I immediately dashed through my doorway, hardly taking time to open it correctly before pushing through it.

I enter my truck. Slamming the door shut, I activate the vehicle with my ignition key. Guiding the gear-shifting stick into reverse, I quickly exit my driveway. I then guide the gear-shifting into third speed. I zoom through my street, striking a "kids at play" sign as I excitedly swerve. I ignore the incident.

I drive in the direction of local morgue. My daughter's and perhaps even my wife's corpses are being examined there, yet I cannot even remember the name of the morgue.

I am weak. I am mediocre. Why? Why must I lack confidence?

I pass through several different streets, disturbing many residents of the neighborhood before noticing the building that I believe to be the morgue. It must be about two blocks away from me.

I steady my vehicle's acceleration to fifteen miles per hour. I slowly cruise past an alleyway. I notice a clean-looking man handing a rather filthy man a package. I assume what it likely is and shake my head in disgust.

Finally I reach my destination. Lily Hill Morgue. That is the name of it.

I park my vehicle. Somewhat crookedly, but I pay no mind to it.

I exit my vehicle and rush through the double-doors of the morgue. I notice a man wearing blue nurse attire and an apron, which was spattered in blood and embalming fluid. I gag and nearly vomit due to the horrid odor.

Noticing me clutching my own stomach, the employee, who's name badge read "Kramer", asks if I am okay. I release my abdomen and cough. "Where is she?" I quietly demand.

"I assume you are Mr. Dautrieve?" The employee known as Mr. Kramer questions.

"Yes." I firmly say. "Where is my damned daughter?"

"Um, right this way." Mr. Kramer points as he begins walking down the hallway as I follow.

We turn right into another corridor and walk past several rooms before he acquits guiding. We are in front of a small room. "Room 238" I read the label on the door.

Mr. Kramer pulls the metal knob of the door, opening it slowly. He lets me enter the room first.

"She's right over here." Mr. Kramer says as he guides me towards a stretcher cart.

As we stop, I gaze down at the polyester tarp that concealed Tamara. I pinch the top end of it and slowly remove it, revealing her pale, lifeless face. There are many small scars covering her face and neck.

"What in God's bloody name did you do to her?!" I yell in disgust.

"We removed what we believed to be concealer make-up," Mr. Kramer began to speak. "And found those scars, as well as increased blackening around her eyes. More than a dead body should have. Suspicious, I immediately ran a blood test. Your daughter appears to have been under the use of...heroin, Mr. Dautrieve."

A tear strolls down my face. How could this be? How did I never notice?

"Many drug addicts, especially those who are addicted to opium-bases drugs, tend to intentionally pick flesh from parts of their body, thus explaining the scars. She apparently uses cosmetics of sorts to hide them." Mr. Kramer says.

"She was constantly buying concealer make-up..." I mutter. "But I never caught on."

"You may have been expecting your wife as well?" Mr. Kramer questions.

"Yes! Where is she?" I anxiously question in response.

"Before she died, she chose to be...cremated." Mr Kramer replied. "So that her remains could be anywhere with you, as she said in her final note"

I turn my head, I haven't any idea what my response should be.

Mr. Kramer stumbles into a small built-in backroom of the rook we are already in. He returns with a black vase labeled "Sharon Dautrieve". It is the urn that holds my precious wife's soul.

He slowly motions it towards my direction. I reach towards it, my hands trembling.

As my fingers barely touch it, something inside of me snaps. I burst into a rage. Swerving behind my previous position, I grasp a random stretcher cart and in a swift motion, toss it upside-down onto the floor. The corpse lands next to the cart. It appears to be that of an unhealthy middle-aged man. Embalming fluid leaks from underneath the corpse.

"Mr. Dautrieve! Calm down!" Mr. Kramer demands.

I hyperventilate as the rage leaves my mind. I just basically defiled a man's corpse.

"That male corpse you just flipped over was once a father of three." Mr. Kramer informs me. "Just take your wife's urn and go home, we will prepare your daughter for her funeral.

I grasp the urn as he was holding it, and forcefully remove it from his grasp. I exit the room and quickly walk through each cold corridor before approaching the double-doors where I entered the morgue through a mere thirty minutes ago. I was much calmer and I felt much weaker then.

Still holding the urn, I exit the morgue and approach my truck. I notice the empty passenger seat beside me. I wish it weren't empty. So desolate. So soulless.

I then glance at the urn.

Setting the urn in the seat, I fasten the seat restraint belt over the urn. I then activate my truck and began the short journey to my home, pretending none of this happened. That urn is my wife.

The End.

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