CONTENT WARNING: Sex, gross humour, ageism, mild racism — this story has it all. If you’re cool with that, then you’ll love it.
Heart attack. That’s what killed her, apparently.
It’s been two days since they hauled the old fucker’s body out, but her room still stinks of death. And old person. Like an old person died here. Yeah, I know that’s what happened, but still. It fucking reeks.
Birch didn’t have much in the way of belongings. Valerie could have boxed them up herself, but no. She insisted I help. Her hawk eyes are on me even more so than before. She swears she heard the buzzer go off, but I swear I didn’t (of course I fucking did, but she can’t prove that.) Anyway, the buzzer system’s ancient — goes off when nobody presses it, doesn’t go off when someone does. And the wiring in here is a fire waiting to happen.
I grab another bundle of Birch’s stale rags and stuff them into the box on her bed. Then Valerie clears her throat, loud enough to say she doesn’t approve of my clothes folding technique. Her pile, unsurprisingly, looks like it’s from a Gap store. “You know all this shit’s going in the trash, right? Hell, it could probably walk itself there.”
“The family might want to keep it.” She holds up a gravy-stained nightgown, nose twitching in disgust. “Some of it, at least.”
“Burn it all, that’s what we should do. Then fumigate this place.” I drop a dirty old comb, tangled up with hairy clumps of grey and faded lilac, into the box before the lice can get me. Then a photo of Birch and her daughter. She’s a dumpy little thing, and Birch’s head is touching the top of the frame. Guess she takes after her dad.
The photo makes me shiver. Birch’s image is fucking staring at me — she knows. She knows what happened. And she knows I saw her. Not in the bed — in the corridor.
No. Fuck off. I’m not thinking about this right now. Not that there’s anything to think about, because I didn’t see a damn thing. With a flick of my wrist, the frame flips over, straight into a pair of skid-marked knickers.
Angie shuffles in, out of breath, hyperventilating, and just looking generally flustered. “What a morning,” she says, exasperated. She’s always like this, shoulders sagging like she’s carrying the weight of the world. You’d think she was the manager of a fucking hedge fund, not a crumby little nursing home no ones gives a flying tampon about. “Is it home time yet? I’m exhausted. Never slept a wink last night.”
The last thing to go into my box is a neatly-folded sweater. That’ll hide the crumpled stuff below. “Just go home then. We won’t tell anyone.”
Angie shakes her head and pretends to yawn. “Can’t. Got too much work to do.”
Bullshit. Most of her day is spent looking busy, then worrying that we’re all doing our jobs. Worrying, but not actually checking. The perfect boss for a lazy bitch like me.
“Anyway,” Angie continues. “Mrs. Birch’s daughter, and her husband, are coming in to grab her things. I think it’d be good if you guys would talk to them, since you were here when she passed.”
Fuck that. I don’t need a front row seat to the “my mom was a saint” show. “Angie, I really don’t think that—”
Valerie grabs my arm, giving me a strained smile. “We’d be happy too, Angie.”
Told you. She’s a fucking ass-kisser.
***************
We have a special little room, not much bigger than a cupboard, that we use when consoling relatives of residents who’ve snuffed it. Two stubby couches, a box of tissues, a lavender candle that smells like cat piss, and a crucifix on the wall beside a picture of the Virgin Mary. The bitch is smirking at me — she’s fucking enjoying this.
In the two minutes we’ve been in here, Birch’s dumpy little daughter has already annihilated half the tissue box. “I just… I can’t believe she’s gone. Mom’s gone.”
Her husband rubs her leg — a little too close to the vag. Everything about him screams virgin or pervert: mustard short-sleeved shirt, hair parted the wrong way and hanging over most of his forehead, glasses like soda-bottle bases, and a bushy moustache (not a cool one, like my Juan’s). Yeah — he’s a pervy virgin alright.
The daughter honks into another tissue. Christ, that’s an unholy amount of green snot. Reminds me of the slime from those squishy alien-fetus-egg toys. Do they still make those?
Valerie pipes up. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I’m glad she said something, because there’s no fucking way I was going to talk to these freaks. “Your mother was such a joy to be around.”
I snigger, but manage to turn it into a cough. Think I got away with it.
Then Valerie nudges me. “Isn’t that right, Tracy?”
Bitch. I could fucking strangle her. But now everyone is looking at me expectantly, so I better say something. “Oh yes. A joy. Place won’t be the same without her.” No, it’ll be much better.
“It’s a blessing she had a wonderful family like you. Not all of our residents are so lucky, I’m afraid.”
