Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

I rub my thumb over the small tattoo on the inside of my finger, feeling
like I’m exhaling for the first time all day. It’s weird how that smell has
become a comfort. Thanks to fantastic ventilation and industrial strength
deodorizers, I wouldn’t even know there was a ‘decomp’ in the cooler right
now if I hadn’t been here when he arrived a couple days ago.
I walk over to the table at the end of the row, feeling my heart start to
hammer in my chest. A girl lays on the slab, her mid-section covered with a
sheet, and the puncture mark from embalming sits right below the rope burn
around her neck. I’d read about her online today. Figured she’d be here by
now.
Her wet, red hair mats to her head, and I grip the side of the table,
brushing her fingers. Her nails are covered in chipped pink nail polish that
looks like a cheap brand you get at the grocery store.
“Did you know her?” I hear someone ask.
I don’t have to turn around to recognize Sylvia Gates’ voice. Owner of
Wind House, the only funeral home in town.
I gaze at the girl’s neck, swallowing the image of the moment she slipped
the rope around it.
And what most likely drove her to it.
“She went to public school.” I force my voice firm. “But I’ve seen her
around town.”
She’s almost my age—a year younger, I think. Did Liv know her?
Mrs. Gates walks around the other side of the table, clean scrubs on.
“You don’t have to be here, Clay.”
She’s worried I’ll get triggered, and then she’ll have to explain to my
parents why she lets me sneak in here at least once a week.
Fuck it. I don’t want to be home, so… I pull off my hood and tie my hair
back into a ponytail, ready to work as I draw in a deep breath and exhale.
I’ll have to fix the nail polish. I’d love to change it altogether, but if she
has it on, she must’ve liked it, so I suppose I should honor her style. I’m sure
I have something as equally hideous in my collection from when I was twelve
that I can use.
I push up my sleeves and get to work, feeling my heart calm down again
as I busy myself. But my thoughts still linger on her. What would Olivia
Jaeger say if she saw me now?
Maybe it would be the one time she couldn’t say anything.
Sometimes I feel like I want her to know me. Sometimes I don’t want her