boy to be found lurking amongst the
caskets, staring, staring at the remains encased within as though he sought to penetrate
their departed souls. The former consideration, that of his apparent empathy, led the priest
with whom he served in the burial rites to wonder whether the child could be destined to
join him in the exercise of the sacred priesthood; the latter, to question whether his state
of mind was not unhealthy. His parents, however, took no notice they were pleased to
claim such a gentle and thoughtful child for their son. The child was particularly close
with his mother, a woman like himself of gentle heart and quiet demeanor. Though close
they were, however, none could have guessed the incredible depth of this strange bond
between mother and child; none could have predicted the tragic fate that its severance
foreboded for the child. For it was her untimely demise in the fall of his senior year of
high school, in the early days of November, in fact, that further compounded the bizarre
fascination with death that was his defining factor. Following her entrance into the realm
of the dead her son lost all sense of normalcy: he dropped out of high school and sought
work through various unconventional means. Through various means, that is, until he
found himself employed in the position that now occupied him. This position he had held
for many years, accepting lower wages for the sake of satisfying his bizarre hunger. He
was now a determined fixture in the end of life process, known and feared by the hospital
employees, the families of the small town dead, and by his funeral home coworkers. His

relish for his work was the subject of ridicule among the men of his acquaintance. Yet,
their mockery itself functioned as an acknowledgment, even in denial, of the fears that
haunt all men: fears that were taken to bizarre lengths in him.
The call had come in the wee hours of the morning, when darkness yet
enshrouded the foggy world. It was a young female, of similar age to his mother at the
time of her passing. It was women like her who were his favorite passengers women
with whom, in escorting them to their final resting place, he felt a unique connection. It
was almost as though, through them, he rendered a service to his mother. This young
woman had passed in the night from complications pertaining to an auto accident two
weeks before, a story that had made headlines in the tiny community. Her tragic death left
behind two small children and her devoted spouse, a hard yet dedicated man who had
rarely left her side since the accident. The driver felt for the children.
As he drove along this eerie morning, the lengthy queue of previous passengers,
his patients, ran through his mind. There was not one individual in the long history of
his employment at the funeral home whose final voyage he could not recall. One young
man, number 34, was sent home to the dead by cancer; another, number 46, was thrust
into eternity by a drunk driver a rare instance in so small a community. A small child, a
young woman, an elderly great-grandmother, a savvy businessman all numbers in the
record books of those for whom he worked, but all persons, unique and special, to him.
Indeed with each he had formed a special bond during his lonely drive. It was his custom
to speak to them, soothing them on their final way. He remembered these drives in the
company of his silent passengers as others would recall cherished memories of family
gatherings, long departed in the space of years but fresh and crisp within the heart. At

other times as they drove he would be lost in thought, allowing silence to reign within the
vehicle of death. During these times his eyes would assume a peculiar grace, as though he
joined the company of the dead with whom he associated in fact as well as thought. His
eyes, indeed, were the primary characteristic that defined him on the physical level. They
were deep and strange in their expression. In general his aspect, dancing on the surface of
his eyes, was one of joviality. Given expectations within his line of work he tried, too
hard, to combat the morose implications of his task through the conveyance of
lightheartedness. His general attitude felt almost stilted, as though there was something
more there, hidden from view. It was during his times of deep thought, as he would drive
his patients to their final destination, that a glance into his eyes would reveal an
absence of soul the deep wells of vibrant life would appear bereft, devoid of their
driving force. At these times he seemed sunken within unreachable depths, buried within
the thoughts, fears, and obsessions that characterized his psyche. His mother used often to
comment on the unique quality of his eyes.
At last the arrival of the hearse within the confines of the hospital was noted. As
he pulled up beneath the entrance of the morgue the silent and deserted areas sprung into
action. The body of the young woman, covered and prepared for her final departure, was
wheeled out to his vehicle. Hello, beautiful, his mind raced. His aspect during his first
encounter with his passengers was among the most eerie elements of his unusual
character. There would appear a hunger in his eyes, and a fear, as though he coveted yet
dreaded the silent quality of death. His fear was paralyzing fear of loss, reliving the
dread moment when he first beheld his dead mother in her casket. Fear of death itself,
fear of rigor mortis, fear of the decay that so soon would encroach upon this beautiful

woman, so prematurely torn from her family and life. Fear of his own death, of being
consumed by the nothingness of unconsciousness, of non-existence. Fear that there would
be no afterlife, or worse, that there would be. What would one do, after all, with an
eternity?
And yet, his aspect assumed a cheerfulness that clashed harshly with the
somberness of the situation. Hello, beautiful, he thought again. He greeted the morgue
manager and his employees with a broad smile, eerie in its inappropriateness and
insincerity. They were relieved when his vehicle pulled away, and his stunted attempts at
humor and cheer had vanished with him into the fog. They did not envy the young
woman, his passenger. Number 57. Isnt he 57 years old?
As they were bumping along the country roads between the hospital and funeral
home in the murky stillness of the predawn hour, he fell deep into thought. It was just
such a morning on which his mother passed away, so many years ago. Whats your

name, sweetheart? Rita? Aw thats funny now, my mother named my sister Rita. A
sweet infant, from what I heard. Not that my mother knew her for long, and I never
met her. Poor babe, she died at birth. That was before I was born though. My dear
mother, she was such a sensitive one. I dont think she ever recovered. She called me
her miracle babe. She always seemed to marvel that the eyes of her baby could reflect
the sadness of her own. I dont know though, I dont think I have sad eyes. My mother,
she was a beautiful soul she was. He fancied that he was interrupted by a faint rustling
sound in the cabin behind him. He dismissed it. You religious? Nah, not anymore. I go

to see my mother graveside every week on Sundays, have been doing that for almost

40 years now. But thats the limit of my devotions. Hey, sweetheart, you can talk to
me. Dont take it so hard, everything will be okay. Most folks talk to me .
The first rays of the rising sun were cresting above the murky pools of fog,
lending an ethereal quality to the impenetrable and unforgiving mist. To his eyes, long
bereft of true life and enthusiasm by suffering, fear, and false joviality, a spark
simultaneously returned. But it is not the spark of his life.

You okay back there, sweetheart? Startled suddenly by the silence, unusual for
him in his lonely drives, he glanced back at his somber passenger. The shroud of death,
the covering that hid the still mask that was her face from view, had slipped to reveal the
starkness of her countenance. Startled he thought, Her face, I can see her face. How did

it come to be uncovered? The pallor of her skin, raw and exposed in the damp and pallid
atmosphere, sent shivers down his spine. Rita, whats going on? The bridge by this time
was fast approaching; the bayou lay in the distance, shrouded in mist like a burial gown.

Dear God, you are so still! Life, death, death, life, terror the defining aspect that unifies
both. Oh God, her eyes! Her eyes are open! Mother? Mother they are your eyes, they

are your eyes and mine! Youre dead, why are your eyes open? Rita, Mother!
It is too much! A quick thrust of the wheel, a deafening crash anything to escape
this torment! The bridge was cleared, the peaceful marshland morning ripped by the thud
of metal against wood, by the sudden splash of a multi-ton vehicle making contact with
the watery depths. A faint gurgling and the lapping of the water, within minutes, was all
that remains of the vehicle. Its driver, too, was buried, consumed, thrust into nonexistence by the peaceful bayou scene. A lifetime of fear was laid to rest at last, number

58 in the queue of passengers brought to their final resting place. A life was snuffed out in
moments, consumed by a watery grave, embalmed in the eternal sleep of a metallic tomb.