“I loved her so much.” The daughter opens the box, pulls out one of Birch’s moth-eaten cardigans and takes a big sniff of it. “That smell — it’s just her. Here, honey — smell this.”
Pervy-virgin husband buries his whole face in it and takes a big, long drag. “Oh yeah. That’s her alright. That’s Mom.”
Then the daughter rummages around and pulls out one of Birch’s big man-sized slippers… and puts it to her nose.
Oh no.
“This too. Smells just like her, as if she’s still here.”
Her beak is right in there. I’m going to be sick.
I shoot a horrified glance at Valerie, but she’s not making eye contact. Her perfect smile is straining though. No fucking wonder.
The husband perks up at the sight of the slipper, like a cat who’s spotted a mouse. “Here, give me some of that action.”
What. The. Fuck.
His nose and mouth are all the way inside the slipper. He’s practically making out with it. And groaning like he’s about to blow his beans.
“Mmm. Oh god, yeah. That’s the stuff.”
His hand slithers a little further up the daughter’s thigh.
And then I spot it.
The crotch of his jeans. A stumpy little erection. Like a plump strawberry.
Oh my fucking god. I can’t breathe. If I hold in my laugh any longer, my face might explode.
Valerie is struggling too. But something tells me she hasn’t noticed the baby hard-on. I nudge her this time, with enough force that she has to look round at me. Then I give her the eyes.
She follows my gaze… and gasps, hand flying up to her mouth.
There. She sees it now alright.
At last, the husband comes up for air, all hot and bothered. “What else is in that box?”
The daughter is acting like the whole situation is completely fucking normal. “Just some more of her clothes, really.” Grief works in strange ways.
He leans across, eyes straining behind those soda-bottle glasses for a better look. “Any socks, or perhaps some other… garments?”
‘Other garments’ — wonder what that could mean. Something tells me he’s going to be jacking off with the contents his mother in-law’s underwear drawer later. Maybe his wife will help him. Nice to have hobbies, I suppose.
Valerie cracks — she’s seen enough. “Okay!” She stands up, nervously straightening her tunic. “We won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to attend to — funeral arrangements, and all.”
“It was wonderful to meet you both,” I add, grinning from ear to ear as Valerie ushers them to the door. Best (and weirdest) day at work ever.
But then I’m back in the corridor. The same one where…
Try as I might, there’s no denying what I saw. Birch, the big old hag, was standing right here, giving me hell like always. Her favorite pastime.
Then Valerie screamed, and Birch was in bed. Stiff as a fucking board.
And yet, she was still there in the corridor. And that crooked, bony finger of hers, pointing at me. Like I was to blame.
Maybe it was my fault. Maybe she’d still be alive if I hadn’t sat on my fat ass, stuffing my face while ignoring her buzzer. But she pressed that fucking thing all the time. How was I to know she really needed help?
It’s like an oven in here. I head to the toilet, brushing past a few smiling old dears who wanted to chat. I’m not in the mood.
My face is on fire. I blast the cold water and splash my face with it till I almost drown.
When I look up, Birch is in the mirror behind me.
She hisses, baring a set of stained, crooked teeth — like she’s been eating a chocolate muffin. Then she raises her arm, crooked finger pointing at me again.
“Fuck!”
I stumble, almost leaping into the sink — anything to get away from her.
“Tracy — are you okay?” It’s just Angie.
“Yeah I’m fine,” I say, heading back out, heart still thumping.
It had to have been the drugs. I’ll cut back on the weed. I only have enough left for one joint anyway, so I’ll keep that for a weekend treat. And those damn sleeping pills, they can cause the strangest dreams. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I dozed off after eating the muffin?
Maybe.
Author’s Note:
I listen to my readers. And you guys seem to like the freaky shit. So this chapter, namely the slipper-sniffing scene, is like fan service!
The original idea for this chapter was just Tracy being forced to offer some awkward words of comfort to Birch’s snot-nosed daughter. But then I thought about having her sniff some clothes. The cardigan is pretty normal, but we’re not here for that! The slipper is where things get weird.
Then I thought of adding the husband to the scene. I had a feeling you’d like him.
Of course, Tracy is still not over what happened the other night, and a little guilt is starting to creep in. Birch is still very much haunting her thoughts.
Next time, we’ll see Tracy trying to make it through a shift without the assistance of narcotics. We wish her good luck.
Is there an emoji that fits? 😝😦🤢 have these 3 - i was simultaneously laughing and disgusted.
Poor T - what a terrible person to come back to haunt her (but what a plot idea- bravo!)👏
I appreciate the author’s notes, even though you think we’re all freaks.