The decaying Author… (And the flesh eating kittens)

“Number four, there!’ I pointed, looking up from the map. Squinting through his small spectacles, Macca pulled into the gravel driveway of the house squared off with police tape. Now that we could see the house, we also noticed the police car parked to the side and two officers leaning on the bonnet with coffee in hands.

“Hi, Officers!’ I waved as we jumped out of the van.

They grunted.

You would be surprised how afraid the police seem to be of dead bodies. Same goes with many paramedics. Once life is declared extinct, they tend to leave the scene pretty quickly.

Only recently, we arrived at the scene of a man who had drank himself to death. His rum and coke had spilt across the kitchen tiles by his side and his arm frozen in the air as he had tried to save his fall. Alcohol seeped from the overweight man’s pores. The police had met with us at the door, but when  I returned to the front steps to fetch the police for a lending hand, they had already left!

Gravel crunching underfoot, Macca and I headed to the front door of the small house with our carry stretcher. The instructions from our call centre advised the home was small and our regular stretcher would not make it down the hallway and around the tight corners. The police had suggested our decomposition wear also; the deceased had not been discovered for over a week, and it was the middle of Summer!

As soon as we opened the door, although we could not see a thing, the smell of death punched me in the face. The elderly lady was a hoarder, rats scurried beneath our boots as we stepped over piles of books magazines and newspapers. Bags of rubbish were moving with buzzing flies and cockroaches.


‘Is that…???’ I turned to Macca, flashing my torch in his eyes.


I pointed my torch down to find not a rat or cockroach, but a kitten! No bigger than the size of my hand. It rubbed against my trousers, peering up at me. Two others joined it’s side.

‘There’s bloody kittens…everywhere!’

Trying not to step on the small pets we continued towards the room at the end of the hall. The stench of decomposition was almost unbearable, I held my nose as we approached the bedroom.

“Shiiit!” I screamed jumping back. There on the floor lying by the bed was the remains of an old lady dressed in her floral nightie, her slippers still on her almost non existent feet. Her face had been eaten away by her kittens, and/or the rats and other crawling creatures who had taken up residence. The yellow glow from her bedside lamp cast eerie shadows across the wallpaper, shedding just enough light  for us to go about our job. Without a word Macca and I stepped into our plastic body suit, pulled down our goggles and snapped on our gloves. Stepping over more books to make way for our stretcher, we discovered pages and pages swept across the wet carpet as if they had been dropped. The pages looked like journal entries typed on a typewriter. As I gathered the papers, I discovered the title page:

‘Happily Ever after, written by Madeline Rhodes.

‘Come on, Em,’ Macca hurried me as I had now stopped, scanning the print of what now appeared to be a manuscript. We leant down to pick up the poor old lady, the carpet squelching under our boots like we had stepped in a puddle.

As we lifted her, she literally fell apart in our hands.

“You reckon the cops will still be outside to help us?’ Macca joked, laying part of her leg onto the stretcher.

Elbow deep in flesh, blood and goop, we zipped up the body bag and softly closed the door behind us and the dim glow of the lamp that had given light to the elderly writer as she had written her story.


89 cents

My skin itched in my thick black stockings and sweat gathered at my top lip as Molly took her place behind the lectern. A long time friend of Lynn who laidd peacefully in her coffin at the front of the chapel, Molly was proud to deliver the Eulogy on behalf of the family who whimpered  in the front row.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air became stickier by the minute. My suit stuck to me like a jellyfish to a leg. A Summer storm was brewing and the hearse driver looked concerned.

‘It is my honour to speak today,’  Molly’s voice trembled. Her kind blue eyes met mine and I nodded in encouragement. As Molly had arrived to the chapel at the beginning of the service she grabbed my arm and cried: ‘Im scared I won’t make it through the speech without breaking down!’ I squeezed her wrinkled hand and assured her that Lynn would be watching over and be grateful for the delivery since her husband of fifty five years would have troubles speaking on such an emotional day.

Side by side, my colleague and I stood at the back of the chapel listening to the stories that created the life of Lynn. The years at Christmas Carols at the church, wrapping and packing christmas hampers for the community as she sweated into her top, just like we were in that moment.


‘We are all sweating here,’ Molly giggled, ‘just like Lynn when she slogged it out giving to the less fortunate at Christmas time.’

I was grateful that I had spent some time with Lynn back at the funeral home while preparing her body for the service today. I bathed her, washed her hair and dressed her in her best, applied her coral coloured lipstick and polished her shoes. I felt there was something special about this woman as I placed her gently in her final resting place and closed the lid of the coffin.

I had been right.

Molly was determined to make it through the story she had written about her friend, looking up at me occasionally with tears in her eyes beckoning to spill over and streak her blush.

‘Lynn had a very dry sense of humour,’ little Molly continued. ‘I would like to take this moment to tell you about one particular story that I will never forget about my Lynn. My husband, Jim was in palliative care. He had announced to everybody that he did not want flowers at his funeral, only money to go to his widow. Which of course is me’

The chapel broke out in laughter.

‘Well, when my Jim died, Lynn sent me a letter and I would like to read some to you…’ Her bony fingers unfolded the letter.

‘Dear Molly. Well, Jim said he did not want flowers…he wanted money to go to you to help you through the tough times. Well, my dear, here is 89 cents…’

The chapel once again loud with claps and laughs…

‘…A cent for each year he was alive. Don’t go too crazy with this money. Spend it wisely.’

Molly then held up a string of shiny silver coins, 89 cents.

‘I am yet to spend this,’ Molly grinned. ‘I will keep it as her legacy, as I am sure when she meets with Jim they will have a good laugh about it.’

And with that, she winked my way and stepped down from the mic.

She made it! I felt so proud.

It was time for my colleague and I to walk down the aisle to meet with the coffin.

A beautiful version of Amazing Grace sang from the speakers as together, in sync we walked towards the front, bowed and turned the coffin so Lynn would exit the chapel feet first.

‘Pall bearers, please,’ I called out and on cue, six men in dark suits appeared from the crowd and took their place, each grasping a handle. Suddenly, Lynn’s husband appeared at my side and slipped his arm in mine. His lips were quivering, his eyes red with tears.

‘Let me walk with you dear,’ he whispered.

‘Of course,’ I held him tightly and together, we led the coffin down the aisle and towards the hearse.

Heart thumping, I walked with him, the man who had spent more than half of his life with the woman lying in her coffin whom I had prepared for her final ride. Once at the hearse, the coffin was placed inside and locked in. I hugged John and Molly and slipped into the driver’s seat of the shiny black hearse. A guard of honour was formed either side of the driveway. I took a deep breath and slowly began to drive Lynn past her loved ones who cried and waved as if Lynn was sitting in the passenger seat next to me.

She may very well have been.

Still sweating, a storm broke open the skies and rain pelted down upon the hearse as I drove Lynn towards the crematorium.